7 - 3
FACE
“Because technological developments occur on such a more rapid time scale than evolutionary ones, humans will always be at least partially subordinate to vestigial instinct. This instinctual lag is all around us. We are descended from diurnal animals, and thus have an innate fear of darkness. We associate it almost invariably with evil. Even the human eye is so keenly attuned to the features and shape of a human face that it will transmogrify it out of clouds or rock formations. Chief among these hangers-on are competitive hierarchy, reproduction, and tribalism. Social technology is therefore best used to channel innate predisposition to positive ends.” - Cyrus Sirenium, Quotations from the Throne Ch. 10, 32 MIC
They didn’t say a word for what seemed like an eternity after Seevan spoke his truth. Rand stared at the wall, Seevan pecked at the duty terminal, and they both did their best to ignore each other's presence. It was almost a mercy when Volk threw the window open again to pass off his requested items from the shopette. There was some teeth gnashing, but for all the harsh language and insults they managed to stuff into two sentences, it seemed polite compared to their earlier exchange. It made more sense given what he had learned. Mr. Rand had taught him that people are what they do, not what they say. He wondered what they had been like before.
As the cleaning details began to muster outside and around the barracks, Priveda poked her head through the Duty hut’s entrance. Still out of sight of Seevan due to the door’s slight recess, she tipped her head to one side to ask if he was there. Rand nodded.
“Good morning, Corporal” she greeted while stepping through the hatch.
Seevan paused his typing. “Is it?”
“Eh, I think it is. Then again, I did sleep pretty well last night.” She said placing a paper from the shopette bag in front of Rand. He agreed silently, it was much nicer than sleeping alone even if the twin sized mattress inevitably meant they got tangled together.
Her snark clearly reminding of his own exhaustion, Seevan snatched his can of Voltzade off the desk and took a long drink. “I’m gonna go rove. Keep it K-rated in here or you’ll eat rocks.”
Priveda grinned. “Check rodge, Corporal.”
“Swear to Mars, sand and rocks.” Seevan reinforced as he exited the room.
As soon as he turned his back Priveda made an obscene and flippant hand motion. Rand suppressed a few chuckles and then poked through the bag. There was definitely more than he asked for in here. “Thanks babe. My old-man messaged me to say that the suspension kit you asked for came in this morning. It’s at the shop.”
“That’s great!” Priveda beamed, pecking him on the forehead then excitedly hopping in place a few times.
Rand flushed slightly, “Yeah, he said you could come by anytime.”
Priveda paused her celebration. “You’re not coming?”
“Oh well, I mean, I’m on duty today. Gonna be piss tired tomorrow; figured you wouldn’t want to wait until sunday. My old-man will square you away, no-sweat.” Rand said while retrieving a white zero calorie Munster can from the bag.
“I can wait; I’d rather we do it together anyways. How’s Duty? He’s not giving you too much trouble is he?” Priveda pointed her thumb at Seevan’s vacant seat.
“He’s grumpy, but what’s new about that?” Rand shrugged. “Corporal Volk did come by earlier though and they had another dumbass shouting match right in front of me.”
“About Buchet?”
He nodded.
“Would’ve helped if that moron boot told anyone else where he was at,” Priveda said.
“That wasn’t all of it.” Rand added while standing and peaking down the hallway for eavesdroppers. “They left the duty hut to keep their argument going someplace else and like, you know, I stayed in here for a little bit to watch the desk and stuff and then went to rove.”
Priveda leaned towards him, “And?”
Rand lowered his voice. “And, I happen by his room and I hear him and Corporal Volk getting hot, heavy, and violent in there.”
Priveda’s mouth gaped and she covered it with her hand to mostly muffle the laugh. “No way. Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure; Corporal Lachenski was there with me. They don’t have a thing, do they?” Rand inquired quietly.
Priveda fanned her face several times with her hand while still giggling. “No, no way. I don’t think so anyway. I think maybe I saw them sneaking off before we went to Greendome once or twice, but I also heard about them doing the same thing with other people. Just scratching the itch I bet. Feelings get confused sometimes; they’re definitely not a thing. That’s libbies though. I gotta tell Peblt; she’ll piss herself laughing.” Priveda replied while fishing through her pocket for her comm.
Rand raised his hands. “Siobhán, wait. Can we not start any rumors please?”
She ceased her searching and pouted slightly. “Fine. But, I’m definitely giving Volk shit about it at Mess. An angry morning roll in the rack with Sour-Sean is way too juicy to leave unexploited.”
Rand relaxed slightly, teasing and ribbing someone to their face was fine, but he hated the thought of going behind someone's back. It felt dishonest. He cracked open the can he had pulled out earlier. “First sip?” He offered, finally raising his voice back to normal volume.
She grabbed it and took a short drink, returning it with another quick peck. “I’ll be back after Mess probably; I gotta go supervise the police-call. Bye.”
“Later!” Rand called out as she exited. He settled back into the desk smiling a small smile to himself.
The rest of the day was monotonous. They took turns roving every hour, but really there was nothing much for the duty to do while everyone was at work. Their charge was to maintain the police of the barracks; this was much easier when it was unoccupied.
At 1830 the unit once again formed on the quad in Dress Whites to march to the Mess.
Around that same time, Seevan’s hands began to shake.
Seevan mashed down the backspace while Rand watched him out of the corner of his eye. He took a long breath before he proceeded much more slowly, abandoning touch-typing to find each of the keys individually, growing more frustrated with each error. Seevan finally finished after many attempts and shoved the terminal across the desk. “I’m going to rove. Stay here,
Rand glanced at his chrono. “It’s 1847, I thought you said we were roving on the hour, Corporal.”
“I need some atmo, I’m going to rove now. Stay here.” Seevan reiterated.
Rand thought he never did well with questions, and figured more wouldn’t get him any farther. Seevan rose from the desk and disappeared for another fifteen minutes.
He stared at the bottle. This had all started as a way to forget for a while, but could he say that anymore? Did it really make anything better? He saw the way everyone else looked at him now. Few dared say anything to his face, but he could tell he was losing all of them now too. Now his hands wouldn’t stay still if he gave it a rest for longer than a day. He was damned anyway, deserving of this kind of punishment. He took a long drink and threw the bottle back into a drawer.
Tybalt was extremely popular tonight. Not so much because of anything he had done, but because of who he had brought along. She was beautiful, thin and waifish, dressed in a tan evening gown perfectly matched to her skin tone. It stuck out like a sore thumb among the uniformity of the mess’s normal denizens.
Accompaniment was uncommon in the Line Mess, being much more accepted among Sergeants and Officers. Most of the Line’s members were single or involved in some kind of non-official relationship. The monthly mixer of mess was also the premier venue to find someone to shack up with for the evening. So while officially sanctioned so long as one bought an expressive guest pass, it tended to bring a lot of attention.
Svertson considered it a universally bad move, akin to bringing a gazelle straight into a tiger’s lair and expecting to escape with it unscathed. Tybalt was most certainly feeling that heat as he fought off prospective competitors who filed in or ‘happened by’ in an unending torrent as he slogged through cocktail-hour. There was something else about his date that seemed odd. She didn’t seem all that uncomfortable here even though this environment should’ve been alien to any civilian, and there was a strange familiarity in her face. It was almost as if he had seen her somewhere before.
“You know I’m so surprised to find someone as beautiful as you hanging around someone as dry and boring as Tybalt. Aria.” Peblt said, introducing herself and completely ignoring Tybalt while she looked his date up and down hungrily.
Tybalt just scowled. Despite his clear frustration at the constant competition, his date seemed to be absolutely adoring the unending stream of attention. “Fiona,” she replied, a thin and curious smile appearing.
“Beautiful name for a beautiful woman.” Peblt complimented while stepping forward. “Fiona, why don’t you leave cueball behind, and let a real woman show you around this evening? Trust me, no one knows this place better than I do.”
Frowning, Tybalt edged himself between them. “And why don’t you fuck off and spit game somewhere else Peblt.”
Fiona’s smile grew as she stepped back slightly, clearing the ground for them to fight over her.
“What’s a matter Tybalt, can’t stand a little competition? Don’t worry, I'll take care of her this evening.” Peblt flicked her eyes over to gauge Fiona’s reaction and then back to Tybalt. “If you’re a good boy tonight, I might even let you watch.”.
Tybalt’s fist balled as he took another step towards Peblt. Folding her arms, she stood her ground and locked eyes with him, still wearing that mocking grin.
Things were heating up a little fast for Svertson’s taste, though he hated chaperoning, much preferring to be the one who required that service, seniority came with certain responsibilities. He down his drink and approached, wrapping a jovial arm around each of them tight enough they could both feel his strength. “Listen kids, it’s a little early in the evening. Besides, I ain’t even met your friend yet. Fiona, right? Don’t let these numbskulls bother you with their antics. I’m Erik.”
“Well nice to meet you, Erik. And it's alright. I sort of expected this, I’ve been to one of these before, but it’s been a while.” Fiona replied while sipping her glass of wine.
“Hm, funny you say that. I thought you looked familiar. Where’d you meet ole Liam here?” Svertson asked while easily lifting Tybalt’s feet off the ground while he struggled against his grip slightly.
“Oh, at Tun Tavern actually.” Fiona replied, completely ignoring her two suitors' plight.
Tun Tavern was a haunt for Rifleman. A good bar by his estimation, but definitely not a place frequented by many normal people. It had a nice atmosphere, even if the furniture was bolted down and most of the bar cues were chained to the table so they couldn’t be used in a fight. It certainly raised more questions. Peblt stopped her squirming as she caught on and Svertson set her and Tybalt both down as he continued probing.
“Tun Tavern huh, my kind of place. What brings you down there?” Svertson continued.
“Oh my classmate and I just happened by. Very rowdy dive, I kinda like it.” Fiona replied.
“Classmate, so you’re a student then?” Svertson continued. How Tybalt had gotten this far without asking her any of these questions was beyond him.
“Oh yes, I’m studying Ecologic Engineering at John Mapleton.” Fiona replied.
A fairly exclusive joint, one needed to be highly able or well connected to get in. He still couldn’t place where he had seen her.
“Fiona, what’s your batchname if you don’t mind me asking?” Svertson continued probing
“Batchname?” Fiona laughed. “My family name is Balalaika.”
Both Tybalt and Peblt went white, Svertson smiled. “Ah you’re who’s the Battalion Commander is always talkin’ about so proudly at formation. Glad to finally meet you; she must be a real dotin’ type with the way she talks you up.”
Glancing away from him, she paused her two former suitors from completely extricating themselves. “Liam, Ava where are you going?”
Peblt laughed nervously, spitting out a quick, “We uh, we just need fresh drinks!” While resuming her escape.
She frowned watching them dart away. “They always run when they find out.”
“Well missy, can’t blame ‘em for dodging the heat. I actually gotta go find my own date so I hate to leave ya’ but, why don’t you try your luck over there?” Svertson pointed his finger towards 3rd Battalion’s section of the mess. “Sure there’s a few strong and brave Riflemen over yonder who’ll look past that little flaw.”
Fiona sighed and headed in the indicated direction and Svertson wandered off to go track down Henetto. She’d probably be hanging out with the other Hospitalmen.
Priveda fished the tiny sword out of her drink and waved it at Volk in offering. “Come on, why are you still being so uptight. Relax a little, it’s Mess. This is supposed to be fun.”
Volk took the offered blade. “Of course it’s a fucking rapier.” she mumbled before snatching the olive off with her teeth and tossing it into the trash. She chewed for a moment before answering her apprentice with a sill half-full mouth. “Why shouldn’t I be stressed? If no one’s worried, nothing gets fucking done around here.”
“I know a little is fine, but you need to dial it back a notch or three. You’re stressing everyone else out, especially the boots. I found Tanry crying her little boot eyes out in her room the other day. Rand told me you got into it with Seevan again too.” Priveda said while leaning back onto the bar.
Volk swallowed the rest of the olive. “That’s Corporal Seevan to you.”
Rolling her eyes, Priveda sipped at her drink to gain a moment. “We’re at Mess. That’s exactly what I mean. Relax a little, everybody’s the same rank here. No need to stand on ceremony when you’re lying down on it anyways.” She smirked.
Volk glared at her. “You know he prefers men right? I haven’t in ages and I won’t ever again unless he fixes himself. That’d take an act of the Regent at this point. Mars knows everyone’s tried.”
Priveda smirked, sensing she’d touched a nerve. “That’s not what Rand said happened this morning.”
“Oh and you believe everything that comes off of errand boy’s tongue huh? Is he really that good at gnashing your gash?” Volk fired back.
“He’s sweet and has probably never told a lie in his life, besides we’re talking about you, not me, Trish. You, Sour-Sean, a fiery little argument and some unresolved tension just begging for a physical release. I can picture it right now, ” Priveda teased.
“You’ve been reading too much of that smut again.” Volk quickly swallowed one of the two shots the bartender had placed in front of her. “It did get physical if you must know, we just beat the fuck right out of eachother. It’s the only way he sees sense anymore. You know what his problem is?”
Volk paused for only the briefest of moments before continuing. Despite the disparity in grade, the closeness of being trapped in an armored vehicle shoulder to shoulder for days and weeks on end made it impossible to keep the shields up and they had become close. Close enough that Volk felt comfortable excising her frustrations onto her when given even the slightest opportunity.
“He’s selfish. He’s always been selfish and it’s only gotten worse and worse. He thinks that he’s somekind of fucking martyr and he’s always the person who just has to be in the most pain. Doesn’t hardly give a fuck everyone else might be hurting just the same. Definitely doesn’t give fuck about destroying himself. Never even stops for a moment to think how his actions affect other people.” Volk looked away and towards one of the framed stills on the Mess's wall depicting a few Rifleman handing off a few morale boosters to local children somewhere in Yukatan. She downed the second shot. “He’s a selfish lay too. He always wanted to be in the middle. Fucking mopey bottom.” Volk slid the two glasses back over to the bartender.
“We’re gonna have to deal with him somehow regardless. He at least knows what he’s doing in the field and we’re definitely not gonna find anyone better. Just relax a little Trish, you and him going at it everyday isn’t making life any easier.” Priveda said.
Volk grumbled again wordlessly while accepting a beer and waving her wrist in front of the tender’s handheld terminal to add to her tab. This was all part of her strategy, a few shots at the beginning to loosen up then beer for the rest of the evening to maintain the buzz. “He’ll crash out soon regardless of what I do. Best case he doesn’t hurt himself or take anyone else down with him. Stravak moron; I don’t want to talk about him anymore.”
Priveda watched Volk gulp down a third of her beer, it was obvious she cared in her own twisted way, and nothing would be changed or gained from pressing her further. Peblt and Tybalt both joined them at the bar, hoping to become indistinguishable among the sea of white jackets gathered around it.
“How the fuck did you manage to pull her?” Peblt asked while motioning the overworked bartender back over. “Gimlet, please.”
Tybalt glanced at the tender, “screwdriver, double. It’s like she said, I was at Tun with Ballie and the fun boots Shielbek and Donphrit, and I just started spitting and it worked somehow. She seemed real eager to go, to be honest.”
“You fuck her already?” Peblt interrogated while accepting her drink.
“Well, no. kinda was hoping to tonight but-”
“Good.” Peblt cut him off. “Saving us all a load of trouble.”
Priveda leaned over the bar to edge in on their conversation. “What happened?”
“You know cue-ball’s date? She’s the BC’s daughter, like, genocrat natural type of daughter.” Peblt explained while waving a finger at him.
Priveda laughed and Tybalt nearly crushed the plastic cup he had just accepted while snapping his head back to Peblt. “Why’re you tryna act all high and mighty, ain’t like you weren’t in the midst of makin’ a pass when you found that out same as I did.”
She prodded his chest with a finger. “You brought her here cue-ball, how’d you even get that far without knowing that? Fuckin’ shame cause she’s hot too.”
“Not worth a number 31 though.” Tybalt sighed in agreement. “Would you really have let me watch though?”
Peblt and Priveda both cackled and Tybalt deflated even more, sinking down onto the bar in shame.
“Grow some hair first; you still look like a total boot.” Peblt teased while rubbing her knuckles over his stubbly scalp.
Being a special occasion, the Officer’s mess was displaying its most prized possession for the Regent’s pleasure. In the middle of the dining area and in plain view of every table and every guest the exploratory rover once known as Opportunity sat under an elevated hermetically sealed case. It was hundreds of years old, but Mars had been a much less corrosive place for much of its history and it had survived impressively intact.
During the 1st Independence War, members of what was known at the time as 1st Infantry Regiment, 3rd United Republics of Mars Army, spoiled an attempt by 1st Battalion, 18th Infantry, American Detachment, UN Expeditionary Force to recover the rover from its previously untouched resting site and absconded with it themselves. After the URM Government’s defeat and subsequent dissolution there was widespread impressment of URM Army veterans into new ‘volunteers’ units under United Nations command which were promptly sent to the Belt and Callisto to garrison the frontier rather than raise trouble at home. The veterans, now rebranded ‘1st Martian Colonial Volunteer Rifles’, kept the rover in secret and passed it down the lineage of Commanding Officers during the ‘century of humiliation’ between Independence Wars. Since then, it has remained a powerful, near holy symbol of the Martian commitment to resist Earther domination and to eventually claim their fated place at the helm of human destiny.
Lucy shifted in her seat uncomfortably. Though it’d only been an hour since dinner began and she’d sat down, her leg was already jolting with intermittent bursts of electric pain. She wasn’t sure if drinking was making it better or worse but was too far in to stop now. Sam noticed her discomfort as she reached for another of the prestaged drinks and obliged her by massaging her hamstring under the table. No one at this table was going to attempt to fine him for impropriety and it was a welcome if temporary relief.
“I’m telling you Lucy, he won’t say it.” Dalia smiled while prodding Mark.
“I will not, because a Grenadier never says that word. We hardly ever say yes either. It’s a given. We always get the job done, and we never turn one down,” Mark explained.
Lucy raised an eyebrow, it was a peculiar tradition. 1st Rifles had scores of its own strange practices and customs, but Grenadiers just always had to be different. Even beyond the Regimental Flash and variant Corps insignia featuring a bursting bomb and a single rifle rather than the standard crossed pair, Mark’s dress white jacket had a slightly different cut and much more ostentatious golden piping around his epaulets. A ceremonial bundle of fuse was affixed to the cross strap of the common Sam Browne pattern sword belt. Evidently that portion was a misunderstanding of the word fusees from their Regimental march, which originally referred to a type of short flintlock, but had become muddled with time. She doubted Mark even knew the difference. Days spent pouring over Napoleonic histories in pursuit of the top grade among her Academy class cohort had filled her mind with useless knowledge.
“But how do you answer a question then?”
“It’s all in the inflection. You can say ‘sir’ or ‘ma’am’ in a thousand different ways to get your point across. We just never say that word. It’s positively unsoldierly.” Mark elaborated.
Lucy just smiled and nodded, his and Dalia’s constant chatter was a pleasant distraction from both her physical discomfort and the head table. She couldn’t help but see the Regent’s presence here as an ominous portent, he did nothing without purpose.
“Did you two pick a date yet?” Sam asked.
“Still trying to align our schedules.” Dalia replied. “We’ve got a venue picked out and started everything else but, not much white-space on the training calendar. We want a few days at least.”
“It’s actually a nice spot, Sam. They staked out the overlook at Kopitchne.” Lucy added
“It’s all on paper now anyway, we can do the formalities whenever, went by the White-Society office yesterday.” Mark said.
“I still need to get my uniforms updated, this is his extra.” Dalia pointed to the small ‘RINWELL’ name plate on her right breast pocket flap directly above her silver Rift Guards badge. Her uniform was also significantly distinguished by the handful of additional Imperial medals supplementing her White Army awards and the brilliant purple sash affixed tightly around her waist under and her sword belt. They were all now impossible to earn, a vestigial hanger-on of the Imperial era.
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
“Well, I make the training calendar for the most part. There’ll be some opportunity leave before we hit Sunshine Acre. You already meet with your new boss to talk expectations?” Lucy asked.
“For about five minutes before she made herself scarce to ‘go pack for ROALC’. Natalie did give me a good turn-over though. She introduced me to Top and 1st Sergeant; those two crotchety old-fucks are pretty funny. Honestly though, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not gonna be her XO anyways, I’m going to be yours.” Dalia said while fluttering her smokey eyelids innocently.
Lucy’s eyes narrowed with disapproval at Dalia’s joking attempt at manifesting. “You’re gonna have to deal with her for the foreseeable future, get used to the idea.”
“Well I’m certainly not wasting any of my personal time trying to catch up about work with her now.” Dalia motioned subtly toward Stewart’s table some distance away.
She was seated with her soon to be peer Company Commanders, Captains Tiernabok and Khultz, and 2nd Battalion’s Signals Officer, another common source of Lucy’s frustration, Capt. Nivette. They were all initiated into the same clique at the Academy and that air of schoolyard scheming never left their table. Despite the fair distance, Lucy could see Stewart and Tiernabok both leering at her. She had enemies, even here. It was almost comforting.
A rap of the Vice-President’s gavel put pause on their discussion and they all turned in their chairs to face the end of the room. Lieutenant Colonel Corvo stood from his place at the head table as all conversation in the room died and its attention focused on him.
“Before the floor is opened for fines, the Guest of Honor will address the mess. Scribe, make an entry in the log.” He motioned to Yarbrough, seated alone at a smaller table adjacent but below the head table’s raised platform.
She found the appropriate page and cleared her throat. “Mr. Vice, the Guest of Honor’s words will be noted.”
The Regent of Tharsis, Ibhram Kane, wearing a pure white frock coat devoid of all military ornamentation save for his personal and rather humble collection of medals, stood and took his place at center stage.
“Ladies and Gentlemen of the Mess, I must say that being here is a great honor. The First Rifle Regiment has earned its place of honor in our White Army, serving with distinction through both Independence Wars, and under my command during the 2nd and the White and Red Revolution. Its legacy, known through-out the entire solar, is well earned and well protected by its current members. The Regiment’s recent distinguished service bringing order back to the Rift Republic is what has brought me here.
Firstly, I would like to offer congratulations for your work in securing the independence of Mars. I rest easy knowing that I have you to protect our shared dream of a prosperous and free world. However, we cannot rest on our laurels, and that is the second reason I have come.”
Several cameras, normally forbidden within the mess during the ceremony, trained themselves on the Regent and focused.
“Mars has never forsaken his obligations to the rest of the Solar. Even now his Sailors prowl the black securing our interests. Even at this very moment, his Soldiers battle on the cradle of humanity to preserve the freedom and independence of a nation to which they have never belonged. A nation which has been engaged in the same struggle we once faced in our own history.
White is the color of purity, of honor and loyalty to the mission of the Martian people. That purity of purpose and of conscience demands we answer an oppressed people’s call for aid. The War in Yukatan has been long and difficult, but a cause worthy of sacrifice. To that end, to further that noble cause, I, along with other collected leaders of the outer worlds under the full and legal direction of the Worlds Development Forum, have agreed on an additional surge of fifty thousand troops in order to hasten the end of the war and once and for all halt the predatory aggression of its neighbor.
I have selected a few battle-ready units to deploy to supplement our regular and substantial commitment of troops to meet the WDF’s request. 2nd Battalion, 1st Rifle Regiment will be the cutting edge of our additional contribution, with the rest of the Regiment to continue on its planned rotation to The Belt. Our ever loyal allies and partners in the Republican Guard have generously and honorably offered to fill the gap. 3rd Battalion, 112th Guard’s Infantry will take their place in the rotation.”
It was too much for Lucy to take all in at once. Yukatan. They were going and soon. Likely as soon as the Regiment was certified for deployment in a few months. And the Republican Guard deploying at all, let alone fully integrated within the White Army’s chain of command? The Regent was shrewd, it would further ingratiate him within its structure and allow him to exercise another measure of control over The Diet.
She searched for Sam’s hand and found it under the table and gripped it tightly. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. His mouth narrowed into a grim line. Given his next position, he would not be going with them.
He did not return the glance, but he could feel her leg trembling against his hand. It reminded him most of horses at the starting gate in Lvonia Sound.
The Regent took a moment to survey the room. There was a mixture of shock and excitement. There were so many in this room who had quietly prayed for such a revelation, to be unleashed into real conflict again and others soured because they had been denied that opportunity. “You will not go alone. Troops from every corner of our red planet will once again march united and side by side to end this aggression. As a former General, I am confident every member of this Regiment will do their duty and deliver the peoples of Mars a historic victory. War, at its core, is a contest of will and logistics, and Mars has will in spades.”
His final pronouncement was met with a thunderous applause.
The smile vanished from Volk’s face as soon as the trideo projection of The Regent made its announcement.
“Fuck,” was all she muttered.
Verac chuckled with detached amusement, his seven year contract was up in a few months. The Regiment would continue the fight without him.
Priveda stared at Volk with genuine concern and wondered if it was the prospect of putting her life at the mercy of the cruel law of averages for the third time or if there was something else that triggered the withdrawal. She seemed more distant than ever.
There was fear stewing within her own gut as well. She now had an intimate understanding of what they were getting into, but it didn’t feel so controlling as when she confronted the unknown. A greater sense of duty bound it, there was work that needed to be done, the kind for which she was uniquely qualified. Everyone plays their part in piecing together the grand dream and all of Mars was behind them.
A ways down the long banquet table Svertson leaned back in his chair, smiling to himself. Sheilbek cocked his head. “Why ya’ lookin’ so satisfied Rifleman?”
“Feels like ages since I’ve killed any Earthers.” Svertson replied.
Sheilbek recoiled. It was so frank, so plain and disgusted an admission. But, there was only one question now bouncing around his mind. Every civilized fiber of his being would not let it escape. Was it fun?
Kick squirmed in anxiety next to him. “We’re really gonna do it. We’re really gonna do it. We’re really going to war. I gotta tell Rifleman Rand when we get outta here; he’s gotta know.” Kick clenched the edge of his seat, like gravity alone could not be counted on to restrain him to it. “He’s gotta know,” Kick repeated.
Balachenko was suddenly overtaken by thirst and for the first time all night lost interest in flapping his gums. He chugged the last half of his Kroner.
“Do you think we’re ready?” Donphrit asked.
“No.” Corporal Muchen said, interrupting Donphrit’s poke at the now taciturn Balachenko. “Not now, but we’ll have you whipped into shape by the time we leave whether you like it or not. Count on that, boot.”
Donphrit grinned confidently, all the old-heads were blowhards. He would show them what kind of man he was first hand when the time came.
The Company’s Sergeants were all seated at the same long table. Kreiger was unbothered, smiling at his fellows while sipping at his third cluster shell, the White name for a Long Island Iced Tea that was very much short both on ice and tea.
“Who’d we piss off?” he quipped in between noisy pulls at his straw.
“Nobody, we’re going right where we should. I still got unfinished business.” Dygalo growled while a rekindled and passionate fury burned behind his eyes.
Karoff placed his hand on Dygalo’s shoulder. “Don’t forget you got skin in the game. Caution and aggression. I need you to master both.”
Master Sergeant Knute stood from his position at the end of their table. Raising his glass in toast to the ghostly and now frozen image of their leader. Kreiger’s mind was too fuzzy to remember if this was scripted or not.
Knute was fifty six and still in fighting shape. He had been born before the 2nd Independence War and served with the Regiment through its latter half. One of a scant remaining few who could honestly claim they remembered what life was like before independence still in active service. He was their Grand Old Man, the last acting link to that storied time in the Regiment’s history and his words always carried some weight.
“Madame Vice, permission to address the Mess.” He asked.
Chief Master Sergeant Lopely, the Regiment’s Operations Chief glanced to her left at the President and Guest of Honor. She was the second most senior enlisted person by rank and billet in the Regiment after the Regimental Sergeant Major, seated in the President’s chair, but still Knute’s junior in age by a decade and a half. Sergeant Major Crowley tilted his head in approval.
“Permission granted, Mr. Knute,” she replied.
Knute took a deep breath. “Eleven years ago, by order of His Imperial Majesty Cyrus Sirenium this Regiment served as part of Sergei Petrova’s 6th Martian Expeditionary Force which threw the UN Coalition out of Yukatan. We stopped them outside of Cancun, we thrashed them at Veracruz, and we would’ve stormed the redoubts of Chapultepec had The Great Sergei Petrova asked us to. For the first time we took the fight from our lands, from the belt, and from the Jovian moons to their ground, their earth. In between now and then we have returned many times, leaving every place we went better than we found it. Let us finally finish the job we started then. Long live the Regent of Tharsis, and success to his White Army.”
The Vice President raised her glass. “Long live the Regent of Tharsis, and success to the White Army!”
The Mess raised their glasses, echoed the toast, and emptied them.
The Regent’s image disappeared and Madame Vice rapped her gavel. “The floor is now open for fines.”
Fines were the evening’s main entertainment while dinner was actually served. A process in which some one would stand, address the head table, and to the whole Mess air some kind of social indiscretion another member had committed. The Vice President, helped by the cajoling of the rest of the mess, would determine a worthy punishment and dole it out. Usually the more humorous the better.
It was in good spirits for the most part, though for the Officers it had an extra duplicitous character as so much of their culture was based around conceptions of face. It seemed very muted tonight by Lucy’s estimation, The Regent was here along with a whole throng of hangers-on: Guardsmen, the Navy, and semi-civilian functionaries of larger ‘white society’. Anything too scandalous was being retained as ammunition for a later date. Embarrassing yourself or a friend was fine, but no one wanted to stain the honor of The Regiment.
All of that commotion had died down now. Tables had been bussed, lights dimmed, and chairs rearranged to face the silver screen for the traditional viewing. The members were also granted leave to move around the room, converse quietly, or more importantly visit the bar and the latrine. All three of her party had abandoned her briefly to do just that.
For the moment, she was alone, watching with some interest as Colonel Bogey strutted across the screen and the eponymous bridge, basking in the triumph of its construction.
The film was not one of the traditional rotation which they cycled through endlessly, but had been a personal request by Col. Mallock. One which had required an incredibly lengthy and frustrating process of searching around the city, contacting museums and specialty historical film shops to acquire.
Initially she’d given it her full attention to at least get something out of her efforts, but now was fully absorbed, hardly noticing the other officers buzzing nearby stiffen at his approach.
“May I join you, Lyssa?”
Ibrham Kane was motioning to Sam’s vacant chair beside her. She snapped upwards from her slump on the table. “Of course, Regent.”
He smiled and took up position next to her. She cursed her luck, having hoped to avoid an encounter with him. Perhaps if she had looked more socially engaged he wouldn’t have intruded, though in her recollection the man had a habit of going where he pleased.
“I simply love this film; an excellent choice.” Kane spoke softly, careful not to drown out the difficult to parse and archaically accented English dialogue.
“The Colonel’s suggestion, Regent,” she replied formally.
He smiled again softly, never letting his eyes drift from the silver screen. “Mr. Mallock has been a man of taste as long as I have known him. Please Lyssa, you may relax your formality.” She did so only slightly. “How long has it been since we sat like this?” He asked.
“Many years.” It was best to bid her tongue while he indulged his nostalgia, likely the fastest way to get it over with.
Despite formal status as his ward, she had hardly ever seen him and held no special place for him in her memory. Pawned off on caretakers and sent away to boarding school, she had been more a prop to occasionally parade around at court and social function than a family member. She had resented him at one point, but it seemed a futile grudge to hold onto now. Despite her latent discomfort every time he pulled this father routine, she had learned to tolerate it. He did not want a family and did not have one, if anything his recent spell of familiarity was another vain attempt to leave his mark on the world. Family. The word hardly meant anything to her beyond genetics.
“They simply do not make them like this anymore.” The Regent commented while an impressive wideshot swept over the River Kwai.
“I don’t think a film has been produced with a chemical film for nearly a hundred years.”
“Yes, this is true Lyssa, but not quite what I meant. I meant the Earthers.” The Regent watched silently for a moment while Colonel Bogey stalked across the screen tracing the detonating wire from the away titular bridge towards the hidden protagonists. “I simply mean that this is a product of a world that no-longer exists. It came from a time in their history when they believed in a sort of a natural historical progression towards righteousness and good. They understood who they were, what they worked on behalf of. The world could be divided into powers of good and evil, of Axis and Allies. A shame they lost this quality, perhaps things would have been better, not so consumed by Realism and utility.”
Lucy switched her attention to him briefly, but he simply motioned her back towards the screen as the film ticked inexorably towards its explosive climax. “Lyssa, do you know why we are fighting in Yukatan? Do you know it in your heart as every Martian should?”
“Of course. It is not only right, but a moral imperative to aid those engaged in the same struggle we once were. Mars leads the way towards a new future for all mankind.” She answered mechanically
“The first question answered as if precisely read from the text.” The Regent smiled a half smile. “But, the second part, you have left.”
“Does it matter?” The words exited her mouth before she even really considered whom she was speaking with. The pain in her leg had a way of making her even more blunt than normal. “ I will do what is asked of me, what you have asked of me. As I always have.” She added, hoping the addendum would soften her implicit transgression.
His smile continued unabated, though now it seemed colored with amusement at her sudden frankness. “Of course it matters. That is what makes us different from them; we still believe in something beyond nihilistic Realism. Those in power there believe only one thing: The strong do what they can; the weak suffer what they must.”
The Regent turned away from the screen to fully meet her gaze for the first time as Colonel Bogey traced the detonating wire from the bridge towards the hidden protagonists.
“I will give you a variety of reasons, Lyssa, and allow you to choose what you prefer. A Soldier should always have a reason to fight beyond duty. Yes, fidelity will carry you far, but fidelity to what?”
She half nodded, torn between fully internalizing his words and watching the chaos unfold as Bogey discovered the hidden infiltrators. They both stayed quiet for several minutes as the action escalated. Only after Colonel Bogey said those famous words and collapsed dead onto the detonator, destroying the bridge he had constructed in a twisted quest to reclaim honor in a fiery explosion could she give the Regent her full attention.
The Regent kept his eyes fixed on the screen and crawling credits while he explained. “Firstly, it is the chief duty of the state to promote the growth and advancement of its people and by extension humanity in general. This is done through trade, commerce, the development of science and the improvement of our own environment as well as that of the other worlds which people occupy. As you know, Yukatan, Koba, Ceres, Ganymede, Vesta and so many others are important nexuses of trade, specifically between us and the Earthers. Everytime one of these is put under threat, it chokes us. Our Economies are weakened and the great work slows. Therefore, because of the gravity of our eternal mission, it is necessary that any attack on this work be frustrated with every means at our disposal, including force. We secure our investment with arms, thus protecting the future of all of humanity.”
Lucy considered the thought for a moment. She could understand the position philosophically. It spoke to that timeless ethic that every Martian had. Do the work, improve the Solar and the material conditions of humanity. It made sense that the fundamental nature of the mission entailed some necessary sacrifice when put under threat.
“An interesting position, but perhaps too high minded to justify the cost involved,” she replied.
“Then I see we still have something in common then Lyssa. Cyrus my friend, he loved to philosophize about this at length. Though, neither I nor your father could wholly agree with him, I admit he had vision. Many have criticized the reductive and materialistic nature of industrial society, that it denies our more basal human traits. War then, is the return of the repressed. It provides our people with a struggle, the kind necessary to mobilize and temper our divided social order. It also keeps our industry filled and provides a use for what would otherwise be excess capacity left to wither. Moreover, as I am sure you now know first hand, Combat is the best teacher. Its’ lessons stay learnt, but the tuition fees are high. The war keeps the Army blooded. I have no use for paper Generals or Soldiers that do nothing but drill and parade; to staff the primary instrument of our home’s defense with individuals who are bureaucrats or cerimonial functionaries first and warfighters second would be irresponsible. Though, I doubt you are satisfied with this answer.”
She recalled numerous instances where Captain Eckartt had jokingly referred to Yukatan as ‘Live-Fire Sunshine Acre’ and a detestable essay she had once read: The Notion of Expenditure. The credits began to play and she turned in her chair towards him now that she no longer had to split her attention.
“Then what do you believe, Regent? Why carry it on?”
He frowned as he turned to her, seemingly more disappointed in himself than anything. “In this regard, I must unfortunately say I have become all too similar to our foes in age. You are a student of history and to explain we must revisit Thucydides. It is the unenviable and inevitable fate of an emerging power and an extant power to come into conflict. Two species cannot occupy the same ecological niche. One must rise and one must fall.
If a war then must be fought then, and it must be fought, It should be small and far away. It is not necessary to fight to the point of annihilation and our people have suffered enough. I have seen the devastation wrought at their hands and wish it never again be unleashed on our homes.
So, to prevent a once in a lifetime fire from consuming the whole forest, it is necessary to regularly burn away the undergrowth, and this is best done well away from one's home lest it run out of control. Better to air our grievances through proximal engagement which hastens their decay, than engage in an apocalyptic solar spanning confrontation. Leave the Earthers caged, concerned with matters of the cradle where they belong, and the Martian peoples, once again welded together in common cause, free to claim the stars.”
Lucy mulled it over. There was some ruthless utilitarianism underlying it, the kind which military types were so intimately familiar, but she couldn't bear the thought of those people she’d already seen killed being reduced to nothing more than kindling in a controlled burn. There was nothing so alienating, so dehumanizing, in her mind as being reduced to a means to an end.
“What about my Father. What did he believe?”
The Regent smiled again. “He and I were once of the same mind. It was all too simple to, for he believed with all his heart just as you spoke earlier. We had to prove to the powers that be on Earth that the Solar no longer would operate on a principle that some humans had different moral standing than others. That some were meant to be serfs. It could have been anywhere, Ceres, Konga, or any such place, but it first manifested in Yukatan when we had the means to respond, so there, once and for all, it must be confronted and destroyed.”
“Look at her.” Tiernanok pointed in Lyssa Petrova’s direction with a finger. “Just chatting it up with The Regent himself, like it’s nothing unusual. Spoiled silverspoon bitch.”
“Do you think she calls him dad?” Nievette quipped with a grin.
Stewart burst out laughing, sloppy, drunken, and much too loud.
Khultz gave his other three tablemates all an equally disgusted look. All Academy kiddies coddled and prepared their whole lives to assume their current positions, all lightweights, and all pathetic. He held no illusions about his own privilege and was grateful for every advantage it had afforded him. The others were blind to the irony of calling anyone else spoiled.
“I bet she’s begging him for a command. The Colonel’s aid told me she threw a fit in the Old Crow’s office when she got the news.” Nievette added while Stewart contained herself.
“Well poo-poo for the Princess. I took what I earned. I deserve it, I put in the time. What’s she ever done, huh?” Stewart scoffed with an animated toss of her hands.
“Maddie, what’ve you ever done except get Chagas because you refused to use your bug net and then spend the rest of the rotation in the comfort of the Battalion TOC in Veracruz?” Khultz said, finally fed up with their gossiping.
Stewart’s mouth gaped while Nievette mimed a cat scratching. “Wow Karl, feisty today aren’t we? What did Sam offer to share?”
Khultz snorted angrily. “No, I'm tired of hearing you conceited rats complain.” He stood from his chair.
“Karl, where are you going? They haven’t even adjourned the mess yet.” Tiernabok protested.
“Outside. I can hardly breath the atmo in here is so full of shit.”
Wilczec and Nahl huddled off to one side of the mess with the rest of the new Ensigns. This was only their third such event and they all still felt the need to hide among Academy and Platoon Commander’s Course classmates to avoid drawing the ire of the Mess’s more senior members.
“Do you think Vontrelli will be back by the time we’re leaving? I would hate to miss the ship and get left behind,” Nahl said from behind the protection of her tangerine mocktail.
“If he doesn’t get hurt and actually makes it all the way through without getting recycled this time he should just barely make it. Not that it matters, we’re gonna be in S3 until we die at this rate” Wilczec replied bitterly. “I just want to lead a platoon, this paperpushing bullshit is driving me insane.”
“You have to pay your dues first; we’ll get our turn. Regardless, Captain Petrova did him a major favor getting him spun up and another slot at Raider School after he already got dropped once. He’s not gonna be able to do anything but staff work until he’s tabbed.” Nahl replied.
Wilczec rubbed at his temple with one hand. “God, you sound just like her.”
Ens. Maltrue, who had spent the previous half of the evening gloating about earning his Rifles and being slotted for a command in 1/1 Delta in the same week, curiously turned towards the pair. “What’s she like? Like, really? I mean you certainly hear all kinds of things but-”
“I think she’s really inspiring,” Nahl beamed.
Wilczec frowned. “She’s a fucking slave driver. You know she gives us homework? Like we’re still academy students.” Wilczec fished around for his comm and displayed the most recent of her ‘professional development’ tasks. Maltrue took it from his hand and glanced the message over. It was a standard but truncated company level five paragraph order and a few map overlays, with some following text explaining for them to formulate a platoon scheme of maneuver in support of the notional company attack and then brief it back to her for critique.
“I don’t see what the big deal is, seems to me like this is good practice since it’s gonna be most of what you’re actually doing.” Malthus said while handing Wilczec’s comm back.
“She makes us PT with her a few times a week too; seems like she makes it a point to break us off every time. It’s miserable. She was ‘teaching combatives’ earlier this week and nearly knocked Nahl out while we were sparring.”
Nahl cringed, “I really should’ve kept my hands up; she did warned me.”
Wilczec threw her an annoyed glance while continuing. “Does Captain Quevon ever give you homework, Brian? Make you come to morning formation? Weren’t you telling me he was cutting you and Leo at like noon every day?”
“To be honest Kris, I don’t think he even acknowledged our existence more than once or twice.” Maltrue shrugged.
Wilczec slumped back in his chair; clearly Brian Maltrue was beyond reason.
Nahl threw a concerned glance at Wilczec and forced another smile. “She pushes us hard, but I don’t know, there’s just something about her that makes me want to really try just as hard and live up to her expectations. I want to be like that someday.”
“You’re never gonna live up to that.” Wilczec deadpanned while pointing at her across the mess, seated with the Regent himself, along with her motley party of the Army's finest.
A few bugle notes signaled the mess would adjourn shortly as the lights brightened. Everyone rose from their seats, some more clumsily than others, and stood at attention while the band played Heart of Iron for the few Naval personnel in attendance, then sang Brave Sons of Mars to end the ceremony.
“Where’d Kick go?” Shielbek asked while stumbling in an awkward corkscrew towards the barracks, searching for their third as he did.
“He sprinted off to go tell Rifleman Rand I think. Who cares, better he fuck off for a little bit anyways.” Donphrit replied while stumbled along in an uneven rhythm next to Shielbek. Mess was over but being right around ghost time, for a truly enterprising Rifleman there was plenty more fun to be had. Several groups were making their way to the tram pickup, obviously intent on keeping the party going out in town while others mobbed to the barracks to do the same thing. They had split off from the rest of Cutlass and hung back a little, with Shielbek playing silent wingman while Donphrit kibitzed with a few of his rather attractive RTB classmates.
“You sure she’s down and has a friend Donnie?” Shielbek asked. “Rifleman Svertson and Sarn’t Dygalo both told us to stay away from the other Company’s barracks.”
“Yeah ‘course I’m sure. Used to link up with Getty all the time at RTB.” Donphrit leaned his drunken bulk over Shielbek with a mocking grin. “What’re you scared of pussy or somethin’?”
Shielbek’s face twisted as his manhood was challenged. “No.”
“Then let’s fuckin’ gooo.” Donphrit said, shoving him towards the barracks building.
They made their way up to the second floor, glancing at room placards to make sure they were outside of the correct room.
“Getty, I’m here and I brought a friend.” Donphrit said while he knocked on the door.
The door cracked and a smiling female face appeared. “Oh good! I was worried you weren’t coming. Just give me a second.”
Shielbek leaned onto the railing as a sudden spell of drunken vertigo overtook him. Was he even sober enough to appreciate action at this point, or would it just be another drunken makeout session coupled with false promises to link up later. Maybe it was better to just let Donphrit have his own fun and tap out now. “Donnie.” Sheilbek turned. He was gone. “Don?” Shielbek called out again as he approached the open door.
It swung open again and the bold block letters of an unauthorized unit skivy shirt greeted him at eye level. ‘CRUSH - KILL - DESPOIL’ was printed below the dark and unmistakable outline of a Falchion. His hair stood on end as he lifted his head up to get a look at the mountain of a man’s face.
“The weak should fear the strong,” he smiled sinisterly.
It was Rifleman Overeem, better known as Übereem, because he was over two meters tall and was so wide his musculature barely fit through doorways. He was a Golden syndicate member, a real Rifleman tested by combat.
Shielbek turned to run as flight took primacy over fight, but Overeem grabbed him by the back of his Dress White’s collar, choking and lifting him fully off the ground. He flailed like a hooked fish being dragged out of the water as Overeem pulled him inside the room. Apparently annoyed already, Overeem slammed Shielbek into a wall locker to club the landed catch and then dropped him to the ground. “Good job Getty.”
Sheilbek wheezed for air as the breath was smashed from his lungs. Donphrit didn’t seem to be in much better shape. Three Rifleman, including the girl that had greeted them both, were holding him down and hog tying him with paracord. She straighten and smiled at her Senior’s praise while she finished tying Donphrit’s hands behind his back. “Thank you, Rifleman.”
“Awe c’mon Getty can’t you just let us go.” Donphrit pleaded while another Rifleman finished cording his legs.
Getty yanked on his ear. Donphrit’s mouth gaped in a pained yelp. She immediately gagged him with a knotted bit of paracord while his mouth still was open and tied it around the back of his head. “Shut up! You’re our prize. Prizes don’t talk.”
Overeem turned his attention back to Shielbek as he scraped himself off the ground. “Easy way or hard way?”
He hesitated. Was there anything to be gained by resisting further? This was all another stupid Rifleman game, a violent expression of unit rivalry. He and Donphrit were nothing more than metaphorical flags to be captured. He was trapped, it was plainly obvious he was about to get his ass kicked. Hard.
Something about the honor of his company and making his own senior’s proud stirred a powerful urge to fight. Better to be taken down fighting than submit unconditionally, that would at least look better when someone from Cutlass came to rescue them. Maybe he was just drunk. Shielbek stood and closed his fists.
Overeem seemed delighted as his prey lunged at him. Shielbek didn’t even attempt a feint and threw a wild overhand punch. Not even flinching, Overeem kept his hands low and ducked slightly into the fist so it landed square against his forehead. The thin bones of the hand pitted themselves against the thickest part of Overeem’s notoriously thick skull. Shielbek felt something crack sending pain jolting down his arm and shrank back with a yelp. Grabbing and lifting him by his Dress White jacket again, Overreem pinned him against the wall locker while cocking his other arm back. Fighting had clearly been a terrible idea and the urge that had so quickly filled him, fled just as quickly.
While groping at the arm restraining him ineffectually, Shielbek’s eyes frantically locked onto his attacker's face. They darted first to the red imprint his two big knuckles had made on Overeem’s forehead and then the man’s triumphant and toothy sneer. He had a fake tooth or two, lighter, perfectly shaped and unyellowed, just like Rifleman Svertson’s.
It was his last thought that crossed his mind before Overeem clobbered him with punches.