9 - 3
CRACKDOWN
“Above all, men must be governed. The more extreme the situation, the more extreme measures are appropriate. In exercise of these controls, even with the most measured hand, some amount of injustice is inevitable; this is irrelevant insofar as it maintains discipline. The Army’s charge is to protect our freedom, not to exercise it.” - General Ibrham Kane, 13 MIC
The Battalion’s conference room had been rearranged as was typical of these proceedings. The long conference table had been pulled closer to the windows and the blinds were fully open, so that upon entering the room the accused had to look down its full length and directly into the setting sun to properly address the commander seated at the other end. On either side sat the five members of the Board of Inquiry and directly to her right, the subordinate commander of the defendant. Though in this case the seat was occupied by Capt. Stewarts holographic projection rather than her physical presence. In a few minutes time, they would shuffle slightly and Capt. Khultz would take that position while Falchion’s offenders were given their sentences. Off to her left at another small table the adjutant sat, dutifully recording the proceedings. Deliberations were quick, White Army justice was nothing if not efficient.
Lt. Col. Balalaika seemed at most, mildly annoyed that Rifleman Svertson was locked at a perfect attention and completely unphased. He had been through this song and dance before, and it clearly no longer intimidated him. Making a scene out of it was pointless, it would have little effect on his behavior. Baliaka motioned at Yarbrough “Adjutant, if you please.”
Yabrough cleared her throat and began reading. “Rifleman Erik J. Svertson you stand accused of Disorderly Conduct. You have been charged with this crime under Standing Order Number 31: ‘Governing the Discipline of the White Army of Thar-”
Balalaika hurried Yarbrough along with another hand motion and Yarbrough jumped down the page. “-after a through and expedient Board of Inquiry-”
“Further along if you please, Adjutant.” Balalaika ordered dryly.
“Yes, ma’am.” Yarbrough croaked automatically. The theatre of it had no effect on Svertson, so speed was now the prime factor, there was a long list of persons awaiting judgement. “You have, by unanimous ascentia, been found guilty. You are sentenced to fifteen days confinement to Barracks, six months of promotion restriction, and the forfeiture of one half month's pay.” Yarbrough wisely stopped reading after the relevant information.
“Do you wish to make a statement for the record Rifleman Svertson?” Balalaika inquired perfunctory.
Svertson’s teeth flashed in the setting sun for a moment as he smiled, tempted to destroy the entire rhythm of their evening by forcing them to listen and record an annoyingly lengthy speech in his defense. “No, ma’am.”
Balaika then waved him away. “Dismissed.”
“Check rodge, ma’am.” Svertson popped a sharp salute and right faced, stepping off to the furious cadence of the Sergeant at Arms who held the door open until he had barely exited it, slamming it behind him.
Yarbrough swiped to the next case on the docket. “Corporal Seevan, Sean Weaver. Charged with Conduct Unbecoming a Noncommissioned Officer, Assault, and Intoxication while in a Duty Status.”
Balalaika glanced at the clock on the wall. “Acentia?”
The four physical persons and one projection seated down the table from her all raised their right hands to confirm it was both legally and morally correct to convict him of these crimes.
Balalaika nodded and Yarbrough checked the box on his charge sheet. “Right, recommendations?”
Lucy adjusted herself in her chair. They had been sitting here for hours dolling out sentences and at this rate had another hour or two to go. Her leg was positively jolting with pain. The price of being an Officer, but she supposed now was time to cash in whatever capital she had saved up to now.
“Ma’am, Corporal Seevan was one of my Rifleman and he’s a good soldier and well decorated, his file shows that. Whatever you decide, I believe while he’s deserving of punishment, it would do his unit more harm than good to the unit to reduce him in rank. His Platoon and Company both are less than seventy percent manned on NCO’s.”
“Noted.” Balaliaka flicked her finger at Stewarts projection. “What say you, Cutlass 6?”
Stewart’s projection turned its gaze toward Lucy, smirking for a moment before returning to its normal professional mask. “I think you should crucify him.”
Balalaika's finger tapped at her lips. “Elaborate.”
“As I just took command ma’am, I believe it is appropriate to set an example for the standard I hold my NCO’s to. While manning is a relevant concern, I think it’s more important to uphold standards and discipline at a sensitive period of transition like this.”
Capt. Tiernabok leaned forward. “I concur ma’am. Furthermore, as recorded by various witness testimony and the Barracks Complex’s securitysystem, Corporal Seevan initiated the entire melee.”
“I concur as well.” Capt. Nivette added.
Lucy’s hands tightened into fists under the table. “As I recall, this only happened after Rifleman from Falchion had abducted and assaulted two junior Rifleman from my-” Lucy bit her tongue for a half second, “-from his company.”
Captain Khultz rapped his finger on the table. “A crime for which they will be appropriately punished for Lucy, it’s not their turn yet. Operational necessity has its place and I concede that you may have a point about manning, but we’re discussing Corporal Seevan’s case not Rifleman Overeem’s.”
“That may be so, but it’s a relevant mitigating factor. We are passing judgment on Soldiers, persons whose profession is war. Not miners or vagrants.” Lucy objected.
Tiernabok burst out of his seat. “Are you forgetting this Rifleman blew a point-oh-two while in a duty status?! He should receive the maximum penalty! They must be held to the highest of standards at all times!”
Lucy stood up to match him.
Balalaika raised her hand and they immediately silenced and returned to their seats. “That’s enough. Adjutant, forty-five days confinement to barracks, forty-five days forfeiture of half pay, reduction in one rank, six months of promotion restriction, and a no-drinking order to be lifted at the discretion of his Company Commander. If he is the Rifleman you say Lyssa, he’ll get the rank back.”
Balalaika motioned at the Sergeant manning the door while Lucy chewed on her tongue. Tiernabok seemed satisfied that Balalaika had snubbed her this time, though Stewart was clearly bothered that they hadn’t thrown the entire book at Seevan.
Cpl. Seevan marched into the room and reported. His bearing was admirable, considering they had effectively just taken two ranks from him on top of the ignominious demotion back to a regular enlisted Rifleman. He made all the appropriate responses, but Lucy could tell he wasn’t really there, nothing moved behind his eyes. It was as if they had ripped away the last thing that mattered to him. The verdict was read, he was dismissed, and Rifleman Seevan marched out without fanfare or protest.
Things had become stupid. Sergeant Major had taken this little ‘incident’ as evidence that the entire Battalion was lacking in discipline and every millimeter of slack vanished. Field Day had become a particular pain point. It was much closer to what Rand remembered enduring when he first arrived at the unit. 1st Sergeant held the formation and read off a roster by-name to make sure everyone was present and accounted for, NCOs of all grades were prowling the catwalks to make sure everyone was actually cleaning the barracks with appropriate vigor and minute attention to detail.
Rand and Balachenko passed the first round of room inspections, they knew how to clean the Army way and in particular which places SSgt. Karoff always checked. Their freezers were appropriately defrosted, every crack and crevice was free of dust, even insane places like the tops of drawers and inside vents had been cleaned, and all the reflective surfaces shone like the sun.
Despite passing, it wasn’t like they could go anywhere, they were restricted to the barracks until the entire Company was done. He wasn’t missing much anyways, he didn’t usually have extravagant plans on a Monday night and Priveda was already in the field with the rest of the Company’s Lioness crews shooting Gunnery.
At this rate, the only place any of them would be going was work tomorrow, and the Filipovic Range Complex at the end of the week because none of the boots knew what they were doing and couldn’t pass a room inspection to save their lives. Kick and Shielbek were both trying their damndest, but it was futile. The point was not for them to have clean rooms, the point was for them to suffer.
That became blatantly obvious when Sgt. Dygalo and Kreiger had torn through Kick’s room and drug his fridge away from the wall to point out that ‘he hadn’t cleaned under there’, and that ‘they would be back in an hour when he’d developed some attention to detail’.
An hour came and went, and so did every piece of furniture he owned. The two boots spent something like a quarter of their allotted time dragging them all out on the catwalk to clean the floor and walls properly.
Seevan, Svertson, Cpl. Verac and all of the other unluckies on EPD and Restriction were police-calling the grass, and picking up any tiny pieces of trash they found, following the ancient mantra of 'if it doesn’t grow, it goes’. Senior LeStraum was supervising them; they couldn’t get more than five meters without her starting them over because she supposedly found something they missed. Rand was utterly convinced she kept some trash in her cargo pocket to throw out as forged evidence of their incompetence, though he had never caught her in the act.
Perhaps the only metaphysical mercy to be had in this situation was their suffering was not unique, the entire Battalion was playing these stupid games, even Headquarters, Weapons Co., and Rapier, all entirely uninvolved in the incident had not escaped.
Rand just kept scrubbing at an oil spot on the catwalk while Balachenko swept the same section over and over again. Looking busy was more important than being busy.
“Y’know-” Balachenko started.
“What?” Rand kept scrubbing indifferently. Whether or not he engaged him, Balachenko would flap his gums; at least it might pass the time.
“Never thought I’d say this, but I think I miss the Princess.”
Rand stopped scrubbing.
“What, why’re you looking at me like that? Just because you were her little aide-de-camp doesn’t mean the rest of us can’t have an opinion. Trickie Nik is just, uh- he’s kinda a pussy.”
“What makes you say that? You hardly see the guy.”
“‘S exactly what I mean,” Balachenko shrugged. “Princess was always out with us, makin’ her presence known. I hardly know where this guy is half the time.”
“Cringe Officer shit: Slide decks, memos, spreadsheets, meetings. Capt. Petrova just made it a point to show face on top of all that,” Rand replied.
“Got me there, but I dunno man. Remember last week when we were at the MG range about to bed down and he wouldn’t stop yammering about how much better and warmer it would be if we slept under the admin dome instead of in S-Tents?”
“Yeah, and Senior told him off.” Rand said.
“The Princess wouldn’t’ve taken that shit in front of us,” Balachenko suggested.
Rand waved him off. “It wouldn’t have happened in the first place because she would’ve wanted us to dig foxholes and pull 25% guard all night.”
“Got me there,” Balachenko admitted with another shrug. “I don’t miss her blowin’ up every other week either but, I dunno, El-Tee Nix ain’t inspiring a lot of confidence.”
“We’ll be fine as long as Senior’s lookin’ out for us. But, I miss her too I guess. Especially after Greendome when she chilled out.”
“Yeah, never really knew an Officer like that before. Hope she’s doin’ alright now.” Balachenko agreed.
Shielbek and Kick had barely got their furniture reemplaced when 1st Sgt. Stout made his presence known, stomping down the catwalk looking for a victim. Rand watched with morbid curiosity, peering through Shielbek’s open door as Stout barged in.
“Good evening First Sergeant!” Sheilbek belted out as Stout stomped his way into his room uninvited and immediately began inspecting every flat surface with his hands. Shielbek flattened himself against one wall at parade rest while Stout scanned over his room. The First Sergeant’s skilled eye locked on to the first discrepancy. He bent over and carefully lifted an unfastened padlock off of the handle of a drawer.
“Unsecure container, automatic fail,” Stout announced. Shielbek cringed as Stout ripped open the drawer and began rummaging around. “O-hoh-ho what is this.” Stout retrieved and presented a bundle of bills, it was petty cash, not more than a libra and a half, but easily over the amount forbidden in the barracks. Ostensibly it was to prevent thievery, but it really had more to do with gambling and loansharking, both strictly verboten. Stout dangled the cash infront of Sheilbek’s face.
“Is this a bribe for whoever finds these?” Stout hissed while opening his other hand, revealing three rounds of live 6.7 ammunition.
Sheilbek’s mouth gaped, obviously he had taken them from the range, carelessly thrown them in his pocket for whatever reason, and then just as carelessly tossed them in the drawer and forgotten about them. They could easily be the end of his exceedingly short career in The Rifles were regulation followed to the letter.
Stout closed his fist around the rounds and then socked Shielbek in the gut. “I’m keeping these Private, consider yourself lucky.”
Shielbek doubled, managing to groan out a “Check, rodge, First Sergeant” while clutching his stomach with his casted hand. Stout threw the stack of cash on the ground and exited to look for his next victim. It was a painful lesson, the pain would fade, but paperwork would’ve followed him his entire career. An unpleasant mercy.
“Red 2, ISR reports two PCs and one squad of troops in your sector. Bound, engage, and report.”
“Check, Red 2 bounding.” Volk was curt with the comm, reporting wasn’t nearly as important as keeping their eyes peeled for any of the targets. “Slow, it’s not a race.”
Priveda obliged, barely easing on the throttle and setting the Lioness on a brisk walking pace past the white stakes on either side of the dirt lane. Both of them scanned the grainy green and white horizon, the powerful optics turning night into day. The vehicle crewmen displays replacing the standard snoopers stitched together all of the Lioness’s external optics into a seamless three hundred and sixty degree view. A white box danced around their view representing ‘Buddy’s’ area of focus. It continued darting and flitting around, then suddenly compressed and locked into a blue crosshair on a silhouette slowly raising from behind a dirt berm to their 1 o’clock.
“Identified, PC, 1300,” buzzed in their ears as the label populated with more information ‘ENY - T23 AJAX - 1323M’. Volk mashed a switch on her handstation focusing the turret’s main optics onto the track and it ballooned in size. It was a typical mover, a rough approximation of an APC made of self healing polymer mounted on top of a very short and very heavily armored 4x4 robotic chassis that provided realistic movement and while being able to survive the occasional straw 30mm practice round. A transponder mounted inside ensured their Sitaware, and more importantly Buddy, would correctly identify it as a ‘real’ enemy vehicle.
“Buddy, Sabot, PC. Fire and adjust,” Volk barked.
“On the way.” Buddy buzzed in his infuriatingly neutral tone. The bassy and muffled thump of the vehicle’s 30mm cannon answered her command and a quartet of sabot’s zipped through the target as they continued crawling forward at the same steady clip.
“Target, cease fire.” She announced as the mover chugged to a stop, wafting a thin trail of smoke from an effects simulator. Volk was already scanning, rapidly tapping a different button with her thumb to flip through other potential targets. She stopped flipping as a line of man shaped plastic silhouettes tilted into an upright position what seemed frighteningly close in front of them.
“Buddy, next target! Troops, 300, coax!” she commanded again, but the turret and reticle stubbornly refused to move. “Buddy, my gun!” Volk growled while jerking her handstation. ‘CMDR CONTROL’ flashed on the bottom of their view as the turret slewed jerkily but precise down towards the target. Without even looking Priveda reached over and flicked a switch on the common control box stuffed between their knees and the weapon select indicator blinked from ‘AP’ to ‘COAX’. Volk steadied the joystick with her off hand, palming the top of it for better control.
“from my position, on the way!” She squeezed on the trigger and drew a lazy Z with tracers over the plastic troopers while the coax sounded its mechanical death rattle. A few tracers zipped through the targets and the entire line of silhouettes dropped back down. “Target, cease-fire.”
“Identified, PC, 1900.” Buddy buzzed again.
“Next target.” Volk commanded.
This time the turret snapped at maxim drive onto a smudge on the horizon in a split second which quickly transformed into a profile silhouette of a Boro IFV chugging from left to right as the optics blinked to maximum magnification. “Buddy-Sabot-PC; fireandadjust!” Volk blurt out as fast as the words would exit her mouth.
“On the way.” The weapon select switch automatically popped back to AP with a soft click. THUMP, THUMP, THUMP. A trio of tracers arced out from their cannon and then barely slipped through the target as it lazily disappeared back behind a berm. A trail of thin white smoke wafted from behind the crest confirming a hit. “Target, target, cease-fire.” Volk ordered while flipping the master-arm switch back to safe. “Tower, Red 2, engaged and destroyed two PCs and one squad of troops.”
“Check Red 2, halt in place. Blue 3’s up.”
Priveda gently pulled them to a halt and Volk smacked the physical commander’s tactical display in front of her. “What the fuck was that Buddy! you almost cost us that engagement you piece of shit!”
“Trish, relax.” Priveda said while lifting her visor slightly. “We’re doing fine.”
“Yeah, I know we’re doing fine, Buddy needs to get its shit together. I’m trying to shoot top gun, not just qualify.”
“Blue 3, bounding.” squawked over the comm.
Priveda sighed impotently while Volk fiddled with Buddy’s settings and took the moment of pause to fully slide her visor up into its stowed position and peer through the physical periscopes. In front of them, the rolling hills of the Cen P. Furness Gunnery Complex stretched out to the horizon. The complex itself was a roughly two and a half by five kilometer box carved out of the training area, dotted with prickly bushes and thin grass mostly intended for dust control and criss crossed by a seemingly endless series of trenches, berms, and squat hills that the targetry was hidden behind. A network of roughly parallel coarse roads fit for an entire company of armor snaked out across the terrain between prepared turret-down defensive battle positions. Blue 3 was creeping from behind them on another coarse road to their right, its turret smoothly scanning left and right for targets. She only gave it some cursory attention, Cpl. Zavier and Rifleman Douthit were doing fine, having only dropped one target so far.
Off to their left and over a fence a sea of white cotton grew, idly attended to by ponderous and slow robots that rolled through the rows misting the plants. There was a moment of curiosity as she wondered if it was herbicide, some sort or stimulant, or plain water. It was The Regent’s cotton of course; grown here on his land expressly for the purpose of manufacturing nitrocellulose. Just one cog in the massive industrial machine fueling the Martian penchant for war. She pulled her visor back down and squeezed a button on the steering yoke to slave the independent viewer to her vision for a better look. The green and white fused thermal and TV projection returned and then blinked to higher magnification while the thump of Blue 3’s cannon sounded in the background. The noise was muffed and filtered from inside another vehicle, it was much more impressive from outside.
Another two thousand meters down the fence line one of the farm-bots had gone rogue and was driving in circles next to the wire fence. Technically it was an Autotractor, but was colloquially better known as a cow. It was of a similar design to the movers, both being based on the same modular chassis just in this case lacking armor and with tools mounted rather than the facsimile of an armored vehicle. Toggled to maximum magnification she could make out the two large fluid tanks hanging over either side of the vehicle like a bulging bovine stomach. Buddy noticed her attention, the white box locked over the bot and then transformed into a red X with a flashing ‘UNK - NO SHOOT’ underneath as the bot rolled backward and then rammed itself against the fence. Bots of all types escaping the confines of one of the Regency Property farms and wandering through the training area wasn’t an uncommon occurrence, eventually one of the contracted hands would wrangle it back to the maintenance bay when the range went cold. Despite the fact that Buddy would not physically let them traverse the turret outside of the range fans, live cannon rounds and bullets whizzing by was naturally deterrent to real people.
“Nic me?” Volk asked while holding out one hand and continuing to mash keys with the other.
“One sec.” Priveda responded while fishing through her calf pocket. She eased a partially unbolted deck plate between her feet open and then spit the pouch that had been sitting in her gums for the past hour into the void, adding to a small white ossified pile on top of a nest of cables and hydraulic lines. She slid the deckplate back and then cracked open the can with one hand and fished a new pouch out with her tongue before passing it to Volk who did the same.
“Tower, Blue 3, engaged and destroyed one truck and two sets of troops.”
“Show time.” Volk announced while closing the can and passing it back
“Check, Blue 3, Red 2, proceed down the coarse road to the marked BP and prepare for defensive engagements.”
Volk keyed a quick acknowledgement while resettling her grip on the commander’s handstation. “Driver, advance.”
Priveda restowed the can and focused back on driving, smiling slightly when she felt the thirty-five ton monstrosity build up momentum as the drive spun up to higher output. The farm-bot quickly disappeared behind a hill as the picked up speed and proceeded down the road. The power pack sang a satisfying and clean note from inside the vehicle, the kind that imbued one with a sense of power and authority, rather than the ear piercing banshee scream it made from outside with the access panel open. The chatter of the tracks built into a steady rumble which was easily ignored from the crew stations with better seats; in the back on the benches it felt like the solar’s worst deep tissue massage directly into your ass. A green square marked their destination and she turned in and eased to a stop on the reverse slope of the indicated BP just far enough forward that the optics mounted on top of their turret could peak over the rockcrete parapet.
They both took a few moments to get their bearings on the terrain, quickly noting the position of the white arrows on either side of them marking the left and right lateral limits of the range.
“This one’s all coax, shouldn’t be anything farther than a thousand.” Volk reminded before flicking the master arm on and keying her comm. “Tower, Red 2; we’re Red-Con 1.”
“Check, ISR reports one truck and one squad of troops in your sector. Defend, engage, and report.”
They both scanned the terrain and Priveda feathered the throttle while keeping her other foot firmly on the brake. Boosting would prevent them from rolling back slightly from power lag when the time came to peak over the berm. The A2 Model Lionesses like theirs had a notoriously mushy throttle and seconds counted.
Identified, Truck 800.” Priveda called out. Buddy had already followed her eyes, preempting her need to que him with a button press. His white box of focus locked onto the target as it eased into its upright position, a label appearing a split second after. Volk flipped through the potential tracks and glanced at it for a split second to confirm it and then immediately resumed scanning for the next target. “Driver, up! Buddy, Coax, truck.”
Priveda let off the brake and feathered the throttle. The drive sang and they rumbled up the hill just enough for the muzzle of their cannon to clear the berm.
“Fire and adjust!”
Buddy answered her command with a buzzing “On the way”, and a chattering burst of machine-gun fire that stitched cleanly through the target.
“Target, cease fire. Driver back. Buddy, next target.”
Priveda already had the Lioness in reverse, and they ducked back behind the hill having only been exposed for a few seconds. Volk was already queuing the next target, a quintet of troop targets alternately popping up and blitzing forward for a few moments then falling down in a rough mimic of the classic three second rush. “Buddy, Coax, troops, 700!” Volk commanded. Buddy stubbornly refused to slew the turret. “My gun!” Volk growled while yanking on the handstation as the manual reticle appeared. Buddy’s white box of focus followed the gun locking onto the troop targets and then transposing into a red X flashing a warning ‘UNK - NO SHOOT’ underneath.
“Are you- Fuck it. Driver, up!” Volk shouted while she reached behind her seat and flicked a switch. “CMBT OVERRIDE” flashed over the bottom of their view, completely disabling Buddy’s control and all of the vehicle's safety-interlocks. Priveda cleanly shifted back into drive and peaked them over the crest again.
“From my position, on the way!” Volk unleashed a long burst of coax, drawing another Z with tracers over the shifting clump of troops. The movements came out more jerky, but had the precision of a well practiced hand. A few rounds caught the lead target and all of them locked in place for a moment then fell down. “Target cease fire, driver back.”
“Tower, Red 2, engaged and destroyed one truck and one section of troops.”
“Check, cutting it pretty close there, Red 2. Hold position.”
Volk flashed a quick ack, flicked the master-arm switch back to safe, and then hammered an already slightly dished access panel with her knee. “Buddy, you fucking pacifist! You’re in timeout until Carlini gets a chance to flash you back to stock.”
Priveda almost swore she heard the machine equivalent of a sigh buzz over their internal comm.
Volk glanced at her electronic kneeboard. “One last engagement, one mover PC, one far truck, and a sim tank.”
“We can drop this engagement can’t we? We’ve shot perfect up to now. Probably best to get Battalion Maintenance to look at Buddy before he starts acting any weirder,” Priveda suggested.
“No, we have one engagement left and I’m not losing top gun off this stupid fuckers misbehavior,” Volk retorted while resuming fiddling with the commander’s display. It froze for a half second and she smacked it again hard enough that it flickered. Priveda just buried her disapproval. For everything it had done for the two of them, including helping keep them alive at Greendome, Volk never extended an ounce of sympathy to Buddy. To her, it was just a thing, an object. To suggest anything else was Lancer behavior and therefore naturally abhorrent to a Rifleman. Priveda ran her hand over the common control panel, just one last engagement and they would get someone to check up on it again.
Volk finished punching in adjustments, with heavy emphasis on the punching, and flicked the combat override back off. “Alright Buddy, behave. You’re on thin fucking ice.”
“Blue 3, Tower. ISR Reports one truck, one squad of troops in your sector. Defend, engage, and report.” James Nix only gave their ack ping a moments attention before he had kicked away from the station and swiveled his chair around. He tapped the ‘commence engagement’ key without even looking. Behind him, a large Sitware projection was cast over the tower’s forward facing window, highlighting each of the vehicles and all of the targetry. Several smaller screens set into his station displayed the views from each of the vehicle's optics as well as the inside of the vehicle along with a plethora of diagnostics: vehicle power output, ammo and weapon select statuses, along with eye tracking for each of the crew members. There really wasn’t much for him to do, the system handled recording and analysis of their performance. He just hit the ‘go’ button when the time came and provided some minimal human oversight.
Stolen story; please report.
Senior Wilcox still had that same amused but incredulous look on his face when he turned around.
“Like I was saying, Earth is materialist. They’re like crabs in a bucket, continually pulling each other down for short term advantage. Their decline is inevitable.” Blue 3’s cannon sounded low in the distance and Nix glanced back over his shoulder to check their work. A truck icon flashed from blue to black. Satisfied, he turned back toward Wilcox to finish his point.
“Ours on the other hand, is a Nietzchian Apollonic society, naturally predisposed towards heroism. Our victory is a matter of historical necessity.”
Wilcox leaned back in his swivel chair smiling. He glanced towards Top Kelhoffer who had his feet propped on his station and looked similarly tickled. Captain Khultz just stood there brooding, more focused on refilling his recaf mug. Cutlass had to run their own range, but parts of Falchion were here to assist them.
“Sir, what did you say your degree was in?” Wilcox asked
“Anglish Literature,” Nix replied confidently.
The comm buzzed, “Tower, Blue 3; engaged and destroyed one squad of troops and one truck in sector.”
Senior Wilcox motioned the Boot-tenant back towards his station as he replied. “They fight pretty well regardless of what they got on their mind.”
Khultz sat back down, blowing at the steam wafting from his mug. “The owl of Minerva takes flight only in the evening, Lieutenant.”
“Meaning Skipper?” Kelhoffer prompted as he replayed a snippet of the last engagement on his own station.
Khultz paused for a sip. “Something can only be inevitable in retrospect. The moment you understand something, that’s a good sign it’s over.”
Nix glanced backwards for a moment, pausing to issue instructions. “Blue 3, Red 2. Back off the BPs, proceed down the course road to the white stakes and prepare for offensive engagements. Report when Red-Con 1.” Work finished for the moment, he turned around again for a rebuttal. “I don’t think so at all. Great historical forces are at work, what have they done for the last twenty years? Nip at each other's asses?”
Khultz just indifferently hummed and sipped at his recaff.
“Sir, at the end of the day there’s still forty billion of them and twelve billion of us, Belt included,” Senior Wilcox added.
“Tower, Red 2. We’re Red-Con 1.”
Nix jerked his head back to the console and tapped ‘commence engagement’. “ISR reports, one tank, one PC, and one truck. Bound-engage-report.” he let off the comm and immediately snapped his attention back to the conversation. “As I was saying, I don’t think it’s relevant. It’s about what resources you can mobilize, not just what you have at hand. Will is a resource.”
Priveda sent them rolling forward at a crawl and they each scanned their respective sectors, using the road as a convenient reference point to split them up. It was only a few seconds before the tank popped. Shooting AGMs was rather expensive. As a cost saving measure, this portion was mostly simulated. A shimmering and obviously digital T-99 crawled up a hull down position 2500 meters to their front.
Volk was ready for it and Buddy was already slaved to her view, exactly where the target had popped. “Buddy, missile, tank! Ripple two, fire!”
Buddy screeched a lock tone, crosshair and kill box fixed over the target. “On the way.” Two pops reverberated through the back of the vehicle as the missile simulators fired.
Neither of them bothered to watch the projections streak overhead and crash into the simulated vehicle with a quite satisfying explosion. Missile engagements were self-ending, Buddy simply flashed a ‘TARGET HIT - CATK’ across the bottom of their view while they continued scanning.
“Identified, Truck, 1100.” Priveda announced quickly lashing Buddy away from its sudden interest in a pile of rocks that vaguely resembled a two man foxhole with a button press.
Volk snapped her head away from her own sector to the target. “Buddy, Truck, HE. Fire and adjust!”
With Priveda’s help, Buddy found the truck silhouette and the turret snapped around at max drive as they rounded a shallow curve. The kill box flicked into a crosshair for a spit second and then switched into a flashing red X. ‘UNK - NO SHOOT’.
“Fuck!” Begrudgingly anticipating this, Volk already had her off-hand wedged behind her seat on the override. “From my position, on the way!”
Priveda lurched forward and mashed the weapon select to HE the moment before Volk layed on the manual trigger. Four concrete filled practice rounds punched neat holes through the truck silhouette and it eased down behind its berm. “Target, cease fire.”
They both resumed scanning, ‘CMBT OVERRIDE’ blinking a continuous warning across the bottom of their views.
Priveda kept them crawling forward as they fruitlessly scanned, seconds felt like hours. Each engagement was at most a minute, the PC target should have shown itself already. Without Buddy’s help they were scanning manually
“Shitshitshit.” Volk breathed as she whipped the turret around to their right. Priveda continued silently doing the same to their left with the smaller independent viewer.
There. A white blob appeared, lurching its way across the side slope of a hill no more than a K and a half from them. “I see it!” Priveda announced. “Identified, PC, 10 O’clock 900!”
Volk whipped the turret around, not even bothering to switch to higher magnification. The mover was headed towards them at an odd oblique angle. “PC, AP. From my position, on the way!”
Priveda flicked the weapon select switch for her and Volk let off a long burst of sabots from their cannon. They had nine rounds left, shooting them all was much easier than wrestling them out of the turret at the ammo point.
All nine sailed through the mover, one even went low, sending it to an instant stop. “Target, cease fire!” Volk called out while pumping her free fist.
“Nice shot.” Priveda congratulated as she stepped on the brake and watched blurry pixelated smoke waft away from the target. The mover flared up white hot suddenly, washing out the thermal fusion. Flash compensation quickly cut in; it was burning. Priveda mashed her steering yoke, simultaneously blinking her viewer to higher magnification and swapping to the plain TV view.
The telltale brilliant red flames and white smoke of a furious self-oxidizing lithium fire engulfed the rogue farmbot. Just behind it, their actual target, another faux-Boro IFV that Buddy happily identified, crept out of the smoke and then coasted behind another hill.
Volk immediately lost all composure. “Are you shitting me! A fucking COW! ON MY LAST ENGAGEMENT!”
Far too late, the comm buzzed and their controls locked while a ‘RSO CHECKFIRE’ flashed over their view. “-ucking Mons… Red 2, Proceed to the RSO pit time now.”
Volk regained herself, pinged acknowledged, and then devolved into another flurry of animated thrashing and cursing.
Stewart was significantly less well kept from Dalia’s estimation. The field time at ROALC had obviously gotten to her. Normally lustrous and immaculately maintained black hair had grown out slightly to reveal lighter brown roots, visible even through the slightly foggy trideo link as a stark line running along the middle part in her hair. Her complexion also seemed poor, but Dalia couldn’t decide if it was because it lacked the normal coating of make up, or if the sun really had been that hard on her skin. The mask tan line across her cheeks was particularly egregious, and it was obviously bothering her by the way she kept touching it while her eyes wandered to her own mirrored display.
“Ma’am, did you sign the dust control ROS I forwarded to you?” Dalia probed.
Stewarts eyes moved back, “What are you talking about?”
“The dust control request for support, for Base Environmental, so we can take the vehicles out to Filipovic. You need to sign the ROS, or they won’t allocate us a sprayer and we can’t use anything with tracks to move the Company to the range.”
Stewart blinked several times rapidly, “you must be misremembering; you never sent me that, Dalia. Either way, you were supposed to handle all of that while I was away.”
“Ma’am you never signed a delegation of Command Authority memo, I literally can’t do that. It requires your signature. I sent it to you last week.” Dalia reaffirmed flatly.
Stewart furrowed her brow and shook her head. The display of disapproval seemed out of place on her soft and round features. If Lucy was kiki, Stewart was all bouba. Even her voice had a sweet and musical quality, like honey laced with cyanide. “I never got it. You should’ve contacted me to ensure I’d received it. Send it again and I’ll sign it later.”
Deny, deny, counter-accuse. Dalia maintained a professional neutral mask while the thought rolled across her mind and even forced herself to smile. “I’ll send it again. The cut off before roll-out is the day after tomorrow; just submit it before then and we’ll be fine, ma’am. Just don’t send it back to me. Top and I will be out of the office, we’re heading out to Cen to drop off hot-chow and tag out in the tower for the shoot tonight.”
“Hmm, alright,” Stewart pursued her lips, it looked exceptionally pouty and made the filler even more obvious. “I’ll handle it if I must.” she announced while moving to cut the link.
She hadn’t even bothered to ask how her troops were fairing in her absence. “Our crews are doing well, I think Red 2 might even get Top Gun.” Dalia interrupted.
Stewart paused for a half second. “Good, the most important thing is that they qualify with no issues. We’ve standing orders to fry anyone who fucks up.” Stewart’s arm extended and the link cut.
The moment she disappeared from view Dalia slumped back in her chair. Hitting a few keystrokes she confirmed the message in question had in fact been sitting in her sent box for the better part of a week. “She is fucking exhausting.”
Master Sergeant Knute gave a hum of agreement from his desk across their shared office while continuing to hammer at his own terminal. The rapid hunt-and-peck exposed him as a man who had never wanted to learn how to use a keyboard, but had begrudgingly become half decent out of necessity.
Dalia leaned forward to glance out the door into the rest of the company office. Deserted. It was late and everyone was either in the field, or at the barracks supervising field day. Dalia leaned back again and smiled, attempting to bring some levity back. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and she’ll get recycled so we can spend a few more weeks without her.”
Knute gave another muted grumble of agreement while he pecked at his terminal. “Chow should be ready to pick up in half an hour or so.”
Dalia frowned slightly, Knute wasn’t engaging. “Seriously though, what are we going to do about her?”
Knute stopped typing and glanced up. “Do about her?”
Though she made no outward sign, doubt instantly crept in. Was it worth trying to bring him into this? He could see as well as anyone else how Stewart had been nothing but a problem for Cutlass since she’d taken charge. On top of her absence she couldn’t be counted on to perform any work, remote or otherwise. When she did make her existence known, it was to unload all of her responsibilities on the Platoon Commanders to the point they barely had enough time to handle their own duties. The Officers were all collectively dreading her return.
“We don’t do anything, Lieutenant.” Knute reiterated.
Dalia cringed internally, perhaps speaking about this to an enlisted, no matter how senior, was unwise. “I’ll drop it then.”
Knute leaned forward slightly, “Ma’am, I think you misunderstand. Ya’ need to have a light touch. Eventually Captain Stewart will make some kind of mistake, it’s inevitable when you’re in that sort of position.”
Dalia just raised a curious eyebrow as he continued.
“There’s always a delicate balance between choosing the right way and the right-now way when you’re in command. Back when Captain Eckartt took over, he signed for half of the company’s property sight-unseen. When inventories came around me and the Riflemen had to make a lot of shit ‘appear’, lest our darling leader be relieved for failing to account for something like thirteen thousand marks worth of equipment. When the time comes for Stewart, we simply do nothing. The system will work itself out.”
Knute smiled thinly, “failing that, she can always die bravely defending the Martian homeland when we get over to Yukatan.”
Dalia burst out laughing, he couldn’t possibly be serious. “Let’s try to avoid it coming to that, Top.”
Knute chuckled dryly. “Yeah, I’d probably have to wack Frank too, at the end of the day he is still a First Sergeant. I’d be losing my last drinking buddy.”
She studied his face for a moment. Was he serious? Her comm buzzed, derailing the thought.
Water Boy ??: Need you here at Cen, 5.
Dalia ??:dnt cal me tht ovr txt boot
Dalia ??:wll b ther w/ chwo in lk 45min
Water Boy??: Need you here quicker than that
Dalia ??: ???
Water Boy ??: Firing incident, one of ours. Need you and Top to crisis manage pronto.
Dalia ??: omw
Dalia ??: brakes are on until we get there
Dalia ??: chk?
Water Boy ??: ?
Dalia sighed lightly and grabbed her helmet off of the desk. “I guess we’re picking up chow early. Somebody fucked up.”
Knute stood up slowly and grabbed the rest of his own kit, “Am I driving?”
“Nah, I got it oldtimer. Just don’t play anymore of that Daedalian trash.”
Knute put on his helmet and half clipped it, letting his mask hang off from one side of his face. “When you’ve been half as many places as I have, you can pick the tunes ma’am.”
“Ground rule then: no Willie in my Lynx, at least not while I’m in it.” Dalia replied while holding the back door to the building open for him.
It was getting very late but this was the best compromise they could manage due to time differences. Late here meant early in Amazonia, and with the whole Regiment in and out of the field conducting training, operations back in the rear continued long outside of normal working hours. Still, Corvo glanced at his chrono, it was getting very late. Colonel Mallock was seated behind his desk, while Corvo, Balalaika and Deemo had taken up spaces on the normal meeting chairs pivoted to face the empty center of the room
Four figures shimmered into existence in the void, three seated, one standing. They were all in field kit, evidently as equally involved in training as they were. A Noachian Hauptmann, female, close cropped black hair. She was wearing a vehicle crewman jumpsuit and a black Stetson was perched on her knee. Corvo glanced down. Tanker boots, the kind fixed with a strap and buckle rather than laces. He nearly physically recoiled at the sight of them.
The other two seated figures were of the typical contrasting Hesperian phenotypes. The shrewd partyman Group-Captain Zhou he had met at the last planning conference. He was fairer than the Noachian, clearly of some asiatic strain, he even was still wearing that same manufactured smile he had been the last time they met. The other, a bronzed and hardfaced Senior-Lieutenant of an evidently new-world persuasion, folded his arms across his chest.
Who wouldn’t recognize the last standing figure would’ve been a better question. That posture, choosing to stand instead of sit, that piercing gaze, the small divot under his left eye. It all had that trademark air of arrogance and the same slightly unsettling effect. He looked rather well for a man who had been supposedly dead for several years.
“Good evening, Colonel Petrova,” Colonel Mallock greeted.
“Let’s skip the pleasantries, just consider it a professional courtesy that we're having this meeting at all and that I haven’t taken this issue up with MISAF Supreme Command yet. You owe me a Company, Mallock.”
Col. Mallock clicked his tongue. They could be so direct when they knew they had you cornered. “Listen, it’s not that simple. We have numerous competing requirements at the moment. I’m not authorized to detach any of my command until they’ve at least finished their current training evolution and certified.”
Col. Petrova’s hands twitched subtly. “They should’ve been here, at Sunshine Acre, training with the unit that they will actually deploy as a part of a month ago. Your government signed a memorandum of understanding. Stop stonewalling us.”
“We understand the frustration, Colonel Petrova. However that memorandum states that the Thartic contingent of CJTF North owes you a detachment. My Regiment, 2nd Battalion included, hasn’t chopped over yet.” Mallock responded.
Col. Petrova stayed his hands, it took an obvious moment of conscious effort.“They’ve already published a tasking order. Your territoriality is running counterproductive to our Nations’ combined efforts, Mallock.”
Balalaika leaned forward slightly. “Colonel Petrova, a moment if you please.”
His hands flashed some roughly affirmative signage and his projection paced away slightly. Balalaika tapped a button on the desk and the projections frosted and blurred.
With the call on pause, Corvo turned toward Mallock. “It was a mistake to stall in the first place, Harold.”
Col. Mallock was unamused. “I made a decision based on incomplete information, mistakes are unavoidable. I was under the impression the entire Regiment was headed to the Belt. Plans change.”
“You’re not seriously going to give a quarter of my combat power away to fucking Hesperia are you?” Balalaika asked indignantly.
“We don’t have a choice, ma’am. The best we can do is stall for time.” Major Deemo sighed.
“Where’s our Petrova? Perhaps we can placate him for the time being with a liaison officer.” Corvo suggested only half jokingly.
Balalaika shot Corvo a sidelong glare. “Convalescent leave, they’re running tests on her leg all week.” she shifted her attention back to Mallock. “Can’t we give him part of 1st or 3rd Battalion? 7th Rifles isn’t even scheduled to deploy. Surely we can convince Corps to spread the burden a bit?”
Mallock shook his head. “I already brought the issue, additional troop commitments are non-starters. We’re surging as much as we can already, the Navy’s maxing it’s available haul capacity moving your Battalion and all of 8RD from Ceres. Sending more forward now cuts into the Regent’s contingency force, and you know how he loves his contingencies.”
Balalaika was incensed again. “So you rob Yvonne to pay Yuri then? I’m barely scraping 80% as it is.”
Mallock folded his hands. “What about Golf Company?”
“Yes, what about them? As I recall you didn’t want Stewart in the first place, Yvonne.” Corvo sneered.
Balaika returned a furious scowl. “This is why we’re divorced, Nigel.”
Mallock raised his hand slightly. “We have to provide him something, we don’t have to give him everything. Take whatever you need from Cutlass, Yvonne. Hesperia can have our scraps.”
Yuri Petrova continued staring at the four frosted and now silent projections.
“What do you think they’re talking about, Colonel?”
Yuri glanced behind him, Captain Buhallin was still seated, now twirling her Stetson around one hand.
“They’re Huns.” He replied. Turning slightly, he quickly mirrored his speech with signs and then continued on in an unusually long and silent addendum. Zhou chuckled quietly and flashed something back. Petrova smirked.
Sentania Buhallin paused the spinning of her hat and tipped her head slightly “Colonel?”
He flicked his eyes back to her. “Yes, pardon. They’re figuring out how they’re going to fuck us.” Yuri announced as the projections began to quickly thaw.
Col. Mallock’s projection smiled. “Colonel Petrova, I am forwarding you details now. G Co. 2nd Battalion, 1st Rifle Regiment will composite with your Task Force pending its certification for deployment. Its commander, Rifle Captain Stewart, will be your point of contact, though I’m afraid she’s unavailable at the moment.”
She wasn’t sure what was worse, Rikenbach, Tuely, and Nikolaev screaming ‘Cow Killer!’ at the top of their lungs as they rolled passed towards the ammo point to download or the assgnawing Top Kelhoffer had been giving both of them for the last twenty minutes. He’d herded both of them into the AAR shack, locked them both up at parade-rest and then given the most expansive dressdown Priveda had received in her entire career. At this point his voice had stopped producing words, only vague sounds which occasionally needed acknowledgement. Priveda was more focused on the pulsating vein bulging out of his forehead.
“Are both of you so fucking misbred as to not know the difference between a Autotrackor and a enemy vehicle?!”
“Neg, Top.” they replied in chorus.
“Then why in the ever living fuck is there a burning Autotrackor on my range! Clearly you’re either lying or so fucking retarded as to not understand the question!”
“Check, Top.”
“That requires a fucking detailed response Volk! Say ‘Neg’ or ‘Check’ one more time and you will be raking sand until Phobos crashes into the surface!”
“Ch-” Volk gagged herself. Just the first syllable alone plucked Kelhoffer’s last nerve like a harp string.
“Re-spond,” He hissed again.
“Top, there shouldn’t have been a cow on the range in the first place-” Volk started.
“So what if there was, Corporal! As vehicle commander you are responsible for every single round fired by your weapon systems! Are you gonna go down range and use The Regent’s property to indiscriminately ventilate everything that fucking moves!?”
“Neg, Top.” Volk grunted.
“You two trigger-happy cunts are fucked you hear me? I’ll personally make sure your Company Commander gives you both Number 31’s for the willful destruction of Regency Propert-”
Rapping on the inner door of the airlock cut him off. Priveda snatched a glance while maintaining her statuesque posture. Top Knute and the new XO.
Top Knute motioned towards him. “Keenan, let’s talk outside.”
Kelhoffer grunted while snatching his mask off the desk and stomped into the airlock, the towering form of Lt. Rinwell sauntering casually past him. The two Master Sergeants disappeared outside for some kind of private discussion, leaving the three ladies alone.
“You two can relax.” Dalia said, dumping her kit off and pulling one of the chairs over to the table. They both uneasily broke from parade rest, the good cop had obviously come in to garner a confession. The Sirenese giant plopped herself down into the rolling chair. “What happened?”
Priveda glanced at her killpatch, Rinwell, it looked brand new compared to the rest of her field worn uniform. “Well ma’am, Buddy’s been acting up all day throwing No-Shoot flags on legit targets and refusing to lock on others, so Cpl. Volk and I had been switching to Combat Override just so we could get through the engagements-”
Dalia paused her while retrieving an inknote from her back pocket. “This is on your twenty-two-twelve right?”
“Check, it is ma’am,” Volk nodded.
Dalia pulled up the maintenance sheet and scrolled down. “Yep and I see that you’ve been having this issue for weeks now. Lot of detail on this one, hardly anyone goes to the trouble.”
“We’ve been taking good care of our Lioness ma’am. Got all of the battle damage repaired. Aside from this it’s FMC. Our heater even works; I think it might be the only one in the whole Company.” Volk continued.
“And what did Battalion Maintenance do about it?” Lt. Rinwell asked while skimming the document.
“Well, basically nothing ma’am.” Priveda pipped up.
“Carlini tried a bunch of different things but the issue keeps popping back up, ma’am. We tried to order a new LCM but it got flagged for funding.” Volk added
Lt. Rinwell continued reading “This is a deadline fault, why aren’t you shooting off another vehicle?”
“Captain Stewart Circle-x’d it, ma’am. Said something about maintaining O-R rate when Senior Karoff talked to her about it over the comm.” Volk responded.
Lt. Rinwell rubbed at her temple while continuing to digest the contents. “Well, that is her bondchip authenticated signature right there isn’t it? Somehow this never made its way to my desk or onto the maintenance tracker…”
Volk and Priveda both chanced a look at eachother, maybe for the second time they’d met an Officer who wasn’t going to fry them over the slightest inconvenience. Lt. Rinwell pushed her inknote aside and wheeled her chair over to the After Action Review system, quickly bringing up their engagements onto the big screen behind her. The view was quartered into two views from the vehicle’s optics, one from the tower, and a map of the range overlaid with their targets and the vehicle’s current field of view. Lt. Rinwell quickly mashed a few keys fast forwarding through their first few engagements.
“Aaaand- Stop.” She froze frame after their second offensive engagement. “Is that the cow?” Lt. Rinwell pointed toward a frozen still of the autotractor the first time Priveda had seen it, still wandering around on the far side of the fence.
“Check, ma’am.” Priveda answered. “I didn’t call it up because it was still on the far side, they wander off all the time.”
“Okay, and this was the first and only time you saw it before you two smoked it right?” Lt. Rinwell queried.
“Check, ma’am. You can reference my eye-track. I didn’t even know what Priveda was looking at.” Volk answered her. Priveda felt the devil’s hooks slowly loosen themselves from her back as Lt. Rinwell continued tapping away at the AAR terminal. She enlarged the map screen and hit play. The range’s safety system threw up a warning and then dutifully tracked the cow as it bumbled through the fence and then through a deep draw on the range’s north-eastern side. It continued its swerving pattern for several minutes until it passed one of the moving targets and pulled right into Red 2’s line of fire.
“Who’s the Range Saftey Officer tonight?”
“Uhh- Top Kelhoffer, ma’am.” Priveda responded.
“And at any point did he call a check-fire because there was an autotractor loose on the range?”
“Neg, ma’am. We didn’t go into checkfire until after we popped it.” Volk added.
Lt. Rinwell pivoted around in her chair and pulled up the view from the optics and pressed play again.
They both winced as the audio from their internal comms played back and its transcribed text scrolled across the bottom of the screen. The twin views panned around rapidly, ‘CMBT OVERRIDE’ blinking its soft and constant warning.
G22VC:“shitshitshit”
The left hand view froze on a green-white blob creeping along the side slope of a hill.
G22D: “I see it!”
G22D: “Identified, PC, 10 O’Clock, 900!”
The turret whirred around, crosshair stopping dead on the same indiscriminate white blob, it blinked for a half second and then went solid confirming range and lead had been computed.
G22VC: “PC, AP, from my position, on the way!”
The gun sight shook gently as the cannon fired and the round count blinked down to zero. All nine of the sabots slipped cleaning through the target.
G22VC: “Target, cease-fire!”
G22D: “Nice shot”
Just as suddenly the blob flared up white hot and Lt. Rinwell froze the recording. “For what it’s worth, that was a nice shot. Manual, on the offense, against a mover at low mag? Mars, I’d be proud of that one.”
Volk just cringed.
Lt. Rinwell stood up and threw her kit back on, reminding them both of her immense height. “There’s hot chow outside in the back of my Lynx, you two grab some. I’m gonna talk to Captain Khultz and we’ll sort this out.”
They both breathed a sigh of relief. “Check rodge, ma’am.”
In Dalia’s experience, every unit was fucked up, but no two units are fucked up in the same way. 3rd Watch Company, 3rd Battalion, 3rd Brigade, His Imperial Majesty’s Capital Rift Guards Division, good old Trinity as it was better known, was a completely different world but she still saw parallels everywhere and she even had 1st Battalion as a Thartic frame of reference.
1st had this affable and generally friendly relationship between the Companies, personnel rotated between them frequently because of Lt. Col. Rhenner’s strictly enforced ‘Up and Over’ policy. When someone was promoted, they moved to a different Platoon or Company. It meant that basically everyone’s social circle extended beyond the traditional unit boundaries and fostered a broader sense of community, though it lacked the same kind of familiarity she saw here.
In Dalia’s own eighteen months of platoon command, she had cycled through squad leaders twice. Among the lower Enlisted there was a new face every other month, and while they generally adored their ‘big bitch’, she only actually managed to get close to Senior Domeij and her peer Officers. The lower enlisted were regrettably only passing acquaintances.
2nd Battalion was the complete opposite, Cutlass in particular, it reminded her a lot of the Guards. Nihilie had been in 1st Platoon, for seven years. He had seen two Battalion Commanders come and go, and had gone from buck nothing private to newly promoted Senior Sergeant. Only in the past month had he been pried away by orders from Army Central drafting him into Drill Instructor duty. The Esprit de Corps was high, the bonds ran deep, and every subdivision down to the Section and Crew was fiercely competitive with its siblings. Even the Officers, who’s careers generally mandated that they rotate much more often, had become embroiled in it. Looking at it now, Lucy was a perfect example of the kind of Officer 2nd Battalion produced. Though, just like with everything else, she took it one extra step.
That’s all this ‘conflict’ was, Falchion against Cutlass, with a side helping of Top Kelhoffer trying to cover his own ass. Naturally, Capt. Khultz was siding with his own Rifleman. Though from what she’d seen he wasn’t immune to reason.
“Target discrimination is a basic part of the Crew’s job. End of story.”
“Okay then pray tell, what is your job as the Range Safety Officer?” Dalia motioned to the projected event log and the four highlighted alerts of a foreign moving object on the range.
Top Kelhoffer jammed his finger toward the tower window and the still smoldering smudge on the horizon. “I’m not the one who shot it to pieces; they should have taken the 2 seconds to manually identify what the hell they were shooting at while in Combat Override.”
“This is a confluence of factors,” Knute reminded him. “A properly functioning Sitaware is supposed to take over the majority burden of identification and discrimination, to the point that if the ROC-V function is not working it deadlines the whole vehicle. Look, we’re not talking about cow murder here, at worst this is-” Knute paused for a moment. “Cowslaughter.”
Dalia felt a smile bubble and turned away toward the window, desperately forcing herself to bury it.
“That autotractor cost something, hundreds of marks probably, at the end of the day some one’s gotta pay for it. Monetarily or otherwise.” Khultz sighed.
Dalia turned back from the window, once again fully in control. “Who are you kidding, the Army will shill out for it no matter what we do. I really doubt they’re gonna care all that much. I was at a White Society meeting last week where the fucking plot manager was begging for money to replace those buggy things anyways.”
“That’s not the point, someone needs to be punished!” Top Kelhoffer shouted at her.
Dalia instantly flipped the switch.“Excuse me? Who do you think you’re talking to Master Sergeant.”
Kelhoffer looked like he’d just been hit by a flash-bang. Lieutenants rarely flexed their authority especially over the Senior Enlisted, but the Rift Guards badge on her chest and trio of campaign stars on her rifles proved that she wasn’t ‘just some Lieutenant’. Dalia took a step forward, using every iota of her 10cm advantage in height to loom over him. “Try that again, at Attention.”
Dalia flicked her eyes towards Khultz who clenched his jaw as Kelhoffer stiffened. “Sir, I came to have a civil discussion. Please keep better control of your subordinates.”
He was getting out of line, and now she had made it a point of personal embarrassment to him. Khultz stared at Kelhoffer’s frozen form for a moment then sighed and tipped his head towards the staircase. “Out.”
They had both stripped off most of their gear under the small admin dome butted against the base of the tower. Half of the company in attendance was scattered about grabbing what sleep they could manage on the grass or gathered around Senior Karoff as he and Senior Wilcox served chow. The other half were in their vehicles on the other side of the tower in the ready line, waiting for their chance to shoot. The Range was cold while the higher ups decided their fate, meaning everything was on pause and they were wasting precious range time.
Priveda glanced upwards as she unzipped her CES slightly. She could still see the new XO and Falchion 6 up there talking. Volk thrust a paper tray at her. “Last meal.”
“Thanks.” She glanced down. Charred bouf patty with no bun or wrap, olive drab mixed greens, and orange carotinized rice, Daedalian style, or at least the closest Army approximation. She was pretty sure the flecks of green and orange might’ve been bell peppers in a previous life.
Volk parked herself down on the bleachers and shoved the Army slop into her mouth vacantly. At least it was warm, Priveda skewered the patty on a fork and wolfed half of it down. Not exactly haute cuisine, but it beat the Rat packs they’d been eating for the last couple days. Volk continued on in some depressive trance, force feeding herself by soldierly reflex alone.
“Trish.. Are you good?”
Volk stopped shoveling for a moment and swallowed. “Does it look like I’m good?”
“No, not at all. That’s why I asked.” Priveda forced a smile. “We’re uh, we’ll make it through this.”
Volk set her plate down and rubbed her temples. “Between this, and Seevan, and Maude, and leaving again. Mars, it’s like the universe is pissing directly on me.”
Priveda glanced away from her to Senior Karoff as he rambled his way over to them. He really did walk like that forest ape didn’t he? What was it– Sas-kwa, Big toe?
“Volk” He grunted.
His presence snapped her out of the melancholia, “yes, Senior?”
“Cheer up, Cutlass 5’s managed to commute some of your sentence. Red 2’s got tow cable on board right?”
“Yes, Senior” Volk nodded.
Karoff thumbed down range. “Then you and Priveda need to get the fuck out there time now and haul that cow off the range. You got 15 mikes then we’re going hot again, be quick about it. You two need to reshoot that engagement.”
“Reshoot? Senior, we only dropped one target, on account of that fucking cow. We should still be getting Distinguished.”
“Yeah, reshoot. You’re a Q2 no matter what; it was the best she could swing. Be grateful and get your asses in gear.” Karoff added, motioning them up with haste, and then rambling off to join Lt. Nix.
Some resentful fire returned as Volk grumbled a “Check, rodge, Senior.”
Both of them donned their kit again quickly and headed towards their parked Lioness. All the while Volk went on bitching viciously about how Falchion had scammed the both of them out of Battalion Top Gun.
