8 - 2
CEREMONY II
“It is oft forgotten that Religion is more than spiritual belief. It is a system of ritualistic practice embedded within language and culture. Orthodoxy, that is ascribing to a system of primarily internally held beliefs is a rather recent invention in the project of human spirituality. Orthopaxy conversely, is focused on external practices as the main expression of religiosity and is far far older. It is doubtful that the Greeks believed they could climb to the top of Mount Olympus and meet with Zeus. Yet, they sacrificed goats to read their entrails for glints of the future all the same. Matters of State are no different in this regard.” - Cyrus Sirenium Quotations from the Throne Ch. 12, 32 MIC
“Attention to Orders: HEADQUARTERS, Western Coalition Army, Red-Water Crossing, Dominion of Amazonia. 14 March, 42 MIC.
The Officer of the Day Today is: Lance Colonel Chevalier, White Army of Tharsis
The Officer of the Day Tomorrow is: Polkovnik Yulanovski, Cydonian Army
Effective upon the receipt and public recitation of this Order, all military formations operating under Western Coalition Army command authority in support of Operation Ares Sword are now designated: Bonded Duty Complete, in accordance with Article 17 of the Martian Law of Armed Conflict.
All units currently mobilized in support of Operation Ares Sword are to return in their entirety to their host nation within 72 hours of the publishing of this order.
All Prizes acquired under Article 9 of the Martian Law of Armed Conflict are to be properly documented for Third Country Observer inspection as described in Paragraph 9-23 and submitted for Adjudication by the Worlds Development Forum Prize Council as described in Paragraph 9-36 within 72 hours of the publishing of this order.
All Bonded Prisoners of War are to be repatriated in accordance with Article 5 of the Martian Law of Armed Conflict within 72 hours of the publishing of this order.
All Non-Bonded Prisoners of War are to be repatriated by material exchange or payment-in-absentia as described within Section 27 of the Federal Rift Republic - Western Coalition Armistice of April 30, 42 MIC.
Signed,
Ibhram Kane, Regent Protector of Tharsis; Vichislav Dolinaow, Senate-President of Cydonia; Aikatarine Minos, Princeps of Amazonia
By Order of V. A. ANDREAS, GENERAL, WESTERN COALITION ARMIES, COMMANDING OFFICERS!
CENTER!
MARCH!”
Rand stood frozen at the position of attention, not really paying attention to much of anything while the officers marched with their Colours in tow toward the center of the square and began massing one by one. Their one-time adversaries and the impartial observers similarly were gathering with Colours to meet in front of the recently raised reviewing platform. This whole process took something like seven or eight minutes by his estimation. He was sure the Corps Drill Master had it all down to every last beat of the bass drum.
This was all well rehearsed and so far was proceeding flawlessly. Well, mostly flawlessly. Rand wiggled his toes inside his boots, the slightly irregular cobblestone distributed the pressure unevenly. They had done all of this so much that aside from gawking at the megalithic architecture, he was mostly bored. Just another hour of uncomfortable boredom separating him from home slowly ticking by while he played glorified mannequin.
He was sort of curious as to what had changed since he’d left. After all, what can really happen to any place in a hundred and forty-nine Martian sols? When they left Ridge City was still blanketed in snow and firmly locked within winter's grasp. It was halfway through the half-terran year Martian spring now. Vermillion Reservoir would be choked with glacial melt, good time for sea-trout.
Was his license expired? It sort of didn’t matter so long as he was fishing for trout. They were practically an invasive species at this point. Once upon a time they’d been locked in pens for aquaculture, but they sort of just slipped out one year and had been flourishing ever since to the point they were impacting other aquaculture projects farther downstream.
The planet was still far from done cooking, but even in this state it seemed like every year they inched closer. The atmosphere was a few more fractions oxygen, the winters were ever so slightly milder. Even around Ridge City the once barren hills frozen in place by kilometers upon kilometers of steel erosion nets were now dotted by wispy and tall seasonal grasses shooting through the rocks. Sprayed on mats of microbial life that stuck the sand together had vastly decreased the once ever present and seemingly apocalyptic sandstorms that grew from the Military Reservation west of the city during the summer. It was still dusty, the Lancers weren’t kind to the nascent soil, but less so. Every year it was a little greener, a little warmer, one iota more hospitable. Maybe when he was old he’d be able to wander around outside without the aid of a mask. If he got old. So long as he was in this line of work, the future was never promised.
The Officers finished massing and marched on line before the reviewing stand bowing all their Colours in submission to the guests of honor and the Martian Tri-color posted in front of them. Everyone in lockstep, united in their commitment to something that was now more ephemeral than ever. Rand rendered his salute in unison with everyone else. It wasn’t a conscious act; he was still far away imagining what was waiting for him back home. He didn’t give pause or consider the gravitas of the droning words of various politicians. Time was losing its meaning again. It seemed like he’d spent his entire adult life waiting for ‘the next thing’ because, whatever he was doing right now, sucked.
They continued speaking, it just seemed to go on and on. Certainly some one must’ve been interested, evidently he wasn’t the target audience. It was just noise, not even a meaningful distraction from the tickle of stiff and precalculated artificial breeze. It pulled at the banners, set them to snap at optimal majesty at the apex of their address. His feet hurt now. Home. He just wanted to go home.
Capt. Petrova remained motionless while wind stirred a trio of flyaway hairs to pester her eyes. She focused on not blinking too much, not even moving her eyes away from the current speaker. There was a set of cameras in her peripheral vision trained on her while she stood motionless.
The Republic’s interim-prime minister finally finished his remarks, descending the podium to join with the rest of the leaders as they exchanged peace offerings. Handfuls of soil raised on other continents, saplings from half a world away, and antique tools; symbols of the valor in labor. With the gifts exchanged they approached a grassy mound around a knobby oak tree. It sprouted through the cobblestone in resolute defiance, roots warping and lifting the stones around its confines. They prostrated themselves on their hands and knees, scraping out a few divots with trowels and hoes older than the city itself and planted the saplings.
They rose, hands and knees anointed with muddy stains and threw down their tools to rust where they fell there to an eruption of applause. It was all so perfect, even if nothing had changed in their minds and their hearts. Formally, objectively, difference had been reconciled. If all proceeded according to plan then those trees would stand forever more. Like a prayer wheel driven by nature forever citing words of praise so long as the rivers ran and the wind blew.
The band blew Holst. It wasn’t lost on her that the movement they were playing originally had nothing to do with Mars and everything to do with Jupiter. It didn’t matter. Everything Martian had been seized, modified, copied, relabled, reinterpreted, recontextualized. No one sung the first or the last verse anymore, it had long been out of fashion for the same reason only Soldiers talked of sacrifice or death. Most people would rather forget.
And there’s another Nation I heard of long ago,
Most dear to those that love him, most great to those that know
We may not count his Armies, we may not see his King
His fortress is a faithful heart; his pride is suffering
And soul by soul and silently his shining bounds increase
And all his ways are ways of gentleness, and all his paths of Peace
Capt. Petrova glanced to her right. Yarbrough was actually choking up a little. The old tricks still worked. It didn’t really matter as far as she was concerned. This display wasn’t really meant for her. There was a note of finality to it. Some relief that it was finally over; it was really over. The months had slipped by in a sleep deprived haze marked by boredom and punctuated intermittently with excitement and horror. The long night was over and the light of normalcy and order was finally beginning to return.
There was an unease underlining it all. Despite this reconciliation something had still not been resolved. The pressures which had resulted in this affair escalating to open war had not been addressed. The Regent’s little speech seemed to have confirmed that she wasn’t the only one who was feeling it. Though a new day had begun, night would come again. Something had changed in the horizon of possibility. Violence had suppressed deviance this time, but what about the next time? And the time after that? Their unity had been exposed as eminently fragile and while her nation’s star was ascendant, what new world it was rising into remained to be seen.
There may have been a grain of truth in what Yuri had said. What was more concerning was the changing of the guard which loomed ahead. When the Regent was gone, who would take his place? When the next Party Congress was held, who would rise to lead the standing committee? The fire that united them was fading quickly. Would it die out, be divided, or restoked? All she could see huddled around that decapitated head was fear that the thing they had spent their whole life times building would crumble once they were gone. The way she saw it, there was something worth preserving. Others weren’t so inclined.
“Post!”
“March!”
The assembled officers returned just the way they had come to the heads of their formation for the final action. The band played Last Guard while they held a moment of silence for the fallen. It must’ve been so much easier when they didn’t have faces or names. When they were just ideas or numbers to be tabulated. Resources to be expended in pursuit of some lofty or nebulous goal. Nelson, Ritter, Hillcrest, Roshan, and Restrepo were just memories now. Names to be added to the monument outside of the Regimental headquarters and perhaps awarded to some otherwise unremarkable building on Camp Rashkigi. There was nothing else to do but try to complete and honor the work that they gave their lives on behalf of.
The best she could manage was to try to keep those people inside her heart. There’s always another mountain to climb. For now the prospect of leave and some time away from all this was at the front of her mind as the band marched to their final preparatory position alongside the reviewing stand.
“Pass in Review!”
The formations all snapped to attention again and marched in sequence one by one in a stream around the square and in front of the reviewing stand and all the assembled guests of honor each rendering honors and eyes right as they passed. Minutes passed while they stood at attention and waited for their turn. The Federals and Noachians went first. Then neutral parties, all minuscule detachments by comparison, then the rest of the IV Rifle Corps leaving just 1st Rifles all the way at the very end. Tradition demanded that if they could not be first, then they would be last.
She hardly even registered the notes of Brave Sons of Mars blaring as they cut to slowtime and passed in front of the stage. Everyone was looking straight at her, but despite her gesture of ‘Eyes Right’ she wasn’t really looking at all those dignitaries staring down on her. She was more focused on keeping her chin up and shoulders back while admiring that headless goliath looming behind them. Tyrant from beyond the grave. Just like that it was all over. They cut their eyes to the front and kept marching on straight and out of the square.
The rest of the Division was already stretched out in front of them leading the way. Once they were around the first corner entirely they switched to round-step. The synchronous crack of bootheels quickly diffused into a disorganized and constant patter as they fell out of time and she sheathed her sword. It wasn’t really her sword anyways; she made a mental note to make sure to return it to Maj. Deemo when they got back.
“I’d say that went pretty well, all things considered.” Yarbrough chirped from behind her.
“About as well as could be expected.” Capt. Petrova agreed.
Rand couldn’t help but smile. They were getting so close. Just one more threshold to cross and he’d be home. Free from all this misery and monotony for a while. Ready to soak in the admiration of everyone back there. To be showered in congratulations for a job well done. He supposed he should have thoughts like that. He did, but he wanted more to see if life had changed at all in his absence. What would be different? They really hadn’t been gone that long, five months, but in their work up to come here there wasn’t much time to do anything but recuperate from all of the training. It felt like an age and a half since he had time that wasn’t regimented; that he could waste as he pleased.
They arrived at the railyard without much fuss. Republican Guards along with their Federal counterparts let them through the gate en masse with little fuss. They marched through sandbagged fighting positions and ‘NO PHOTOGRAMMETRY, NO RECORDING’ signs and broke into single file lines where they scanned their bond chips individually and then reformed march order on the other side. A waiting Logi Lieutenant directed the various Regiments to different platforms to meet up with their already pre-staged equipment and wait for their ride. The place was very busy for the moment, but it was mostly military.
Gubonya was an industrial railyard; it didn’t normally deal in passengers so there were traditional platforms, no overhangs to shield them from the sun, not even benches or anything to sit on. Just acres of raised flat rockcrete marked all over by vehicle tracks and spattered with dollops of mud. Some orphaned vehicles were already loaded and chained onto single or double railcars. The Signalmen from STB detailed to move all of the baggage were busy loading their two Ox supply vehicles up onto the rail now that all of the baggage had been hastily dumped out into a pile.
SSgt. Willcox got a quick accountability and double checked their manifest ensuring that everyone and all of their serialized equipment was still accounted for. Rand had already passed the PDL off to an earlier party, but Svertson was signed for the MAAWs so it was his responsibility until it was back in the armory. All the rest of them really needed to worry about were their rifles and various personal sitaware components. Once they were done rushing about to accomplish that and had passed up a positive personnel and equipment count there was really nothing to do but wait. They laid out their packs and kit bags in a neat and evenly spaced square and stood around just bullshitting. Everyone broke into little huddles by rank and stood around to talk and smoke. As time wore on they moved to sitting on their packs; an hour in and most people were laying down.
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Balachenko put his cover over his face and was dead asleep, laying flat on the rockcrete hugging his rifle. Svertson was half prone next to Henetto giggling in a way Rand hadn’t seen before with her about something stupid. For the first time in a while Rand felt hot. There was not a bit of shade here, nor a cloud in sight. The dome’s UV blocking film was still damaged. He could feel his skin cooking in the late morning shine as the temperature climbed into the 20’s for the first time in months. One afternoon like this and he’d have a nice ‘Army tan’ on the back of his hands, neck, and nowhere else. He tried to dispel the boredom by reading a few sports columns but his comm was already low on battery and it was probably in his best interest to let the beta-voltaic rest and regain some charge for the lengthy ride ahead. Demios got knocked out of the playoffs and he didn’t even watch the game.
The minutes ticked by while he stared through the hexagonal corundum blocks at the featureless dark blue sky. He craned his neck around: everyone else was equally bored out of their mind. He slid his hand around on the grubby rockcrete blindly and eventually found something worth throwing, a shard of broken paving about the size of his thumb. Rand lazily cocked his arm back to throw it at the electrified monorail beside them.
“Rand, don’t fucking start that shit,” Sgt. Dygalo snapped at him.
Rand let his arm flop down back to his side defeatedly. “Sergeant, how much longer before the train gets here?”
“It’ll get here when it gets here,” Dygalo dismissed.
Rand grumbled again and let his head drop back against his main pack and resumed looking towards the featureless abyss above him.
Capt. Petrova stripped off the belt as soon as they were settled. She hated wearing the thing to begin with. Halfway to the railyard and that damn belt had already begun chafing against her hips. Taking it off revealed a wet strip of sweat all the way around her blouse. How hot was it anyways? 26 or 27 maybe? Not too bad normally, but she wasn’t acclimatized for it at all, the air was dead calm as well. Atmospherics must’ve been on some sort of maintenance pause as there was normally a constant gentle breeze of circulating air, so unremarkably calm it was only ever noticed in absence.
Yabrough had her comm out and was busy yapping away to som6e friend about when they’d be home and all of the crazy and utterly mundane things that had happened since the last time they’d spoken. By her chrono they’d already been talking for half an hour and the constant babble was starting to wear on her nerves, but she now was fully spun up on who Liever was cheating with. Whoever Liever was, she sounded like a real bitch. The Senior Sergeants had dragged their packs into a rough circle around Top Radulovic and were engaged in a slow and steady chainsmoke, fully content there was nothing for them to do for once.
The thought of socializing with other officers disgusted her at the moment. She didn’t feel like gloating anymore and only Capt. Wunder was tolerable on an interpersonal level. She just sat on her pack and watched the city she despised through the fence.
The railyard straddled the edge of the city on a wide but narrow front. Several smaller gauge lines connected it with other parts of the city, and another of the larger gauge cut straight through the middle to the canal district on the opposite side. Most intercity lines came in here and broke out into a semi-circular array of raised platforms for on and off-load. There wasn’t much separating them from the rest of the industrial district; that was intentional. Ease of access was a necessity. From a security standpoint, it was worrying. There was only a 2 meter chain link fence a hundred meters distant separating them from open access to the city. Perhaps 50 meters farther than that was the entrance they’d come from. It had been hastily fortified, but still lacked most of the normal measures, like a final-denial barrier to prevent vehicles blitzing the checkpoint. Despite the security, there was still a semi-constant flow of people in and out of the gate, both civilian and military.
Every few minutes an Ox or Belvin 30 military truck would come up to the gate and the A-Driver would exchange papers with the Feds and RG’s manning the post, then rumble through. An automated standardized container hauler came twice as often. There were a few walk-up gates where uniformed rail workers, line-handlers, load inspectors, union officials, and all manner of dirty-hands day workers buzzed in and out after a cursory scan and search. She let her mind empty while she observed them filing in and out like ants. There would be time later to be concerned or worried about the future held. For now, she was just like everyone else: stuck limbo with nothing but time.
An hour crawled by while she entertained thoughts of what she was going to do when she finally got to her apartment. She wondered if her neighbor had actually watered the plants on her balcony like they’d promised to, and dreaded the thought of opening her fridge, knowing she’d forgotten some perishables there months ago. What was everyone else doing right now? What was Sam up to? It was Friday and half-past noon. Obviously, he had to be wrapping up at work if he wasn’t off already. What was there for him to even do back there, anyways? Sit in After Action Reviews and take notes? Stare at correspondence and review slide-decks?
Something finally pegged her attention. A pair of men in ill-fitting work coveralls approached the checkpoint. The Federal manning the scan station waved them forward, and they both glanced at each other before proceeding. They seemed nervous; that was worrying.
Capt. Petrova nudged Yarbrough and motioned towards the gate. Yarbrough jerked her attention away from her link for a moment.
“See those two chumps at the gate?” She indicated with a wave of her finger.
“Sorry, I’ll get back to you in a minute.” Yarbrough cut her link and then glanced around. “Which two?”
“Those two in the rail coveralls without hi-vis vests, talking to the Fed.” Petrova motioned again.
Yarbrough raised her hand to shield her eyes from the sun and squinted. “Yeah, I see ‘em. What about ‘em?”
“Seem off don’t they? What the fuck does that guy have a backpack for?” Capt. Petrova questioned further.
The Federal motioned for them to halt when they were half-way through the scanner and barked something into his comm, summoning another pair of his fellows in kit and a Republican Guard from inside a nearby guard shack.
“That doesn’t look good.” Yarbrough announced. Capt. Petrova looked around carefully while her skin crawled. There were dozens of ‘civilian’ workers all around them, dozens more on the other side of the fence, all of them now unknown quantities. Her mind began to race while one of the Federals approached from out behind his station to confront the two stopped at the gate.
“Senior!” Capt. Petrova shouted, jerking her head around backwards.
“Yeah?!” Senior Willcox stood up from off of his pack and turned towards her. “What’s up, ma’am?”
She motioned him over with haste and Senior Willcox quickly complied, snatching up his rifle and jogging over.
Capt. Petrova snapped her fingers. “Where’s the self-protection ammo?”
“Uh, in my mainpack. What’s going on?” Willcox asked while kneeling down. Captain Petrova pointed towards the gate again.
“Those two dickheads over there. They’ve got something in that bag.” She explained.
Willcox raised an eyebrow. “Something like what?”
“Nothing good.”
The two Federals were motioning and shouting for the two suspects to put the bag down. The two ‘maintence workers’ froze like startled animals. One of the Feds repeated his command and took a step forward. The unburdened one said something to his fellow and then turned, sprinting and weaving away through the growing line of halted vehicles at the gate. Another Republican Guard joined in, taking a knee behind a blast barrier and pointing his rifle at the remaining suspect, who was still frozen stiff holding the bag tightly against his chest.
Under the coverage of their Thartic counterparts, the three Federal Regulars broke from their positions and approached slowly with their weapons at the low ready. The suspect was still locked up as they approached within arms reach, hands tucked behind the backpack. A shouting match erupted as they closed and a Fed attempted to rip the bag out of the suspects hands. A tug of war erupted between the two parties. A moment later the suspect released and held up his arms with a desperate and unintelligible shout while gesturing wildly with something small and round.
The Federals jumped back a few paces and raised their rifles, motioning vigorously for the suspect to put down whatever he was holding while throwing down the open bag, spilling its paper contents over the ground.
“Oh shit…” Senior Willcox let out under his breath pausing for only a moment then springing into action. “Stand to! Put your fucking kit on right now!” He shouted while he ran back to his own mainpack and ripped the top flap open.
Rand lifted his head. What the fuck was going on? Stand to? For fucking what?
An explosive crack split the silence, and he flinched with shock.
It wasn’t big, something small like a hand grenade, but it was followed by an eruption of rifle fire, and then eerie silence and more shouting.
Rand leapt to his feet while others scrambled up and ripped open his kit bag, tossing his hat aside and quickly strapping on his Personal Protective Equipment. As soon as his Sitaware blinked on it flooded with alerts. He turned his head towards the tracks and finally put a source to the chaos. A small cloud of dust wafted upwards slowly from the gate area. It was perfectly straight, without even the slightest breeze to disturb it. Two Feds folded up on the ground motionless; another had rolled onto his side and squirmed in agony. There was what might have been a civilian at one point face down in a pool of blood a dozen meters away from them. More Feds swarmed while Republican Guards reloaded their weapons while shouting and beckoned the surviving Fed to crawl towards them.
Rand glanced around again. He felt naked. He had kit on at least, but his weapon was basically a nice plastic club without ammunition. Everyone was still scrambling to put their kit on. Senior Willcox sprinted towards him with an ammo case in each hand, sliding to a stop next to him, since he was the only person with all of his gear on.
“Help me open this shit, Rifleman!” Senior Willcox practically threw one of the cases at him and dropped to a knee, snapping the tamper seal off and throwing the lid aside and yanking out preloaded cassettes and tossing them to anyone ready. “Hurry up! Hurry up!” Senior Willcox shouted over the bedlam of the rest of the company still donning their equipment. Corporals and Sergeants were the first up, barking orders to hastily assembling sections and ad hoc squads, tossing out duties and sectors of fire.
“Yarbrough!” Capt. Petrova shouted. “Leave the fucking Colours here! Run down the line and let everyone know what just happened.”
Yarbrough finished sloppily buckling her chinstrap and scrambled back to her feet. “Check ma’am!” She set out at a dead sprint to inform the next platform separated from them by a stationary line of freight cars.
Capt. Petrova was still fighting for information with suddenly a thousand things to do.“Dygalo!” she shouted while searching for him.
“Here, ma’am!” He was just finishing loading his rifle, perfect.
“The gate, go! Take two and Henetto!”
“Check, ma’am!” he shouted in response, grabbing two random Riflemen along with their only Hospitalman while running toward the gate. She felt naked having an empty weapon at a time like this, but there was precious little ammunition to go around and she had more important things to worry about. Tracks flooded her sitaware as people jumped onto the net all over the railyard and flashed out queries for information. She bit her thumbnail.
What next? “Is all the ammo out, Senior!?”
“Yeah, check, ma’am!” Senior Willcox shouted back as he put the final cassette into his own rifle. All the leadership’s attention was focused squarely on her.
She felt alive again, finally confronted with another problem to solve. “Get everyone into a hasty defense! I want one squad over there, one in reserve, third over there, alright?!”
Signalman Corporal Ibara practically attached himself to her hip and spit out a stream of information regarding adjacent unit statuses, and the Republic Guard QRF which was apparently already in route via VTOL. The bedlam settled as they hastily occupied positions behind shipping containers and inside empty freight cars.
She keyed her comm, “2-4, 2 what’s it look like up there?”
Dygalo shared his direct view, giving her a first person eye on the carnage. “Got three Feds up here, one KIA, two pretty fucked up, critical I’d say, Henetto’s working on them. One local shot to fuck. Our guys, RG’s, are okay but pretty shaken up. Said the dude got into a tug-a-war over the bag, dropped a live ‘nade and ran. Had a bag full of fucking posters, you know the typical ‘hun-go-home’ kind.”
“Consolidate the casualties inside that guard shack and stay put. There’s an actual Doctor from Div. Shock Trauma on his way, ETA like 2 mikes.”
Dygalo pinged acknowledged and she finally caught her breath while watching them carry the Feds inside the guardhouse. A pair of Republic Guard marked VTOL’s made a low pass, then circled and landed outside the gate, dumping out a platoon who immediately set to cording off the area while follow-on forces streamed in by Lynx and Lioness.
Capt. Mulluex had evidently gotten the message as his track blinked into existence, plowing in her direction.
He rounded the corner while putting his helmet on and dragging a Private by his still connected comm umbilical. “Petrova! What the fuck is going on?”
She barely greeted him with a glance and returned to listening to the traffic stream in. “Local dropped a grenade at the gate, fucked up a few of his fellow Feds. Henetto’s triaging them right now. Someone from Shock-Trauma is on their way. RG’s pasted the offender.”
“Fuck.” Mulluex spit while taking a knee next to her. “That's all?”
She nodded. “Situation seems to be under control.”
“Fucking shame,” Mulluex sighed. “I was hoping for one last good scrap.”
She ignored the comment. “Any guidance for the Battalion?”
“Stay in kit; I’ve got Top Radulovic securing more ammo. I’ll send a party to stock you as soon as we can,” he directed. It was the first thing he’d said that seemed prudent all day.
“Check, rodge.”
Mulluex jogged over toward 3rd Battalion’s position while dragging his RTO by the comm umbilical.
She keyed her comm. “Words from the acting Reg CO: Stand-To remains in effect, resupply party will be along shortly with more ammunition.”
“This is so fucking stupid,” Svertson bitched.
“Yeah.” Rand agreed while rubbing his neck. They’d been sitting like this for an hour already. He couldn’t even muster any tiny justification for this. RG’s were crawling all over the place outside the gate, detaining anyone who was still hanging around. His neck was already starting to itch. The sun was beating down, the air was getting that stale smell, and now they’d spend god knows how long in a full-kit hasty defense. One last fuck you from Greendome.
They were just going to be extra miserable, after all: no sleeping, no checking the news, just hot, sweaty, misery. The rockcrete slab he was prone on top of was only getting warmer as the sun and mercury climbed into the high 20’s. The Atmo being down for maintenance this afternoon was turning the whole city into a greenhouse. It’d likely top out before long, but it was still uncomfortable. It’d been piss chilling wet cold every day they’d been here until the very last day after all the dignitaries had flown away. They ‘conveniently’ shut everything down to do emergency maintenance once they were gone. No doubt the ‘important people’ were all in climate controlled VTOL’s enjoying refreshments.
Another hour passed agonizingly slowly. Balachenko tucked himself into a low prone position with his rifle propped on a crate and the rim of his helmet resting on his optic to keep his head upright. Rand was sort of impressed by the ingenuity of it, but someone had to actually pay attention. Sergeant Dygalo and Hennetto eventually returned as well. Henetto had blood all over her best uniform and was clearly miffed about it despite Svertson’s attempts at making light.
“Sverts,” Cpl. Seevan called out while sauntering over with another two ammunition cases. Seevan cracked it open and held out a pair of pre-loaded cassettes to Svertson. Svertson took both, enough to finally fill out his kit, and ripped off the foil sealing the feed lips before tossing it to the ground. The platform was now littered with dunnage from ammunition and scattered personal effects from when they’d been forced to toss through their mainpacks and kitbags for combat equipment.
“Balie,” Seevan called out.
Rand glanced to his left; Balachenko didn’t even budge.
“Balachenko,” Cpl. Seevan repeated. He was still motionless. Cpl. Seevan cursed under his breath and stalked up behind him. Balachenko’s back was rising and falling in a steady rhythm, dead asleep again.
Cpl. Seevan grabbed him by the drag handle on his kit and yanked him backwards half a meter. “Wake up, shithead! Get up. Get the fuck up!”
Balachenko thrashed, startled, while fighting with his sling to regain control of his rifle.
“Corporal, I-” he blurted out.
“Get on your fucking feet, Rifleman,” Seevan ordered while grabbing him by the shoulder strap and hauling him up before Balachenko could stand up on his own.
Seevan dragged him by the shoulder strap into an empty train car next to them and rolled the door shut. “You’re dead, cockroach. Now fucking die,” bounced out in a muffed echo followed by Seevan’s trademark frighteningly fast cadence.
The Corporal spent a good twenty minutes cooking Balachenko with exercise inside the extra hot and extra stale rail car. The Dying Cockroach, the Monkey-Fucker, Rifle Ups, Flutterkicks, Burpees, the infamous ‘Red Diamond’ Push-Up: Seevan seemed to have an endless supply of exercises. Balachenko returned absolutely coated in sweat and wheezing, too exhausted to even be angry about it, utterly defeated.
“Don’t fall asleep again, Balachenko.” Seevan spat while Balachenko plopped down on his ass next to Rand. He then chugged most of his water and spent the next few minutes trying to regain his bearings. Seevan pegged him in the helmet with a full cassette just as he was starting to settle down again. “I swear to Mars, I catch you sleeping again, and I’m actually just gonna beat the shit out of you, Balachenko. Pick that shit up and stay awake.”
Balachenko grumbled a “Check, rodge Corporal” and stuffed the cassette into an empty pouch.
Capt. Petrova came around twice to inspect their positions and once more to pass word to pick up their gear and collect the dunnage. She seemed rather apologetic about the situation. There was a hint of something else. Rand couldn’t help but think she almost looked disappointed nothing was really happening. He understood, but couldn’t empathize.
The Stand-down order finally came three hours later just as the Atmo kicked back on. The stale smell disappeared inside thirty minutes and the temperature mercifully dropped a few degrees. It was getting into late afternoon, but instead of time to relax, they had to turn in all of the ammunition they’d just been issued. That included, by order of the Acting Regimental Commander, a full shakedown of everyone’s equipment for ‘misappropriated ammunition’.
The Princess made a valiant effort explaining how fucking stupid that was, but it was Army ‘Standard Operating Proceedure’ so it was a lost cause. Even a single round being unaccounted was apparently some kind of high-treason against the taxpayer. Rand could teach those Finance people a thing or two about ‘Fraud, Waste, and Abuse’.
They dumped out their kitbags and main packs onto the ground for inspection regardless and then repacked them just to make him happy. Luckily, Senior Willcox conveniently ignored the spent MAAWs stub at the bottom of his pack. White Army property or not, it was going to make a good ashtray or mantlepiece in his barracks room. Rand wasn’t quite sure which yet, but he knew he wanted at least one keepsake.
Their train finally came in just as the sunset, and off it marched a stream of recently released Federal and Noachian Army prisoners, all beaming with joy at the sight of home or friendly ground. They exchanged awkward smiles and waves as they passed through, quickly trading and handing off items of traditional exchange, cigarettes mostly. They were gone inside a few minutes with a waiting party of New Federal Army personnel to receive and process them. Rand almost felt a tinge of jealousy: his homecoming was still hours away, but drawing ever closer as they boarded their train.