---Oskar’s perspective---
---Friday, 29th of May, 2685 Terran Calendar---
---Eastern Pangaea, New Australia---
f♫ You go down just like Holy Mary
Mary on a, Mary on a cross
Your beauty never ever scared me
Mary on a, Mary on a croooss
If you choose to run away with me, I will tickle you internally
And I see nooothing wrooong with thaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat
Mary on a… Mary on a cross
Nooothing wrooooong with thaaaat
Mary on a… Mary on a cross
Nothing wrooooong with thaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat
Mary on a, Mary on a cross♫f
The rest of us stop singing to let Ortega finish the song on his own.
mp♫ Mary on a… Mary on a crooooooss…♫mp
When the last notes of his guitar fade, all present burst into cheers and claps.
It’s been more than half a year since we’ve been able to relax like this…
Not so relaxing is the reason we’re able to camp on open ground, with most present being out of their armour, and sing songs with instruments, right now…
My head tilts back on the rock that my wife and I rest against.
The night sky would be breathtaking in its beauty… if it weren’t so distressing in it’s implications…
I watch a ship, large and close enough to be recognisably Terran, as it’s gun batteries light up, working their way from one end of its broadside to the other, each one firing around a ⅓ of a second after the previous, in a fierce barrage!
The alien ship it’s engaged with isn’t obliterated, but looks crippled badly enough that I wouldn’t guess that it will survive the battle.
The entire sky is adorned with the flashing of cannonade and the rainbow shimmer of our enemies’ shields, as they try and fail to withstand the bombardment we’re subjecting them to.
Hopefully, we will manage to take back orbital supremacy…
The battle is like a fireworks display… except completely silent!
Perhaps it’s more like an aurora?... No, they make noise too, don’t they?
The naval battle going on overhead means that we have nothing to fear from orbital bombardment… and scouts report the xeno army in the area left, days ago, headed in the direction of the ruined capital.
One of the main strategies our enemy tends to rely on is strength in numbers, which makes it relatively easy to remain aware of whether there are any in a given area and when they’re moving, since their units typically total in the tens of thousands…
“So… what’s next? Any requests?” smiles Ortega, speaking loud enough to be heard across the brushfire we’re gathered around.
“Weeeeell…” smirks Esme, wryly “If Campbell and Fraser wanted to join in with their pipes…?”
“No…” vetoes Burrows, flatly “…I told you the last time you suggested it, and the time before that! Scots Wha Hae is a song that I would happily allow myself to be martyred to, but singing it at any other time is tempting fate!… Denied!!!”
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“N’ah… you’re no fun, Captain… I think you just don’t like bagpipes(!)”
“I promise you, if we’re ever facing down what looks like a hopeless situation and we have time for one last tune, Scots Wha Hae can be that song!” smirks the Captain.
“Like that’s ever gonna happen!… ‘Excuse me, Mr Evil Xeno… would you mind awfully holding off on murdering us all while we just had a little singsong?’(!)” mocks Esme in her impression of Burrows’ very posh speech register.
“If it does, the song selection is yours(!)…” smiles Burrows “…for now though, what about a little Poor Man’s Poison? Hell’s Comin’ with Me?”
A chorus of objection answers with the general sentiment expressed being that that song is too dark for the current mood.
Over the next few moments, the discussion breaks down into a dull murmur, as everyone tries to make their own suggestions.
Eventually, Ortega smiles and raises his hand and his voice to say “Guys! Guys!… I’ve got one…!” silencing the gemot.
He brings his right hand to his strings and begins to rapidly strum out chords.
His hand passes over the wires three times before I (along with apparently everyone else) recognise the tune he’s playing and smiles break over all of our faces.
Definitely the right selection!
He opens his mouth to start singing.
f♫ Where have all the good men gone and where are all the gods?
Wheeere’s the streetwise Heeercules, to fight the rising odds?
Isn’t there a white kniiight, upooon a fiery steed?
Late at night, I toss and I turn and I dream of what I need!♫f
His fist is raised into the air for a fraction of a second, signalling the rest of us to join in, hard!
fff♫ I need a HERO! *CLAP*
I’m holding out for a hero to the end of the night
He’s gotta be strong
And he’s gotta be fast
And he’s gotta be fresh from the FIGHT! *CLAP*♫fff
---Esme’s perspective---
---Saturday, 30th of May, 2685 Terran Calendar---
I lie beside Oskar, my head on top of his shoulder, in our tiny tent.
My holo beeps, letting me know its our watch.
I slap my husband’s washboard stomach and say “Come on you big lug…(!) Time to get up!”
He groans as he rises from our sleeping mat.
We make our way to the supply tent, through the chilly desert night air, to check out our rifles, open faced helmets and air horns.
Mercifully, we aren’t required to take watch in our armour, right now, given how unlikely we are to be attacked with no enemy army in the area.
I’m so used to the extra inertia my body has, when buried in that bulky metal, that getting to stand watch with only a gun and fatigues and sentry helmet on my body makes me feel positively feather light!
We make our way to the edge of camp and quickly manage to find Wainwright and Kapoor, where they're making their patrol along the inside of the earthen embankment that we spent a few hours, yesterday, building up with shovels and jamming stakes into the outside of.
We relieve the SinoEnglishwoman and the IndoEnglishman and they gratefully start walking back to their respective tents.
We resume their patrol in silence for a few minutes.
Eventually, my husband comments “Great party last night.”
“Mmmh…” I agree, distractedly.
“It’s good that LtCol Wallace allows space on the mules for musical instruments.” he adds.
“Mmm-hmmm…”
I feel a strong hand on my shoulder as my husband turns me to look at him.
“What’s wrong…?”
---Oskar’s perspective---
I turn the beautiful girl toward me and try not to get too captivated by the way the starfield and naval battle, overhead, are reflected in her eyes, as she looks up at me.
“What’s wrong…?” I ask, concerned.
“Oh… nothing… I’m fine…”
“Esme… I’m autistic… not stupid!… Even I can tell that’s not true… Are you thinking about that boy again?”
She sighs “…Yeah… but not just him… It seems like every survivor we’ve met since we landed just has this scornful ‘Fuck took you so long!?’ attitude to us!!!”
“They’re people who’ve been living under a years long occupation by forces bent on their extermination… isn’t it a little understandable that they might be somewhat short on manners?”
She frowns and sways her head as she answers “Yeeeeah… I know that!… I wasn’t expecting them to throw us a parade(!)… I’m not saying I’d like them to ask us to keep our collective trousers unzipped for ease of blowjob access(!)… I’m just saying it would be nice if even one of them seemed happy to see us… rather than berating us for the forage and water we’re gonna be using up and stuff… Just makes me wonder what we’re even bloody doing here!”
“We’re liberating the planet… we’re fighting the War…” I shrug.
“They seemed to be surviving just fine without us… What’s the point in liberating the planet when, if we win the War, we can just demand the withdrawal of their forces and, if we lose… well…”
She trails off there.
“Esme, I get how you feel… but I’m sure the strategic value of committing us to this planet is something that will have been worked out long before we were ever sent here… It’s…”
Here, my speech is interrupted, as my wife’s body goes tense and her gun comes up, pointing over the rampart, followed, 0.5 seconds later, by mine.
I look into the bushes she’s pointing her gun at.
I see nothing.
Her right hand whips to her belt and blasts the (shockingly loud) airhorn alarm.
She screams “CONTACT SOUTH!!!”