8 - 3
BRAWL
“I imagine that throughout history more has been lost to the destructive power of stupidity than any other single factor.” - Saul Tarwtiz-Rubenka
“So we’re really going then,” Rand said.
Kick nodded his head vigorously, Rand wasn’t sure if he was sober, but the revelation seemed to have scared him there if he wasn’t. Rand turned in his chair behind the duty desk, how would Seevan react? Maybe it would have a similar effect. Maybe not. The news imparted a feeling of vague anxiety on him, one that he knew would not fade until they were there on the ground and there would be no time to worry about anything to worry about except the fifteen meters to your front and the fifteen centimeters between your ears. Leaving again, this time no longer facing the unknown, just the weight of doing what was required and keeping the kid in front of him alive. Kick seemed expectant; Rand wasn’t sure for what.
Was he supposed to calm his nerves? Impart some nugget of wisdom that would help him fight the mental battle?
Rand attempted a serious face. “Listen, just stay out of trouble tonight. Go uh, go, hangout with Shielbek and Donphrit or whoever and don’t worry about this stuff for now. Just take this one K-marker at a time.”
Kick relaxed somewhat, stepping back from his lean into the window. “Check, Rifleman. Say uh, did you see where Shielbek and Donnie went? I ran over here to pass the word and I kinda lost ‘em.”
Rand ground his teeth. There were a handful of rules that it was actually in their best interest to follow, especially on Mess Night. Staying with a battle buddy was one of them. Kick may have ran off on his own Message to Garcia style, but it was more than likely the other two would’ve tried to ditch him to go philander anyways.
“What the fuck do you want boot,” Seevan snapped as he approached from down the catwalk. Kick immediately snapped to parade rest as Seevan passed him by.
“I just came by to tell Rifleman Rand the news, Corporal. The Battalion’s going to Yukatan,” Kick replied.
“Yeah, I already heard. Ain’t a moment too soon either. I’m tired of fucking moping around here.” Seevan replied while re-entering the tiny office annex. “Now fuck off and stay out of trouble Punt or I’ll make your short life-expectancy even shorter.”
“Check, rodge, Corporal.” Kick paled slightly at the very real threat and then scurried away towards his barracks room to hide as instructed.
Seevan dumped himself into the desk chair and set about wiping something clear and slimy off his brossard. “I owe Gorshkov punch in the mouth, fucker slobbered all over me while I was putting him to bed. How hard is it for these fuckers to handle their drink.”
Rand just watched him search through the desk drawers for something to more completely remove it. He seemed looser since he returned from his early rove, and it was a welcome change from his earlier abrasive dour.
The Regiment was arriving at the barracks in waves, most ducking into their rooms to change or at the very least strip off their dress jackets before continuing the debauchery. From across the quad Rand could see Falchion rallying for some kind of tribal ritual. Nearly all the doors on the building were open and the catwalks were crowded full as they mobbed and jostled around each other. A distant chant of ‘Goodno Hall!’ was audible as they collectively invoked the power of the building’s namesake.
It wouldn’t be long before Cutlass was doing the same thing and he and Seevan both would have their hands full enforcing some kind of order onto the chaos.
“Volk are you coming out with us?” Peblt asked, her arm draped around her recent catch, a mousy and oblivious looking girl from the Regiment’s supply section.
Volk just shook her head. “No, I’m just gonna hang out here. I actually have been meaning to link someone.”
“What about you?” Peblt turned to Priveda, who similarly shook her head.
“I told Rand I’d stay here with him,” she replied.
“Mars, you both suck. I’m going to Tun with-” Peblt looked at the girl clinging to her arm arm quizzically for a moment “-this pretty thing.”
“Pay your tab this time, I’m not riding the tram across the city to bail you out again.” Volk warned. Peblt just rolled her eyes and yanked her plaything towards the tram stop while the other two continued towards the barracks.
Priveda glanced towards Falchion’s building. “They seem wound up tonight.”
“They found out we’re going to war again, more than reason enough to cut-loose,” Volk replied as she turned to enter her room. “If things get out of hand just let me know and I’ll come break heads.”
Priveda nodded as Volk locked herself inside her room. It seemed sad, she’d never been the life of the party, but more and more lately she’d been isolating herself. It didn’t seem right. Priveda made a note to coax her out later, Svertson had made some noise about gathering in his room to pass the special smoke around, but for now she had other things to do. She peeked through the open duty hut window.
Rand smiled, Seevan scowled.
Volk closed the door and sat down in her only chair while tossing her comm onto the desk and staring at it.
Donphrit and Sheilbek were dragged down the back catwalk by the their jacket collares to a frenzied chant of “Goodno Hall!”as Falchion mobbed around them. Overeem yanked them into the third floor barracks lounge where a council of Falchion's Senior Riflemen were seated in a semi-circle of rearranged couches and pub chairs. He then threw both of them to the ground and took a seat among them while a Corporal rose from his chair and put on a pair of fake lensless spectacles while retrieving an inknote.
“Privates First Class… Reem, what were these boots names?”
“That one’s Donphrit, and the other one…” Overeem dug through his pockets for Shielbek’s confiscated nameplate. “Shield-beck.”
The one with fake glasses nodded and resumed reading. “Privates First Class, Shield-beck and Donphrit of Cutlass, you are charged with trespassing and attempting to slam with one of our boots without prior authorization. The Rifleman Court finds you guilty, and sentences you to the stockade.”
Shielbek was completely bewildered and struggled into an upright posture. “Guilty? Aren’t you at least gonna give us a chance to submit ascentia on our behalf?”
“Nope. Give them into the stockade,” the Corporal announced, waving dismissively.
The doors to the lounge threw open and what seemed like all of Falchion poured in. Hands sprung from all around grabbing everywhere uncomfortable at once and lifting him off the ground. Shielbek felt a stray finger fish hook his mouth while another pair roughly slathered something slimy around his ears and sides of his face. It was maybe better not knowing what it was. They were hauled to the third deck catwalk and then tossed him into the railing. Were they going to throw them off? Is that what they meant? Sheilbek glanced to his right. They were tying more cord around Donphrit’s ankles while they laughed and leered as he struggled ineffectually.
Someone yanked him down from the edge of the railing, kicking out his knees to break his posture. He pushed back, attempting to resist but another set of hands palmed the back of his bald head and forced his face into a gap in the hand railing’s vertical bars which was just barely wide enough for his face. Agonizing pain ran through his body as they kept pushing and both his ears were smashed flat by the lubricated bars. Resistance suddenly gave way and his head popped through. He attempted to pull himself out from in between the bars but his already swelling ears doubled over and it was even more painful than going in. They finished lashing his hands to the bars next to his head. He was stuck.
Donphrit, apparently deemed too big to face a similar fate, was draped over the catwalk railing while a pair of Senior looking Riflemen argued whether it would be better to just lash him to it lengthwise or dangle him over the railing.
She wasn’t much of a drinker, but had clearly had more than a few tonight. Priveda’s cheeks and nose were flushed and she had already popped her collar and top button open.
“When are you going on sleeping hours?” She said grinning and leaning onto the duty desk towards him. Rand chewed on the inside of his cheek while a brief vision of their most recent horizontal encounter played across his mind. Maybe he could sneak out for a bit.
Seevan smacked the hand she planted on the desk with the duty log like he was trying to crush the spider on the back of it. Priveda yelped and retracted it, throwing a vicious look at him in return. “There aren’t any. You two can slam some other night. We got work to do.”
“Work? What the fuck are you two even doing right now?” Priveda asked while rubbing the back of her hand. “Corporal,” she added begrudgingly.
Without looking, Seevan thrust a finger towards the open window. “Making sure this place doesn’t turn into that.”
Rand followed Seevan’s finger toward Falchion’s barracks. It was swarming with chaotic activity. A half-dozen Rifleman were gathered around their similarly positioned Duty-hut on the first floor, blocking any exit while the rest of them tore around the quad or gathered on the third floor balcony. What were they doing? Was that moron there about to jump off in a drunken stupor? Sure the fall wouldn’t kill you or injure you too badly on Mars but it would still hurt like hell.
Seevan whipped his head around as he noticed both Priveda and Rand transfixed by the sight behind him. They were lowering someone knotted up with paracord from the balcony head first while they hooped and hollered. He nearly cracked a smile, at least there were a few things about the Army that hadn’t changed.
“Fuck.” Rand blurt out.
“Hmm?” Seevan cocked his head back towards him.
“I think that’s Donphrit.”
All the amusement of being a spectator vanished in an instant. He was one of theirs, and in enemy hands. They finished their lowering while Donphrit squirmed, sending him slowly swaying back and forth while Rifleman on the second floor balcony threw empty cups or splashed beer on his face from below and jeered.
“Priveda, go rally the Company. Rand come with me,” Seevan said calmly.
“Check rodge, Corporal,” Priveda said while yanking her comm out of her pocket and darting out of the room to muster the troops for battle.
Seevan snatched up the log book and pocketed the duty comm and motioned for Rand to follow him while he made his way down the long paved path across the quad towards Falchion’s barracks, grumbling all the way. Rand glanced behind them, doors all across Cutlass’s barracks were opening as Priveda pounded on doors and gave a shrieking “Stand-to!” A trickle of people quickly gave way to a flood as Cutlass in various states of undress and intoxication formed a mob behind them.
Things became a little clearer as they moved closer, Cpl. Nitter and his A-Duty were trapped inside the duty hut. The window had been sealed from the outside with a rod in the sliding frame. Several Rifleman were just finishing propping several heavy pieces of furniture from the lounge in front of the door while Nitter screamed his lungs out and hammered on the door. He had never been well liked or even begrudgingly respected in the way Seevan was. A reputation for slacking and shirking had that capability.
“Help!”
Rand glanced upwards towards the upper balcony where Donphrit swung limply, resigned to his fate. His lack of further reaction had drawn most of the attention to their other prisoner, who was screaming his head off while the mob slapped him around and drew on his face with inksticks.
“We’re gonna get you Shielbek, just hold on!” Rand called out.
“Like fuck you are. Get off our turf Cutlass!” Someone screamed from the balcony and was met with a chorus of agreeing cheers.
Seevan just sighed, took his cover off and ran his fingers through his red brown hair and then stepped forward. “We’re here to par-lay! Hand our boots back over. Senior LeStraum is gonna come crawling around here any fucking minute now so just cut this bullshit and we’ll be on our way.”
“These little cretins were trespassing!” Someone called out while hucking a paper cup at him.
Übereem pushed his way through the crowd and stalked up to Seevan. Rand felt himself shrink slightly as he loomed over the two of them. “Or what?”
“Or we’ll take them back by storm!” Balachenko shouted from the crowd. There was a chorus of agreeing cheers from around him.
Rand glanced into Falcion’s duty-hut window again. Nitter was doing the only reasonable thing he’d seen all night. He had the duty comm out and was calling for help. Someone was going to need it the way Balachenko was writing a check with his mouth that the rest of the Company would have to catch.
Seevan held up his hand to silence Balachenko who continued adding to his brash challenge. “Last chance, just let ‘em go and we’ll deal with ‘em our way. We just turn and walk outta here, no hard feelings or wounded pride.” Seevan said. Rand was impressed, he had come to blows with some of his own peers over less and hardly reacted to Overeem’s lack of custom.
Overeem sneered while leaning forward, extending his arms to the side practically begging to be struck. “Why would we do that? We aren’t gonna part with our prizes out of courtesy, sure as shit aint gonna give ‘em to a crotchy drunk past his prime.”
Seevan just smiled while the duty log slipped out of his hand. Donphrit snorted in amusement, the man infront of him wasn’t what he used to be.
Seevan held up his hand at his own carelessness, pausing their confrontation for a moment. Still smiling away, he squatted down and picked it up with his right and then launched a brutal shovel hook with his left as he sprung upwards. Seevan’s fist landed flush and hard onto the middle of Overeem’s right side with an audible and hard smack.
There was a moment of silence. The goliath stood fast for a half-second then crumbled to the ground with an airless groan as the pain of having his liver pulverized finally hit.
With a primal and chaotic battlecry the two companies rushed forward and clashed in the grass field in front of Falchion’s barracks.
Rand had hardly a moment to think before a thin and wiry looking boot was lunging at him with his arm cocked back for a telegraphed punch. Rand leaned back and threw a front kick that landed on his attacker's chest and sent the twig flying. Before he even had a moment to admire his handiwork another had jumped on him from behind, slapping their arms over his shoulders and clawing at his face attempting a chokehold. He grabbed at one of their wrists, cutting through the chaos for a split second to note their nails were painted a beautiful dark red, then leaned forward and threw them off his back, sending them to the ground with a thud.
Someone sprinted out of the corner of his eye and penalty kicked the woman who had just tried to choke him in the head as she scraped herself off the ground. Her head snapped up and she collapsed limply to the ground. Priveda flashed a satisfied grin at the result of her footwork and then at him then added another solid kick to her unconscious body for good measure before looking for her next opponent.
Rand jerked his head around to gain his bearings, it was total chaos. Seevan had some other Corporal still in full dress whites and wearing fake glasses trapped in a bulldog choke. He was stuffed under one arm while Seevan used his other to hammer away with punches while he weakly tried to defend. Yuel was down on the ground and mounted getting his face smashed with elbows by one of Falchion’s super-seniors. Svertson was circling with two of Falchion’s boots, both about his size exchanging punches and kicks at range and mostly holding his own. A short and squat Corporal from Falchion armed with a collapsible mop as an improvised baton unleashed a viscous strike at the already barely standing Gorshkov. Purely on reflex, Gorshkov blocked the strike with his forearms with a sickening crack as the mop shattered. Apparently not drunk enough not to feel pain, he collapsed to the ground gripping at his arm and swearing. With his opponent hors de combat short and stocky dropped the mop only to be mobbed by a trio of vengeful Cutlass boots.
Balachenko was rolling and tussling on the ground with a pair of girls, one crushing his head in a scissor choke while simultaneously twisting a shoulder lock, the other laced around his leg in a knee bar. Volk came to his aid. A grazing punch had already torn the fragile scar tissue open near her eye covering her face in blood like a crimson deathmask. She stomped over, yanking the one cranking on his arm away by her hair, then smashing her face with hammer fists until she went limp, and then a little after. Volk then left him to deal with the one on one odds and tore off looking for another opponent. Tybalt was trapped in a thai clinch and getting his midsection pulverized with knees while Milano scrambled and rolled around with a stocky boot in the grass.
He needed to get out of the middle of the melee quickly. He rushed to the barracks outer stairwell and passed Cpl. Verac who was flattened against the wall, trying to peel one of Falchion’s Rifleman off a deep single-leg while simultaneously eating punches from another. Rand elbowed the striker in the ear as he passed at a full sprint, giving Verac a moment to finally shove off the other while he continued up the staircase. Rand continued rushing past him, up the staircase to the third floor, surprised to find his progress unopposed until he reached the third floor catwalk.
There, two of Falchion’s boots, one male and the other female, were guarding Shielbek while standing on either side of him facing opposite directions. The girl was faced towards him and instantly locked eyes, she was small and pale with her jet black bob tucked behind her ears and pinned in place, she almost reminded him of Sergeant Weiss. She rushed towards him while cocking back her arm. Rand ducked under the haymaker, sliding to one knee while jamming his shoulder into her midsection and linking his arms around her legs. He followed the motion through, pushing back up onto both feet and lifting her off the ground on his shoulder while she hammered his back with ineffectual but still unpleasant blows.
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“I’m sorry!” he shouted while turning towards the balcony. She shrieked, knowing full well what was coming and grabbed at his shirt but was unable to find purchase as he tossed her over the edge. Down on the ground, the pair of Riflemen hammering Corporal Muchen paused, and looked upwards just in time to see the screeching girl crash down onto them, and then onto Muchen.
The yelling alerted the other guard, already half-dressed in civies, spun around and sprinted at Rand from his post at the opposite stairwell. He looked much bigger than the girl was and Rand grit his teeth. Shielbek apparently still had his wits about him, and thrust out one of his legs as the other boot ran past him, tripping him and sending him to the ground. Rand didn’t need another opportunity and dove on top of him, yanking his hoodie around his neck as an improvised garrot while he pinned his shoulders to the ground. The boot clawed at his arms with his fingernails, leaving painful scratches but quickly went limp as his brain was starved. It was much nicer to be choked into unconsciousness rather than clobbered.
Rand dumped him on the ground and then unfastened his belt and dropped his pants, hoping that would strip him up if he came-to unexpectedly and then left him to investigate his own charge’s predicament. Leaning over the railing he had to take a moment to collect himself, Shielbek had ‘COCKL-ASS’ written in black inkstick across his forehead and it was hard not to laugh. His head had been greased and then shoved through the bars of the balcony’s railing, the same railing the hogtied Donphrit was hanging from by a single strand of paracord.
“Who is it?!” Shielbek blurt out while struggling to turn his head to look up at him.
“Just me Shielbek, hold tight I’m gonna do my best to get you out of here,” Rand said.
“Mars, I’m glad it’s you, Rifleman. I thought Uberreem might be fixing to kick my ass again. I think my right hand is broken.” Shielbek grunted while trying and failing to make a fist with the swelling hand.
“We’ll go head first, just get ready to yank. I know it’s gonna hurt, but we ain’t got much time.” Rand instructed while he sat down, propping one foot on the bars and grabbing the other other with both hands. Pulling with all his might he spread the steel a centimeter or so wider. Sheilbek yanked his head back grimacing in agony as the bars pushed into his already swelling and beat red ears.
Shielbekstruggled then lurched forward, unable to tolerate the pain. “Rifleman, I can’t do it, I’m sorry.”
Rand broke his flex, gasping for air. “You have to try or you’re not getting out of here. One more time, everything you’ve got!”
Shielbek grimaced and then nodded.
“Alright on three!” Rand said.
“One.”
Rand rebraced himself.
“Two.”
Shielbek mashed his eyes closed and gripped at the bars his hands were laced to.
“Three!”
“Provos! Provos!” Someone screamed from down below while oncoming sirens wailed.
Lieutenant Nix placed his hand on his duty pistol as he surveyed the bedlam.
“Relax sir,” Senior LeStraum snorted while eying his hand. “Let the Marshals handle this; we’ll pick up afterwards.”
Four Lynx’s marked with Marshal flashes screeched to a stop on the street while the brawlers scattered to the four winds. A dozen Marshals with gray military police brossards wearing riot control kit jumped out brandishing night sticks and stun pistols. A pop followed by agonized scream cut the air as a stun pistol landed on its mark and set to shocking. Another pair of Marshals, apparently in no hurry, calmly stepped out of the lead vehicle and approached.
Nix flicked his eyes to their badge of office as they approached. Their gorgets, pinned below their necks onto their kit, were emblazoned with a stamped relief of the peakless ‘Billion-Shil-Hill’ and ‘Fortune Hill Military Reservation Provost Marshal’s Office’. They were Provo’s and answered to no one but the whole Reservation’s Commanding General and The Regent himself. If they had been from One Rifle’s Marshal Company, they might have been more understanding, but they were Provo’s. They were here to break heads and nothing more.
“I see the O-Street Hooligans are at it again, Senior.” The lead Marshal said while throwing him a perfunctory salute. Nix glanced at the rank and name on his killpatch: Sergeant Forger.
“You all took your sweet time in getting here,” LeStraum said. “Any longer and the Regent might’ve seen this chaos while he left the Officer’s Mess”.
Forger smiled. “We came as quick as we could, Senior. We’ll have the troublemakers in lock-up here shortly.”
Glancing back to the quad it was evident they were making quick work, but had completely given up on trying to pursue anyone who was still able to move. Instead, clubbing those were still ambulatory and cuffing anyone who wasn’t. While it was true the average Marshal was no more an able fighter than the average Rifleman, they knew they had the law on their side and back up not more than a few minutes away. Assaulting a Marshal was a quick way to turn a fifteen day restriction for disorderly conduct into a stint in the military reservation’s penal battalion for a few months of hard labor on top of losing all your rank.
“Freeze!”
Rand shot up his hands.
“Relax, it’s the fucking barracks duty,” another voice chided. Rand twisted his head over his shoulder. One Marshal had his stun pistol leveled at him and the other, evidently more senior because his pistol, quill, and chain corps insignia was gold with a single star, waved at him impatiently to holster it.
“What seems to be the problem?” the senior Marshals asked. Rand relaxed and stood up, glancing at the name tape affixed to his vest, Feltkamp. Help had finally arrived.
Rand motioned to Sheilbek who still had his head stuck between the bars. “This guy here got caught by another Company, they were trying to make an example out of him, trespassing or some other stupid shit.”
The junior leaned over the balcony to get a better look at Donphrit hanging below. “What about this one?”
“Uh, same thing.” Rand said.
“Hmm, well, easy problem to fix.” He replied while pulling a folding knife out of his cargo pocket and slashing at the cord, sending Donphrit crashing to the ground a floor below.
“This one though, how’d they even get him in here?” Feltkamp asked while craning his head around either side to inspect Shielbek’s predicament.
“They just shoved my head through you fucking moron!” Sheilbek shouted impatiently.
The junior Marshal, Junker, grabbed at his nightstick, clearly itching to give someone a thrashing. “Be polite monkey or we’ll leave you up here until morning”
Feltkamp stayed his hand while inspecting the situation.“Fucking Rifleman sure know how to get into a pickle dontcha?” He chucked.
Rand gestured to the kneeling Kick “I tried spreading the bars by hand but I can’t quite get it far enough to pull him back through,”
Feltkamp keyed his comm. “Dispatch, 1-3 Delta, send Crash-Fire-Rescue over to the O Street barracks, building five-thirty-three, we got a boot here with his head stuck through some bars in a metal railing.”
The transmission was followed by some muted squawking into his earpiece. Junker then set about flexcuffing the Falchion Rifleman Rand had choked unconscious and was only now regaining his bearings.
Feltkamp continued inspecting Kick’s situation, chuckling to himself and taking a moment to draw his comm out his pocket and snap a pict. Whether it was to share and laugh at, or for evidence’s sake was anyone’s guess. Feltkamp returned the comm to his pocket and turned to Rand while withdrawing an inknote and activating to recording device affixed to his kit.
“Mind giving us a quick rundown on what went down here?”
The scene before him reminded him more of the aftermath of a battle than a typical evening at the barracks. Seevan watched as Marshal’s collected their detainees in neat rows, seating them all cross-legged on the curb facing the complex’s tiny parking lot, evidently awaiting transportation down to their station for processing. Most of them would likely be released in the morning. The instigators would be held until the weekend was over when their leadership would collect them and initiate disciplinary action through the normal chain of command.
The task that remained now was covering his own ass, to the best of his abilities at least. The Marshal’s had already pulled Rand aside to give a statement and Senior LeStraum had given her’s. Seeing that things were quieting down, the Companies were slowly trickling back into the barracks, having successfully avoided getting caught in the initial storm, now was the time to creep back out of your room and gawk from the cat-walks as clean up occurred. Priveda and Volk were both being looked after by Corporal Shimpachi, along with most of the other wounded. As soon as the fighting had ended she’d stripped off her dress jacket and donned gloves and broken out her trauma kit. Both of Volk’s eyebrows were torn at the corner and bleeding profusely. A punch had forced Priveda’s left incisor through her lip and torn it completely. Both the injuries were minor and quickly handled with some carefully applied wound glue. Balachenko was clutching at his knee, Gorshkov at his arm, and Shielbek at his hand they’d all need more advanced aid to the hospital, an ambulance would shuttle them away before long.
The rest of Weapons Squad was hanging behind Rand a dozen steps or so, curious to learn what he knew as soon as he had finished his interview. Volk was now giving some stern instruction to what was left of 2nd Squad after all of Bravo Section had been caught and cuffed. She knew the game well enough to come off as the pissed-off but uninvolved NCO who’d caught a stray blow rather than an active participant when provos were around and was hiding her red and bloody knuckles in her armpits. Standard Rifleman procedure: admit nothing, deny everything, and make counter accusations when questioned. White Army justice operated on a different standard of proof than its Republican counterpart, a ‘preponderance of evidence’ rather than ‘beyond a reasonable doubt’. Under those conditions a code of silence only made sense.
A crowd of Firemen from CFR had formed around Kick, wedging the Jaws of Life above his head to spread the bars while they mocked him for getting stuck in the first place.
“Well, that’s all I think I need, Senior. You, come over here.” The Marshal Sergeant announced while waving him over.
Seevan complied, rubbing at a new and rapidly developing shiner above his left eye as he walked over. Sergeant Forger spent a moment flicking over to the next page in his inknote.
“Now, before we get started, this is just a formality.” He said nonchalantly while turning on the cam attached to his kit and holding out a bond scanner. “Could you please state your name, rank, and bond number for the record please.”
Typical scumbag Martial behavior. They never had to deal with the stress of knowing battletrak was recording your every decision and mistake, both in training and combat. They turned theirs on and off at their convenience, usually back on after they were done thrashing you. He swiped his wrist under the device, “Seevan, Sean Weaver, Rifleman Corporal, ATR-150664057.”
The Marshal tucked the chip reader back into his belt and retrieved another device. “And can you blow into this please.”
His heart sank.
They were dismissed, but a lingering feeling hung over the mess that to leave before the Regent would simply be improper. So they lingered around now cleared tables while his functionaries and those considering themselves worthy of an attempt to curry favor buzzed around him. He seemed eager to indulge them, not so much the requests, of which there were few, but the idea that his officers were worthy of his attention and affection. The Ensigns and Field Grades both basked in his presence. The Ensigns hadn’t lost their idealism, they were still fully indoctrinated, and the Field Grades were fully bought into his programme. They were all in effect, middle managers of the hierarchy he created, and fully invested in maintaining and furthering it.
After The Regent had made his very polite exit from her table Lucy went straight to the bar, both to ease the pain by standing and to combat the oncoming wave of sobriety. There was nothing worse than being in the mess while sober. Dalia accompanied her, snagging another round of drinks and then heading outside on the patio, where a few other groups had already gone to enjoy the mild weather and smoke.
She sipped at the free drink, lime, sparkling water and tequila. She wasn’t the biggest fan but it was Dalia’s preference. Everyone she knew who had been to Yukatan had developed some kind of infatuation with it. It wasn’t clear to her why. There was nothing special about agave, other than it didn’t like to grow on Mars. Lucy downed most of it in one go while Dalia snatched a cigarillo out a thin wooden box on one of the tables, taking care to peel off the label and discard it. She always seemed to be eager to take advantage of everything the mess offered, after all she was paying for the privilege.
“You seem wound up.” Dalia said, nipping off the tip with her teeth.
“I’m in agony.” Lucy grumbled, while fishing around in her pocket. She produced a few tablets in a tiny ziplock, tossing half of them back, quickly chewing and chasing the chalky taste down with more tequila.
Dalia continued eying her while servicing the cigarillo with a table lighter.
“What? You want one?” Lucy offered her the package and she took it out of her hand and held it up to the light, inspecting the label carefully before handing it back to her.
“No thanks, these’d put me on my ass.”
“They hardly do shit; I keep telling them I have a liver implant, it’s on my medical record but it’s like the wires just don’t connect.”
“Persistence is the best method for this sort of thing. Keep coming back and they’ll eventually do the right thing, you know after all other options are exhausted.”
Lucy relaxed slightly and leaned onto the patio railing as the shocking sensation finally ebbed.
“What did the Regent want to talk to you about?”
Lucy rolled her eyes, setting her drink down on the thin railing to gesture even more flippantly than normal. “He needed to know if I was a true believer or not. He’s indulging himself, never really had any interest until I got older.”
“I think it’s more likely you remind him of his friend.” Dalia said, subtly smiling.
Despite Lucy’s innate tolerance, the chemical cocktail was beginning to have an obvious effect as her inhibitions lowered “I’m not sure which I prefer hating, being his surrogate comrade or surrogate daughter.”
“Well, you’re patrolling on your own there.” Dalia puffed on the cigarillo idly for a moment, admiring the cherry glow faintly increase with each inhale. “I only ever saw His Imperial Majesty a few times. He was like our god; his mortal servants weren’t worthy of his attention.”
“Some god.” Lucy huffed. Dalia just continued puffing indifferently; lese majesty hardly bothered her anymore.
They shared a quiet moment, staring through the miniature dome encapsulating Camp Rashkigi into the faintly star speckled blackness. She couldn’t remember enough astronomy to name any extrasolar bodies. It had fallen into the category of useless information that was easily forgotten for a lack of relevance. Earth was still there though, a single pale blue dot, twinkling and shifting slightly due to atmospheric disturbance and autokinesis. She couldn’t help but think of that anglish word, disaster - bad star. There was nothing more apt, it was a corpse kept in a permanent state of half-death by the very technology created to make Mars habitable but, they could never agree enough to turn back the clock, so it was frozen in unending catastrophe. Given enough time, anything becomes normal. She knew that well enough.
Dalia tapped her ash into a tray then twisted at the ring on her finger; the motion plucked at a loose thread in Lucy’s mind. “Why get married? Like, don’t take that the wrong way, it’s your life Dalia, but I mean, it’s not like you two are getting anything out of it.”
Dalia smiled. “It’s just a pure, honest, commitment. Like you said, it’s not like there’s some kind of economic incentive. We both make enough to live comfortably on our own, have access to the same benefits and services-”
“Then why?” Lucy prodded.
“Well, I think I want to have a kid eventually.” Dalia announced wistfully. “It’s a lot easier to get one if you’re married.”
Lucy’s eyebrows shot up. “You don’t mean, like, pregnant, the whole nine K’s do you?”
Dalia made a sour face, “no that's, ugh- disgusting and primitive. I’m not doing that to my body. Devcenter or admixture most definitely.”
Lucy relaxed slightly. “For a second I thought you’d gone crazier than normal.”
“Nothing like that. I just, when I was in command sometimes my Platoon Sergeant would drop his daughter off at the office and I’d look after her while he was down at the motor pool. Never really interacted with kids much before that. She’s really cute and so well behaved; it lit a spark I think. Maybe it’s something biological, but I want that. To make something, y’know? I think Mark does too. Haven’t you ever thought about it?”
Lucy pulled a second Ranchwater over to herself. “There’s two Petrova’s running around already. That’s more than enough.”
As she pulled the glass to her lips someone jostled into her. Despite the rapidly peaking intoxication, she still had enough wherewithal to jerk the glass away from her face and narrowly avoided tossing ranch water all over her jacket, instead sending it mostly onto the ground. The person who’d bumped into her hardly seemed to notice. Without really even giving it more than a split second’s thought she reached out and snatched them by the shoulder, hooking her hand around their epaulet.
Dalia’s eye’s flashed to Lucy’s other hand which had already balled into a fist. In order to prevent her from doing something she’d probably regret later, Dalia latched onto her wrist preventing her from cocking her arm back fully while Lucy spun the figure around.
Recognition washed over Lucy’s face and she relaxed. Now that the moment had passed, Dalia released her grip.
Wilczec was sloppy drunk and completely unaware how close he’d come to being hit with the mordhau of sucker punches. “Oh shit, sorry ma’am I didn’t realize that was you.”
“Watch where you’re going, Kris. You spilled my drink.” Lucy glowered
Nahl appeared from behind him, apologizing so profusely it took all of the thrill out of being mad and then escorted him away to join the other Ensigns after replacing her drink.
Lucy relaxed backward onto the railing and swirled the remaining ice in her glass in the most impatient way possible while Nahl fetched her a replacement.
Dalia breathed an inaudible sigh of relief. She always pretended like the drink and various other intoxicants did absolutely nothing, and while they seemed to do less than normal, the shift in her behavior was always obvious.
“I was never that stupid, right?” Lucy asked after Nahl made her exit to chase after Wilczec who wandered off and bumbled his way into another group of Officers.
“No, but I probably wouldn’t’ve been able to stop you back then.”
“Hmm?”
“When we were in the Academy you’d’ve just cracked him in the back of the head.” Dalia chuckled.
Lucy let herself smile. “I was a bit of a problem wasn’t I?”
Sam kept trying to extricate himself but his people kept pulling him back towards the bar. It was mostly congratulations on being slotted for command, with a few back-handed compliments about how jealous Lucy must be but he tried not to let it bother him. There were other things at the front of his mind now. It was more than welcome when Fritz appeared and invited him and Mark over to his table to catch up.
“How you been man?” Fritz was easy; the most stressful part of any Officer’s career was nearly over for him and he had succeeded by every measure.
“He’s just torn up because y’all are leaving without him,” Mark announced. Sam tried to brush it off with one of his trademark smiles, but there was something a bit too real in his eyes for the masquerade of Mess.
Fritz picked up on it instantly, “If it makes you feel any better I’m not long for One Rifles either.”
“They cut you orders to a broadening assignment now that you’re command complete?” Sam asked.
“Not exactly, I snapped up a hot-fill slot at MISAM-Y. We’re booked to head out before the Reg even hits Sunshine Acre.” Eckartt explained.
“I saw that tasker, though there wasn’t much fidelity when it came across my desk.”
“Eh, I wouldn’t worry about it. There ‘ll be other chances to deploy, besides Liaison’s a nice gig. You’ve gotta be happy, right?”
Sam leaned back in his chair and threw on a surprisingly convincing facade. “Why shouldn’t I? It is pretty much exactly what I wanted on top of a guaranteed booze-cruise through the belt.”
“Dude, you could at least try not to sound bitter. Look, my wife is leaving and you don’t see me ate the fuck up about it.” Mark jabbed.
Sam side-eyed Mark while the pieces finally snapped into place for Fritz. “Lucy’s tough and smart as they come, she’ll be fine.”
Sam flipped his sidelong glance back to Fritz. “You and I both know that it doesn’t work like that.”
Eckartt leaned forward onto the table, easily shifting from friend to senior. “I do, but she doesn’t play by the normal law-of-averages in my experience. Sometimes The Regent asks us to make sacrifices. I went like eighteen months without seeing my partner between us both being in command and deployment schedules just not lining up. It happens, but she’ll stick around. I got her pegged pretty well.”
A familiar unease twisted in his gut as Sam swirled what little was left in his glass around. “It’s not even really not seeing her. It just doesn’t feel right not to share the same risks, to go bar crawl on Hektor or Libertalia station while she’s slugging it out on the blue wet one.”
Eckartt smiled almost as if he had been waiting for this moment and pulled out his comm, quickly forwarding a contact to Sam. “If that’s really how you feel about it, I think they can find a slot for you at MISAM. Colonel Schuster’s the guy you wanna talk to, it’s all Officers and Senior NCO’s over there, but we still need subject matter experts in Fires.”
Sam took a moment to look the forwarded contact over. “Fritz, she’s gonna hate it if I put my career on hold for this.”
“Can’t have it all, Sam. Like I said, sacrifices. Do what you think is best.”
Sam shoved his comm back in his pocket. “You’re right. I should probably get her out of here before she knocks anyone out, still seems pretty miffed about the Stewart situation.”
Fritz chuckled again. “I’m not exactly thrilled about it either, but I really doubt Maddie will be sitting in my old chair for long. The universe has ways of resolving these problems.”
Dygalo barreled off the tram, but it was clear he had missed the action. LeStraum had most of the Battalion in formation on the quad and was reading off quite the riot act; Seevan was in cuffs being shoved into the back of one of the Marshal’s vehicles; and Cpl. Shimpachi physically held Volk back to prevent her from joining him by assaulting one of the Marshals. And Rand, Rand was just standing holding Cpl. Seevan’s Duty belt and brossard in his hands looking bewildered.
“What the fuck is going on.” Dygalo probed.
Rand extended the belt and brossard to him. “Senior LeStraum said I’m supposed to give this to the first Sergeant that comes by.”
Dygalo hardly reacted, only breathing out a hushed “fuck me” while he took the belt and brossard. The clown show must go on.
“How many we lose?”
“Uh, I think there’s around twenty five headed for the drunk tank, six who need to go to the hospital and they just hemmed up Seevan for drunk-on-duty.” Rand relayed.
“And did we win?”
“Well, we got Shielbek and Donphrit back I guess.” Rand responded. Dygalo grumbled and rolled his head around on his shoulders while he continued to survey the chaos. Rand couldn’t but help but notice how flush his face was, the way he was steadily shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
“Sarn’t.”
“What now Rand.” Dygalo sighed while making his way into the duty hut.
“Sarn’t are you drunk right now?”
Dygalo gave him a baleful glare and shoo’d him inside with a harsh whisper. “Lower your fucking voice”.