PLANS
10 - 3
“Plans are nothing; planning is everything.” -Attributed to Colonel General Sergei Petrova, est. 28 MIC
The last night in paradise. Lucy was poised in front of the couch leaning towards the projection, hands cocked on her hips. Whether it was to get a better view, or if sitting had really become that painful he wasn’t sure, but she was fully engrossed in the game. Hektor was tied three - three to Patroclus in the final few minutes with the semi-official but still illustrious Iliad cup hanging in the balance.
“God, what the fuck is Mancheka doing. Use your time out!” She barked while watching Hektor ineffectually drive spinward only to be stalled in the midfield by the dogged Patroclus defense. “Hektor needs to trade that moron and get an actual in-game leader, not a fucking press jockey.”
“The sponsors do love him” Sam quipped.
Lucy didn’t break from the projection but folded her arms as the action slowed. “Looking handsome on a wheaties box isn’t gonna win any games.”
Finally completely spent, the ball carrier held it aloft and a horn signalled a time out. Both the teams huddled on opposite sides of the gravdome to hash out a plan for the last two minutes while another timer counted down. Lucy paced in front of the coffee table.
“Handsome?” Sam asked while the corners of his mouth twitched upwards. “I guess you really do have a type.”
One of the cameras cut to Mancheka’s close-up as he toweled off his head and gave instructions to the team huddled around him. With a sweaty mop of black hair and the same dark Mediterranean skin tone, Stefan Mancheka could’ve passed for Sam’s half-brudar, and being a Ridge City native transplanted to the belt, it wasn’t that out of the realm of possibility.
Lucy finally peeled her eyes off the projection for a moment. “Don’t be jealous, you’ve got a better chin and a head that’s not completely full of rocks.”
Sam’s smirk spread into a grin. Maybe he had been fishing for a compliment, but it still hit the same. A whistle blast gave a fifteen second warning and two teams trotted back out to their start positions. Another whistle blast resumed the action. Sam followed the drive as Hektor passed laterally and flipped to a trailing side offense, a predictable adjustment if there ever was one.
Seeing a fleeting opportunity, Patroclus's spinside flanker blitzed through a seam in Hektor’s screen and crashed into the ball carrier as he tried to pivot towards center field, sending both of them to the ground and the ball flying high as it ricocheted off the carrier’s head. Lucy threw up her arms in exasperation as the ball flipped and tumbled in the air, arcing wildly as coriolis force from the gravdome pulled it down in a counter-intuitive lateral curve. A chaotic melee for possession erupted as the two teams frantically scrambled and bashed together beneath its path. The camera snapped onto the Patroclus trailside wing, #37, as she cut across the field diagonally, juking Hektor’s center and simultaneously using him as a springboard to snatch the ball from the air in one fluid motion.
“Shit!” Lucy exclaimed. The camera cut in as #37 landed clean and made a dead sprint across the open spinward side of the pitch. Hektor’s fullback and their last line of defense locked on an intercept course just shy of the last quarter of the field. Without breaking stride, #37 pitched the ball forward slightly and rocketed it through the endgoal on the bounce with a picture perfect kick before the defender was even close. The arena erupted in cheers of triumph and wails of disappointment.
‘ SCORE, #37 - LICHTENHAUER’ flashed across the bottom of the screen. Lucy brooded for a moment as the arena descended further into chaos with the end buzzer barely audible over the screaming. Gianna Lichtenhauer leapt up and down, bouncing easily in the regulation 1/3rd G while flashing offensive hand signs and screaming crude expletives toward Hektor’s half of the dome. The censor blurs over her hands and intermittent cutting of the audio made it even more noticeable against the deafening cheers. Trotting over towards the sideline, she continued her vulgar emote by ripping off her jersey and throwing it into the friendly stands, pausing briefly to flex before being lifted up and carted off by her teammates. It had been the highlight play of the season for her.
“Wait-” Lucy’s mood suddenly shifted. She snatched her comm off the table, and opened up DreamLeague just long enough to confirm the results, “Lichtenhauer is on my fantasy team”
Without even a second thought, she smugly started punching numbers.
Dalia’s voice came through loud and clear on speaker. “Don’t you fucking dare link me to gloat. I know for a fact you parlay’d on Hekt-”
“How does it feel to stay #2 for another week?” Lucy cut her off while grinning triumphantly.
“Bullshit RNG play, you and I both know-” Dalia started again.
“Awe, sour grapes now? Guess you shouldn’t have passed on Lichtenhauer huh?”
“Just you wait, just you fucking wait. When we get to an actual cup game next week you’re gonna eat your fucking words, Lucy.”
Dalia cut the link. Looking incredibly satisfied, Lucy dropped her comm back on the table and finally parked herself down on the couch next to him. He cut the Trideo just as Patroclus collected their Cup and she had settled in.
Lucy sighed wistfully and looked over at him. “You’re quiet.”
Sam propped himself against the armrest. “Just taking in whatever bit of you I can get before I leave.”
She obliged him, turning and leaning into their preferred cuddling position. “Excited to be taking a break from the chaos here?”
“It’ll be nice not sitting in meetings and staring at spreadsheets all day on top of running the Call-for-Fire trainer but, I am gonna miss you.”
She just smiled.
“What’d Captain Cho say about your leg today?”
Some cloaked anxiety crept into her voice. “Didn’t just see him, had a full gold star Colonel poking at it all morning down at the hospital.”
“Finally got some face time with a real neurologist then, what’d he say?”
“Nothing good.” She looked down at the offending object. A dozen red and slightly inflamed dots still lingered just below the end of her shorts from where probes had been inserted earlier in the day. “They’re talking about surgery now. Apparently there’s still shrapnel in there. Like a 2 mil piece sticking right into my sciatic nerve. They hit it with some anti-inflammatories which should help for the next week or two, but it’s not a permanent solution.”
“Any prognosis on recovery?” He asked while stroking her arm gently.
“Weeks if they do surgery. There’s always a chance they fuck up in the process and make it worse. Might lose all the feeling in my leg. I’d rather them just cut the damn thing off if they’re not gonna be able to fix it.”
She looked sullen. It was almost frightening. He had seen her furious and desperate, but never so mentally exhausted. It had been getting worse as time wore on. She never said anything, but he had woken in the middle of the night a few times now to find her balled up and whimpering through gritted teeth while clutching at her leg in the midst of some kind of episode. There wasn’t much he could do but watch and try to get her to take it easy on her body in the meantime.
“Lucy, it’s not gonna get any better if you don’t let them try. You’re chewing like four or five of those tabs a day as it is.”
Four or five? If only he knew. The pills had been a constant companion; they kept her mostly functional, but less and less with every dose. She was refilling the prescription once a week and chewing them like candy. Captain Cho just signed off on dosage ‘as needed’ and let her be. It wasn’t even a question of addiction, she physically could not become addicted.
It was that stupid Vice-Implant that she never wanted in the first place, that had been forced on her in childhood. It wasn’t even a real Vice-Implant, those could be adjusted, it’s actual purpose was to prevent her from being poisoned. Frustratingly it was working just perfectly, pulling any compound it didn't immediately recognize out of her bloodstream and straight into her urine to be pissed out. On top of her natural tolerance, more and more of each dose was literally being flushed down the toilet.
Lucy nibbled on her pinky nail. “I don’t have time for this shit. I have to run Rifle Qual next week on top of OCing Squad Live-Fire.”
“Lucy, things will get on just fine without you for a week or two. Let go of the reins for a bit. If you keep ignoring it it’s only going to get worse.”
She stared at the limb. “I just, I don’t want to miss the boat over this stupid hunk of meat.”
“Do you really think you should go if it’s this bad?” He asked gently.
She silently picked at a hangnail, ignoring him for the moment. She definitely heard him; perhaps he had just said too much. He tried regaining her attention with a caress, running his hand down the back of her leg softly.
As soon as his fingers touched the scar she yelped, bolting upright and away from him then collapsing again on the farside of the couch. He froze as she contracted into a fetal ball. Her eyes and jaw clenched shut into a pained grimace, hands gripping at offending the muscle while it visibly twitched and quivered. She might as well have been light years away.
An eternity of a moment passed and the twitching subsided. She relaxed from her rigor, still gritting her teeth as her eyes watered slightly. She wouldn’t even let herself cry out. It must’ve been hell, because it was torture to watch.
“Beautiful I’m sorry- are you okay?” He asked while edging over to her slightly. The episode fully subsided and she nodded.
“Not your fault” she replied, her voice cracking slightly as she wrung out her hamstring with her hands for a moment. With the pain easing, she scooted back over towards him.
Now wasn’t the time to tell her. There would be a time to break the news he was passing on Command to join Fritz, but not now. Not when she was in the midst of this agony. Would there ever be a perfect time? A right moment? Why was he even doing this? He kept saying and telling others he didn't want her to go alone, but what she said was still bouncing around his skull. ‘I don’t want to miss the boat’.
Was it devotion, or the fear of being left behind. Was it about her at all, or did he simply want another taste of danger? He couldn’t answer. Maybe it was both; at least that was a palatable fiction. He looked down as she used his shirt to wipe at her eyes. They had so little time together now, and it was slipping away with every passing moment.
Dalia had just finished it last night and was quite proud of it, she always had a knack for calligraphy. Something in the act of writing, of transmuting ideal into physical form resonated with her. It made something real of the intangible and resolved one's soul in the process. MSgt. Knute just watched her as she hung the piece behind her desk. He studied it intently, searching for some meaning in the enso. The single and nearly flawless brush stroke circle had been inscribed with a dozen squiggly vertically strung characters.
Knute rubbed his chin, “I’ve seen that before. Jianjo?”
Dalia turned slightly and nodded, “It’s the charge of every Watchstander. ‘Noble Aspiration,” her finger first pointed to a highly complex character at the center. “Render faithful service to one’s Master unto and beyond Death.” She traced counter-clockwise following the outer brush stroke along a string of symbols inscribed along the inner perimeter.
“Hmmph,” Knute sipped at his recaf. “I knew I’d seen it before; on your people. I thought that one in the center was Duty.”
“Well, they’re analogous,” Dalia replied. “Thartic can be so crude sometimes.”
Knute leaned back to glance out their open door into the main office. Capt. Stewart had Lt. Nix and Steiner locked up at attention against the wall while she stomped back and forth lecturing them. Apparently they’d ‘forgotten’ to update some Pers-Stat slides that she had never told them about. The Company Clerk, Rifleman Chekent, had shrunk into his chair and wheeled into the back corner of his cubicle to avoid the crossfire.
“S’ far as Master, I hope you don’t mean-” Knute motioned towards the door.
Dalia shook her head. “I only have one.”
Pausing her lecture, Stewart did an abrupt about face towards them. “Dalia!”
Flashing an eye roll at Top Knute, Dalia turned to face the door. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Where are we at with movement for Squad live-fire?”
“Did you submit the dust control ROS, ma’am?” Dalia returned flatly.
Bewilderment flashed over Stewarts face.“What?” It only lingered for a split second before it transmogrified into another vicious accusation. “I told you to take care of that while I was out of pocket!”
The shot rolled off Dalia’s cool exterior like water. “Ma’am, I told you, I can’t do that. You never signed a delegation of command authority. I have this all in writing.”
Stewart growled and shook her head dismissively. “Whatever, what’s COA 2?”
“Well, we can ask Headquarters for trans support, shouldn’t be too much of an issue to have Distro move our pax then turn-and-burn to grab our log-pack.” Dalia suggested.
Stewart waved it off. “Absolutely out of the question; we have to do this organically. What’s our haul capacity like.”
“Ma’am we have to move a hundred and sixty-three pax. We’re not doing that with two Oxes with trailers and three Lynxes that already need to haul gear in any reasonable amount of time.” Dalia deadpanned. “I also need our Ox to pick up ammo, and the maintenance team needs theirs to run Black Four’s new final drive out to Furness. We have a hard backstop to be completely off the Gunnery complex by tomorrow so Rapier can shoot.”
Stewart frowned theatrically and pivoted to the map table. “What if we hike to the Range? ”
Nix and Steiner exchanged agonized looks. Knute approached the map table with recaf mug in hand. “Ma’am, fastest way is along Route Yellow past Hacienda Village, then up the Starvation Valley ASR to Filipovic.” He traced the route with his finger for Stewart’s benefit. “Even then, that’s a twenty-five K movement with full combat load plus individual sustainment. Do we really want to break off the Company right before we do live fire and maneuver for 74 hours?”
The Enabler finally made his way out of his office. “I think it’s good training, ma’am. Knock the rust off and get some good PT in. Mars knows some of these boots need to be broken in,” 1st Sergeant Stout announced.
Stewart reflated. “Right, Dalia, start writing the Op-Order. I want it on my desk before you leave. And you two,” She turned to reface the two frozen Lieutenants. “I have to go to a meeting at Regiment, I don’t know when I’ll be back.” Stewart paused mid instruction, an invisible hamster stalling on its wheel for a moment. “Actually, Vo, James, start writing the Op-Order. Dalia, I need you to come with me, help them when we get back.”
Dalia glanced at her chrono, it was nearly 1530. No one would be going home at a reasonable time and they would be back bright and early the next day probably around 0330 to draw weapons.
Stewart pivoted back around to face Dalia, once again beaming at her own genius. “Check?”
Dalia forced a grimacing smile. “Check, rodge, ma’am.”
Another gear inspection. This was the third one this week. The first had been a ‘pre-inspection’ in his barracks room, the second had been the entire platoon at the RAMP, and now the whole Company, enlisted at least, was out on the quad with everything they were bringing to the field tomorrow including weapons.
Rand had all his things neatly covered and aligned on his tarp. It was well practiced at this point, and he had everything all present and accounted for: CES, helmet, plate carrier with front, back, and side plates, IFAK, and all the other accouterments and pouches; his IDL; two spare batteries; their MAAWS; his rifle; his main pack; two extra sets of utilities, extra CES, warming layers, several pairs of skivvies, his mask assembly with two replacement cans and another long-duration emergency can, survival tent, three oxygen candles, sleeping bag, bivy sack, inknote, inksticks, analogue notebook, foot powder, casualty cards, chemlights, three ratpacks, quick reference cards and mounds and mounds of other random shit. He was going to throw half of it back in his wall locker to stay there when this was over.
Grams equal kilos, kilos equal pain, and there was a nasty rumor floating around they were hiking out to Filipovic. He had done it once before as the final hurdle of Rifle Qual and the death march was not one he easily would forget.
Top Knute had Kick locked at parade rest next to him as he went over his gear with a fine toothed comb.
“Eyeballs, you.” He beckoned Kick closer.
Kick snapped his head over but didn’t break his posture. “Relax. Put your kit on, I want to show you something.”
Kick threw on his kit as instructed and fastened it quickly.
“This too.” Top Knute handed Kick his MAAWS ammo carrier. Kick slung the backpack on but had trouble getting it settled on his back. “See the problem? You gotta take that GP pouch off the side of your Plate Carrier or the straps gonna catch every time you sling that bag on and off. And trust me kid, you’re gonna be doing that a lot.”
Kick fiddled with the strap thoughtfully. “Check, rodge, Top. Uh, thanks.”
“Fix it after this; now take that shit off.” Knute turned back to his inknote. “Pencils, let me see ‘em.”
Kick unzipped a pocket the ammo carrier and produced three ‘lead sticks’ as instructed.
“Good.” Knute peaked inside the pocket and motioned with his stylus. “What’s that?”
Kick extracted the small black case. “It’s my fife, Top. I thought it might improve mora-”
Knute’s face suddenly became very serious. “Play.”
Nervously opening the case, Kick lifted the instrument to his lips and got off exactly three measures of Tharsis Grenadiers before top Knute yanked it down. The old Rifleman leaned close to him. “Never, ever, play that shit again.”
Kick gulped. “C-check, rodge, Top.”
Top Knute released his iron grip. “Now play.”
Kick glanced up and left, continually averting his eyes as he brought the instrument to his lips again and blew from memory Brave Sons of Mars nearly flawlessly. Suddenly all the racket Rand heard emanating from Kick’s barracks room at night made sense. A wild grin spread over Knute’s face as turned his head, “First Sarn’t! Come over here!”
Stout was already making his way over. He leaned in close on his arrival, inspecting Kick carefully and paying special attention to his nametape. “What else can you play, Private.”
“I, I know lots of stuff First Sarn’t,” Kick responded. He brought the fife up again and belted out a few measures of Recruiting Sergeant, then a few more of Fidelity and Valor. Stout seemed genuinely impressed.
“I can play the trumpet too, just didn’t think I could fit it in my pack, First Sarn’t” Kick added.
“Congratulations Private Kick, it's been a while since we had anyone musically gifted in the Company, you’re now our one-man band. Who’s your section leader?”
Kick motioned off to their right. “Rifleman Svertson, First Sarn’t.” Svertson’s hands balled into fists as Kick called him out.
“Good, I need to talk to him anyway. Come to my Office after this.”
Kick gave an excited “Check, rodge, First Sarn’t!”
“That means you too Svertson!” Stout shouted.
Svertson groaned. “Ahee-a, First Sarn’t.”
With that, Top Knute and First Sergeant Stout both wandered right by Rand towards 3rd Platoon. As soon as the coast was clear, Svertson stomped right over to Kick and seized him by the blouse. “You get me involved in some dumb-ass permanent detail and I’m gonna make your name literal.”
Kick was mortified again. “Check, Rifleman.”
“Now pack up. We still got shit to do after this.” Svertson said while releasing him.
“But Top Knute didn’t even look at my Rifle,” Kick protested.
“Yeah, I know that, boot. Never second guess lucky pull.” Svertson replied as he resumed shoving things back inside his own mainpack. Kick sullenly began doing the same.
“That was pretty good actually, never knew you could play.” Rand offered as he bent down to hand Kick his rifle.
“Thanks Rifleman, seems like the only thing I was ever good at sometimes.” Kick seemed to lighten some as he accepted his weapon back.
“Don’t sweat it too much; you’ll get better at this Army shit. Everyone starts somewhere.”
Balachenko slung his machine gun over his shoulder. “Hey stop shining Rand and hurry the fuck up. We still gotta put weapons back in the Armory and I’m not missing the rush-hour discount at Koko’s on your account..”
Rand crossed his fingers at Balachenko while he snatched up the MAAWS. They were all going to the same place anyways.
Lucy reclined in her chair in the Regiment’s conference room, it was a welcome relief that the movement didn’t send her jolting back to standing. The drugs were actually doing something for a change. She could still feel it though. She wasn’t sure if it was better or worse to know that there was really something stuck in there. A tiny fragment of Greendome buried inside a wrapping of scar tissue slowly wiggling and cutting with every movement. She tried to banish the thought.
A large portrait of The Regiment’s first commander Col. S.P. Schopenhauer leered at her from the wall. Cererian by birth and Martian by circumstance as was more common in those early days, he had that tall gaunt look of a Belter with some extra muscle slapped on by physical training or perhaps a flattering artist. Here he was depicted behind an ancient looking map table in URM Army field fatigues. Leaning forward onto it and staring directly at the viewer, his face was ever so slightly underlit by the upward glow of primitive holographics.
She knew what kind of Soldier he was, everyone in the Regiment, Officer at least, had memorized his exploits, dissected his battles to the nth degree. But what kind of man was he? What was it like swallowing the bitter pill of defeat? To strive so valiantly and fail? To surrender your command and your dignity to your oppressor in order to spare the lives of those in your charge? To live never knowing that the darkness you saw descend in your own time would one day recede? She found it an imminently unenviable position. Dalia’s words resurfaced as she examined the portrait. Your pride or your goals?
Soft footfalls on the far side of the door pulled her back to reality. Even after all this time she had never really quite learned how to switch off. Of course she would never tell anyone, but the occasional loud noise would set her heart racing. Agoraphobia sometimes gripped her when she had to cross an open cobblestone street; like a Federal would pop out of the second story of Mumfort Brudders boutique across from her and Sam’s apartment to huck something round and explody at her on the way to the tram stop. It always passed, but the vigilance remained.
Dalia opened the door and Lucy smiled; the comparatively tiny figure that followed her quickly extinguished the spark.
“What the fuck are you doing here? I thought you were on con-leave” Stewart huffed.
“To get the Operation Yukatan Resolve in brief, same as you.” Lucy replied.
Stewart just folded her arms and sat down, waving her bond chip wrist over the small placard at her station. It blinked to life, projecting ‘G Co. CO (R) Capt. M.E. Stewart’ for the benefit of those who would be joining the brief remotely. Dalia sat beside her and quickly did the same, ‘G Co. XO (R) Lt. D.T. Rinwell’ blinking on. Shifting her Sirenese name into the vacant middle was an interesting compromise.
Lucy’s silent battle of locked eyes and clashing aura with Stewart only lasted a few moments before the rest of the party arrived and disturbed the engagement. Khultz, Tiernabok, Capt. Giavelli of Weapons Company and Capt. Mbani of Headquarters, all towing their Executive Officers, joined them at the table and immediately set to networking while they awaited the arrival of the Field Grades.
Mbani leaned forward slightly to look past his XO. “Lucy.”
“Jon.” she returned.
“You’re Red on Dental; killing the whole Company’s HR metrics right now.”
Lucy rolled her eyes. Somehow there was nothing more pressing than scheduling a dental appointment two and a half months in advance.
“I’ll make an appointment when I have some spare time. Where are you at with drawing Class 1? I don’t want a repeat of the last incident.”
Mbani wrung his hands and twisted his mouth for a second before he replied. “The ROS is in, they should be here tomorrow. Even if CLB-32 fucks us over again and drops the pallets here instead of at the Range, Distro platoon will be able to haul it out there. I have Dust Control scheduled for daily Logpacks through next week.”
He might not have thought about it until she had dragged it up as a potentiality, but Jon Mbani could be trusted to figure those sorts of things out. Lucy glanced across the table again, Madaline Stewart could not.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
The Old Crow threw open the door. “Attention for the Colonel!”
Col. Mallock made his way in, quickly giving an “at ease” before they were even fully upright. A throng of field grades followed him and quickly seated themselves.
Major Deemo pulled out his chair while prodding her with his elbow. “There’s a surprise for you later.” he whispered.
She flashed him a bemused look while a Signal Corporal fiddled with the teleconference projector. It burst to life a few moments later, flashing a quick ‘CONNECTING’ warning before two Staff Captains, one Rifle and one Intel, both wearing VII Expeditionary Corps patches shimmered into existence.
Glancing the first briefer up and down Lucy placed her easily. Definitely from Arsia, she could’ve been sibkin with Yarbrough if she hadn’t been a few years older, of a very similar genetype at the very least. “My name is MI Captian Shivelle, I’m currently serving as the Collections and Means manager for CJTF North G2. I’d like to take a moment to remind everyone present that the contents of this briefing are Secret, releasable to MISAM-Y partner nations only. Anthony.” Shivelle passed the floor to her partner.
The Rifle Captain stepped forward. Lucy had a much harder time with him, and the 4th Rifle Division - Headquarters Battalion flash on his chest wasn’t helping. “Good afternoon Colonel, Ladies and Gentleman, my name is Rifle Captain Callaghan, I’m the G3 Assistant Plans Officer here at Combined Joint Task Force North.”
The moment he opened his mouth she instantly pegged him. Pavish. You could never really tell for certain what kind of Martian someone was until they started speaking.
“My preemptive apologies for the delay, round trip time is about five minutes from here in Oaxaca to back home so if you could please make a note of your questions and submit them we’ll address them at the end. The commanders of TF-111, and the Senatorii Brigade will be joining us later on to make introductions.”
Motioning with a clicker, Callaghan summoned a familiar looking projection of Central Amerigo. “Let me begin by orienting you to the map. North seeking arrow is here.” He circled a compass rose with his pointer.
Nothing had really changed from the weekly intel summaries that were sent out Army wide to most staff officers and planners with the easily acquired clearance. The border was mostly symbolic, but the ‘Line of Actual Control’ shifted a K or two north or south on a weekly basis depending on how bold the Mexigan Army was feeling.
Though the interstate conflict had chilled since The Great Sergei Petrova’s expeditionary force had thrown the UN Coalition over the mountains, the Mexigans had just kept on as though the Yukatan Republic was just a rebellious province. Though the intensity of the conflict had dialed back by several orders of magnitude the Mexigan Army and their allies were still massed across the LOAC as a contingency. Border clashes had been a regular occurrence over the past ten years and they were almost done by arrangement at this point. They were a known quantity and could be handled with conventional means at least. In less populous areas, closer to the mountainous center of the country, the border may as well have been nonexistent. The Huerta Guerillas crossed freely and operated with relative impunity throughout the hinterlands.
When the formal war had largely frozen, the country was still in disarray and the Huerta movement had sprung up as a fifth column, supposedly representing everyone who still wanted unity with the north. After a heated debate at the highest levels of the Imperial government over whether to continue the march north and ‘liberate’ the entire country or consolidate their position, the Martian troops already in-country stood down from the attack and transitioned into The Martian International Security Assistance Mission - Yukatan.
They started by building new nexuses of security in Veracruz and Villahermosa and then blitzing south through the lowlands, first with the goal of linking them with the Independence Government’s strongholds in Chiapas, and then along the Yucatan peninsula itself to secure the country’s southern half. The Martian Imperial system’s collapse stalled the effort a third of the way through, with previously bypassed cities still hotly contested. The transition from a unified Imperial force to a ‘coalition of the willing’ under Worlds Development Forum oversight put any offensive effort on pause while the new system got its bearings.
A turnover in leadership following Sergei Petrova’s mysterious death and significantly reduced scope set the war on again at a glacial pace. MISAF switched from ‘blitz and bypass’ to a methodical campaign of seize, clear, and build. Once things had cooled down in an area with strongpoints and infrastructure firmly established they passed off control to locals and moved onto the next town or city. The past half decade had yielded slow but promising results, succeeding in squeezing the Huertas out of the peninsula entirely.
Sam had fought with 5th Grenadiers in the last big battle of that campaign, at Cancun about two years ago now. The Huertas with their backs to the ocean and cut off fresh fighters and supplies from Guatemala and Belize, made one final stand in the city proper. It had been a hard fought and bloody victory for the Martians.
1st Rifles had last been a part of a subordinate Northern effort at the same time, clearing Jalapa and the rest of lowland Veracruz to relieve pressure and draw reinforcements away from the south. It was bitter repetitive fighting, with only tenuous gains to show for their efforts.
Now with the southern half of the country finally under some modicum of control, an end was conceivably in sight and there was finally a sense of building momentum. The bulk of forces could be reoriented north to finish quashing the rebellion against the rebellion while simultaneously solidifying the de facto border. The herculean task that lay ahead of them however, was unrooting the guerillas from their strongholds in the north and central highlands along with a thousand different scattered towns and cities. The Huertas generally had a much easier time bringing in support from the North, the fluid situation of rolling skirmishes with Mexigo and occasionally their other Earther allies made the local government’s grip tenuous at best and the terrain was generally much less permissive for large formations and logistics.
More troops were required, and Tharsis had answered the call. 2nd Battalion would have their own little slice of the oncoming campaign, right there in- she followed Callaghan’s pointer as he finished his portion- Ixlan. Captain Shivelle stepped forward and began orienting them to their adjacent units.
The Amazonian Senatorii Light Combined-Arms Brigade had a much bigger piece just west of them. North and East, even farther into the mountains, Task Force One-Eleven had a slightly larger chunk of ground to secure then their own, less populous but more rugged. Their icon had a simple Martian tri-color rather than an actual national flag. She only gave it half a mind’s attention. The smaller contributors like Elysium, various belter states, and Jovian moons, tended to be aggregated together into chunks of about Battalion size before being sent forward; it simplified logistics and control.
Shivelle pressed on and Lucy tried her best to keep pace with the briefing, rapidly filling inknote pages as Captain Shivelle prattled off factoids rapid fire. Callaghan had started slow but Shivelle was blinking through slides at light speed. Local officials, important dates, pillars of the economy, various pieces of key terrain and infrastructure in the immediate area, demographic breakdown, the list went on. It was all very much a ten thousand meter view; an introduction to the mission for the decision makers which would be elaborated on at great length when they were actually on ground, but she still wanted the best picture she could manage. It was tantalizing in a way; so many problems to solve. A real challenge.
“Nina.” Callaghan clicked his fingernail on his chrono’s face repeatedly as she flipped to the next slide. “Adjacent Commanders are on two.”
Shivelle suddenly flustered, “Shi- right.” She’d inadvertently kept at least two foreign senior officers on hold. Fiddling with the clicker for a moment two more ghostly figures joined them at the table in previously vacant chairs, one of which was right across from Lucy.
Yuri’s projection leaned forward slightly with a smile that never reached his eyes. “The sun rises, Lyssa.”
That bullet hole in his face bored into her vision. He was reciting their native colloquialisms and playing nice, how surprising given their last encounter. She glanced down, silver oak leaves, he had gone and gotten himself promoted and secured a command too. “Yuri,” she returned coldly.
Callaghan switched to Anglish and his Pavish accent became even more obvious. Lucy glanced left towards the Amazonian. Both of them were wearing Western Coalition rank insignia, it must’ve been a compromise mandated by some MISAM order. “Colonel Pattakos, Lieutenant Colonel Petrova, good afternoon. Our apologies for the delay.” Callaghan turned back to Balalaika and Col. Mallock seated at the head of the table. “Ma’am, Colonel Pattakos commands the Senatorii Brigade on your left flank. The Amazonian gave a cursory wave, he seemed more focused on his projected counterpart. Apparently news that Petrovas could rise from the dead hadn’t yet reached Amazonia. “Lt. Col. Petrova has command of Task Force One-Eleven. Your Golf company will be OPCON to him in theatre.”
Lucy’s heart blazed at his pronouncement. Cutlass, under his command, with Stewart at the helm. Familiar resentful anger boiled in her gut; this had to be some kind of nightmare, simultaneous theft and insult. She grimaced and gripped at her leg under the table to cage its sudden tremor while a jolt of electric pain shot up through her hip. Major Deemo’s silent chuckling at her best attempt to maintain composure made the nightmare all too real.
Stewart herself seemed unsure if this was a blessing or a curse. Dalia just kept silently flicking her eyes back and forth between the two Petrovas. The resemblance must’ve been uncanny.
There was nothing she could do but sit there and quietly fume while the brief continued and the episode of pain slowly subsided. It hurt, agonizingly so, but it seemed almost muted compared to the day prior. Perhaps it was better, perhaps frustration was blotting it out.
Stewart had seemingly given up on the briefing and was already trying to suck up to her brother, leaning across the table to introduce herself and Dalia while simultaneously minimizing the latter's achievements and aggrandizing her own as much as possible.
It was disgusting, a proud White Army Riflemen openly debasing themselves for the approval of a Hesperian, at least a Cydonian-come-Hesperian. Evidently her brother shared her natural revulsion to Stewart although he effectively cloaked it in politeness; Stewart was too self-absorbed to notice. Yuri threw a few knowing looks towards Col. Mallock in between Stewart’s incessant slathers of butter. No one willingly sent away their best.
As for Dalia, he had seen her Rift Guards badge when Stewart moved to introduce her and that was all he needed to know. Hatred wrapped in begrudging respect flashed for a moment and then quickly disappeared behind his diplomatic persona. The expression only touched his original eye for a moment, some partial paralysis of the facial muscle around his scar rendered the other incapable of emoting strongly.
Callaghan and Shivelle wrapped up their briefing not long after, and Col. Mallock dismissed most of them to carry on with the plan of the day, only holding Stewart and Dalia back to converse more with their counterparts.
Seeing the phantom again had dredged up all those old feelings as she made her way out. Lucy paused at the door, turning around to look at Yuri’s projection one last time before she left. He was faced away, still conversing with Stewart. His hair was short, closely faded on the back and sides with just enough to part on top. There. The cut rendered his other scar plainly visible: a round bald spot four or five centimeters across on the right rear of his head. She hadn’t seen it previously because it had been barely covered by his cap. How had he survived?
As if sensing her gaze, he turned, looking over his left shoulder and again exposing the entrance wound on his cheek and new eye. All the pieces suddenly assembled. It had been just like this. He had been lying face down, and turned to look his killer in the eye.
Her mind flashed to that old and unshaven Federal all the way back at Pavlov's house. The only time she had killed and known it. Rapidly bleeding out from a near dozen shots to the groin and pelvis, he had still impotently shielded himself from a quick death with his hands. He’d closed eyes, unwilling to confront his own morality even while it loomed over him, rifle in hand.
Yuri though, he had faced it eyes wide open. It was the last thing that eye ever saw.
“Malitka, I hope you’ve had time to reflect on our prior discussion.” He called out in their native, turning more completely to face her.
“I have, nothing has changed,” she responded in kind.
He shook his head slightly, once again almost amused by her supposed naivete. “There is always time. When your Battalion arrives at Sunshine Acre, please seek me out.”
His conciliatory tone plucked at something loose in her chest that she immediately tried to tie it down with resentment. “I’ll consider it.”
His projection rose from its seat. “We are still flesh and blood.” She moved to turn away and he paused her one final time. “And Lyssa, do remember his instructions.”
“Never discredit the name,” she repeated. Only one of them had lived by that rule by her measure. Without even offering Stewart another word, the link cut and the phantom disappeared.
Koko’s #1 Curry House was only a few K from the Fort Fortune Main gate, and right off a mainline tram stop. They’d been trying to make a tradition of meeting for some not-god-awful food before any big field event, but things were a bit shaky still. Peblt and Yuel had both made noise about coming but were both as of yet unaccounted for. Malcolm and Neubach wouldn’t detach themselves from their beloved Kingdom and Nikolaev had flatly refused because Cpl. Muchen wasn’t coming. Rand swore they were attached at the hip.
He did have some takers though. Priveda had already sent an on the way message, having sprinted directly from the RAMP to her barracks room to clean up as soon as she and Volk finished after ops PMCS on Red 2. Shielbek and Donphrit were packed into Balachenko’s Sprinter and stuck behind a 5th Grenadier’s convoy going 30kph under the limit down Rifle Ridge Road. Rand had just ridden down the centerline and passed them easily on his cycle; it did have some advantages. Svertson and Kick were coming but both locked in with First Sergeant and Top Knute at the Company Office to be released at their mercy; no one knew when that would be.
For now, it was just him and Tybalt here holding down a table for ten. Tybalt was staring at the menu while mindlessly stroking his barely 1cm long hair. He’d just started to grow it out and while Balachenko had done his best to clean him up with a decent fade, he was stuck in some terrible buzz cut purgatory for now. It reminded Rand a lot of his childhood action figures, the kind with kung-fu grip and ‘life-like’ felt hair that just attracted lint.
Tybalt picked a stray fuzz off his head and flicked it under the table. “Dude, do you really think we’re hiking out tomorrow? I really don’t want to do that shit again.”
Rand glanced the menu up and down on his comm out of habit. He was going to order the exact same thing he always did. “I feel like they would’ve told us already if they were. Like, why would we? Most of the vehicles are back, rest of 1st Platoon will be back tomorrow, we should just be able to ride out like we did to go do the heavy weapons range or the last time we did squad live-fire.”
Tybalt set his comm down and pulled the self-serve terminal over.
“Wait until everyone else gets here, you know the rules.” Rand chided.
“I’m hungry.” Tybalt grumbled.
“Who even told you that rumor?” Rand asked, ignoring his complaint.
Tybalt begrudgingly slid the tender away. “Chekent, he said the new Skipper just came up with the idea this afternoon.”
Rand cocked his head. “This afternoon? What? That shit takes way longer than that. I think Chekent is bullshitting you.”
“I dunno man, he seemed pretty serious about it, he ain't exactly the biggest fan of the new boss either.”
“They have to submit all this paperwork if we move dismounted. CASEVAC plan, risk assessment, and so on, at least publish an order. Captain Petrova showed me all this stuff when she was planning the last Rifle Qual.”
Tybalt looked at him incredulously. “Mars, you really were her little orderly weren’t you?”
Rand frowned for a moment but continued. “I just mean there’s a way this stuff has to go, at least give some advanced warning. Like- what are the Troop Leading Procedures.”
Tybalt stared at the ceiling. “Uh, receive the mission.”
“Okay, what’s step two?” Rand continued quizzing.
“Issue the WARNO?”
“Wrong!” Svertson announced, grinning as he strutted to the table and plopped himself in a chair. “Tell no one!”
Kick was another two steps behind him, coyly sliding in while Svertson continued ranting. “Rand, you’ve got a little too much faith this shit ain’t been slapped together at the last second.”
He just raised an incredulous eyebrow in response. Surely there were systems in place; rules to be followed.
“I’s just in the Company office half an hour ago, Trickie Nik and El-Tee Steiner were in there with the new XO all hunched over a terminal trying to square the circle. We’re walking.”
Tybalt leaned over the table towards Kick. “You better get the megacurry boot, you’re gonna want the calories.”
Kick gave a very serious “check, rodge, Rifleman,” and began studying the menu like there would be a test later. Svertson flicked Kick a dismissive glance and rolled his head around.
“What did First Sarn’t want to talk to you about?” Rand probed.
“An absolute fucking nightmare curse. First day off of barracks confinement and this fucker just has to hold me back after and chew my ear off.” Svertson groaned. “He wants to promote me.”
“Aren’t you on promotion restriction for another five months, how the fuck are they gonna make that work?” Rand continued.
Svertson was completely over it. “Not even that shit could save me, we just don’t have any NCO’s. First Sarn’t was grilling Verac before me, conned him into extending his contract for another year to take over 2nd Squad since Seevo’s out. On top of that the new Skipper, Captain Stewart, refused to sign his clearing papers until he caved. Senior went to pitch for both of us and I never seen him so close to goin’ critical before. Like, I’ve intentionally failed the regular promotion board three times now, how hard is it to understand?”
“They think you’ve got leadership potential, buddy.” Tybalt grinned.
Svertson jabbed him with an elbow under the table and Tybalt’s grin flipped into a wince. “Just because I can keep you retards from eating your own shit when it counts doesn’t mean I want to do it all the time.”
With a sigh Rand looked away through the window and onto the street. A familiar looking Cyton SuperSport was weaving through traffic and shot through a light, skidding to a stop outside. A few seconds later, a Kolox sprinter with mismatched body panels swerved over the median to cut ahead of the traffic and into an alley to park. Triumphantly flashing crossed fingers at the Sprinter, Priveda quickly parked her bike next to Rand’s and proceeded inside. A dozen meters further a very angry looking Balachenko reversed into a narrow spot in the alley and climbed out his driver's side window. The door latch was apparently still broken. Donphrit ducked out the working passenger side and Sheilbek crawled out of the back seat after him looking genuinely shaken by the wild ride he’d just endured.
Still grinning victoriously, Priveda seated herself beside him and tucked her helmet under her chair while Balachenko stomped over to the table. “Let’s do it for chips next time, Ballie; you’d look a lot better riding the tram.”
“Have a little fucking class will you.” Balachenko replied while throwing a few folded bills at her.
Priveda snatched the cash off the table and held it up for Rand’s benefit while playfully winking. “This one’s on me Theo.”
He couldn’t help but smile a little, and it just seemed to burn Balachenko even more. “Did she tell you her and Corporal Volk demolished a cow at Gunnery?”
“How the fuck have you heard about that already?!” Priveda flared back.
Balachenko smirked, sensing he’d touched a fresh never. “Oh everyone’s heard about that already-” Rand flipped a puzzled look between the two of them. “-Well, everyone except bigshot over here.”
Priveda glanced towards him for a second then turned back to Balachenko. “It was fucking bullshit anyways, Senior Kelhoffer didn’t check-fire the range!”
Balachenko erupted with another poorly cloaked insult and Priveda just started talking over him before he even finished the first half of his sentence. The shit slinging commenced in earnest. They were arguing with each other, but they both just kept looking at him in between exchanges. He struggled internally while the bickering escalated, searching for something to mediate between the Pavin hothead and Ridge City loudmouth.
“Like, you didn’t even check? That seems pretty fucking amateurish to me.” Balachenko continued goading.
“What the fuck do you even know about Gunnery, Balachenko? You can barely operate that fucking scrap-title Sprinter.”
Rand glanced under the table, Priveda was holding her helmet in one hand. If Ballie kept going she was going to lurch across the table and try to bash his skull in with it.
“Well, I mean if nothing really bad happened it kinda doesn’t matter. Like no one got hurt, no one got number 31’d, right?” Rand interrupted.
Betrayal washed across Mikhael Balachenko’s face and Siobhán Priveda grinned in triumphant glory. Setting her helmet down, she pulled at Rand’s arm to peck him on the cheek. All Rand could feel was this tinge of regret that certain things couldn’t be unsaid.
“Red fucking Mars, Ballie, relax. For someone who talks so much shit you sure got thin skin.” Svertson exasperated as Balachenko pouted. “What are you even burned about? Rand isn’t gonna fuck you anyways.”
The three boots cackled at Svertson’s jab and Balachenko just folded his arms and sank farther into his chair. “Now,” Svertson turned his attention towards Priveda. “Are Yuel and Peblt coming or not?”
She glanced at her comm. “Should be here in a few.”
“Better be, I’m starving already,” Tybalt grumbled.
She still felt a little grubby, the barracks showers were running cold and she had suffered enough for the past week at Furness. She wasn’t going to extend her misery by staying in there any longer than absolutely necessary to get an 80% solution. Field dirty took at least a couple good rinses to get off anyways, and there were errands to take care of as soon as possible.
Volk glanced down at his room placard while knocking, he had hastily blacked out the ‘Corporal’ part of Rifleman Corporal with a marker rather than make a whole new one. Silence.
She knocked again. “Sean, answer the door.”
There was some muted rustling behind the door, a moment later the hatch cracked open and his ashen grey visage peered through the gap. “What do you want; I don’t need to check in for another hour.”
“I’m not here for your restriction sheet, I-.” She held up a small paper bag from the shoppette. “ I got you some stuff… Are you holding up?”
The one bloodshot eye peering through the slit rolled down to the bag and then back up. “More or less, mostly less.”
“You wanna talk about it?” She offered with a grumble. She hated doing this, but if she didn’t look out for him, no one would. It had already been two weeks, but sobriety was evidently still kicking his ass. He’d gone from passing out every night in a drunken stupor to a permanent zombie-like insomnia.
The door eased closed and then opened wide. Seevan stood behind it, looking completely exhausted. Without another word he turned away and shambled over towards his bed and sat down. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. It was so utterly barren here; it didn’t used to look like this.
Seevan motioned to a stack of trinkets on his desk, a few printed picts and some take home souvenirs from their first trip to the blue-wet-one. “You want any of this shit? Trying to clear out all of it before I leave.”
Inspecting the pile of pictures was stepping back in time. The Old-old platoon, back when Lt. Fassler had just taken over. Another of Sean, herself, Kelly, and at the time Corporal Weiss crouched smiling over a green pop-up target she had neatly sawn the head off with an LMG. There were also a few trinkets, one of those shrieking death-whistles a local had conned him into buying. A small plushy from the solar-famous J.J. Impact Amusement Park on Ceres from when they ported on the way over. It was all ancient, she had no idea he’d kept all this stuff safe for so long.
“If you’re not gonna take any of it, I’m just gonna toss it. I don’t plan on leaving anything behind.”
Volk glanced back towards him, he looked like he was stuck in a permanent hang-over, and the rumpled set of utilities he wasn’t allowed to take off while on restriction weren’t helping.
“Sean, what are you talking about they’re just gonna put all of our shit in storage like the last two times we deployed.”
He just grunted and looked away vacantly while she continued. “Has Senior told you you’re swapping with Verac yet? Sarn’t Rose from 1st Platoon is taking over 1st Squad and Verac’s taking 2nd.”
“Just my fucking luck, Sarn’t Rose already hates me.” Seevan sighed. “Doesn’t matter anyways.”
His resignation scared her, chilled her right to the bone. She glanced around again, the place was immaculately clean and everything he owned had been nearly packed up and squared away except for the gear he was taking to the range tomorrow. Her hands trembled and balled up around the plush rabbit, its eyes bulging as all the fluff squished to its head. Jerking around she cocked her arm back and hucked it at him.
“Sean you fucking moron. You never think about anyone but yourself. You think I don’t realize what you're doing?!”
Seevan squinted and leaned backwards and away from her sudden outburst. “What are you even on about.”
She stomped towards him. “That’s it, that’s all you’ve got to say? You’re so fucking weak you don’t even want to fight anymore?”
“Not particularly.” Seevan snorted. She cocked her arm back to slap him. He just looked away, not even attempting to defend himself. “Just do it if it’ll make you feel better.”
She dropped her hand as he silently continued averting his gaze. “What the fuck has gotten into you? You think you can just check out; just call it quits and paste yourself at the range and everything will be all hunky dory without you? You’re really just gonna lay down and die, leave me and Maude, and everyone else here alone?”
His eyes flicked back to her as his lower lip began to quiver, the facade of indifference finally cracking.
“You don’t get to quit. Regardless of what you think, there are so many people still counting on you, people who need you. It’s not an option. Not while I’m here, not while Maude is still fighting every day, and not while there’s still a job for you to do. You have a duty to fulfill”
He leaned forward and buried his head in his hands to hide his shame while she suppressed a frustrated growl. Why did he make this so hard? Why couldn’t he stop doing this to himself? Why? He looked so pathetic, but also so wounded. Something in his agony finally wore through her armor and she couldn’t summon the anger to reject it anymore. Letting go, she sat down beside him and put her hand on his shoulder while his break ran its course.
“I’m such a fucking coward.” he choked out.
“We always have a choice,” she offered calmly.
Regaining some composure, he wiped at his nose with his sleeve. “Trish, I think you’re the last real friend I got.”
She rummaged through the paper bag and presented a pack of Zone Victor Reds and motioned to the door. “Come on, let’s go smoke. It’ll help; I’ll even let you keep the pack.”
After they’d finished stuffing themselves completely with rouxed purk curry and rice Priveda had convinced him to join her for another trip to Vermillion Reservoir. He did have to be up early, but it wasn’t too late for now and they had their own special spot now.
He liked it because it led right to a disused dock on the far side of the dommed shore that was generally inaccessible to foot traffic. There were less competitors, and a nice estuary full of aquatic plant life that fish liked to gather around. She liked it because getting there involved cutting through Shepards Dunes Park on the outside of the city. Blitzing across the undulating red silt full throttle was about as close as she got to living her cross-outback rally dreams for the time being. He also thought that part was also pretty fun, but his Adventure was heavier than her SuperSport and didn’t have quite nearly the same power. It inevitably got bogged once or twice on the way over and needed to be dug out. That was more than fine, it really just gave her more time to shred.
Once they’d snuck through the service entrance back into the Reservoir dome he quickly set about assembling his rod and picking an appropriate artificial bait. He had another smaller collapsible kiddie rod and a few night crawlers for her tucked away. Carp, sea-trout, crappie, bass, they all really did want to eat worms but, the art was in tricking the fish.
“Fuck me, it’s still cold.”
Rand looked away from his tackle box. Priveda had her boots off and pants rolled up and was dangling her feet into the water from the edge of the dock. “Still mid summer, won’t warm much more up until it’s nearly fall again. Good for us though, better oxygen retention in the water. Keeps the fish happy.”
He set his rod aside and quickly threw the back up together then resumed rummaging through his tackle box.
Priveda stood up and darted over as soon as he pulled out the small plastic tin.“Oh, are you getting the worms? Can I?”
“Uh-sure, just don’t drop ‘em, kind of expensive.” He passed the tub over and Siobhán excitedly began digging through it with her fingers.
His sister had absolutely abhorred anything that wasn’t fuzzy and on four legs, even nearly had a panic attack after getting gently investigated by a harmless bumble bee at the greenspace when they were kids. Perhaps Mr. Rand had told Neravella ‘the botfly story’ one too many times. Watching Priveda’s excitement as she pulled up a large wriggling nightcrawler was down right refreshing. She just made everything feel new and exciting again.
He passed her a set of forceps already locked around a hook. “Now you can either kind of skewer it lengthwise or just weave it through a couple times.”
With a bit of fiddling and a comical amount of focus she skewered the worm a few times. She held it up for him to inspect. “Good?”
He nodded and she beamed again, darting over to the edge of the dock to cast. She forgot to unlock the bail on her first attempt, sending the impaled worm spinning around the end of the rod by the hook. He chuckled and she flashed an embarrassed smile before sending a second more successful cast. Turning back to his tackle box, he finally found what he was looking for. A plastic frog floater. Though all of these fish probably had never seen a real amphibian, they just couldn’t seem to resist it. He quickly threaded it onto his line and then carefully adjusted the tension, moving next to her and accurately side arming the frog in between a few bunches of reeds.
Priveda settled back onto the dock, dipping her toes in and out of the water as she watched a swarm of small aquatic insects dash back and forth across the surface near one of the pilings, hardly giving any mind to her bobber as it slowly drifted.
He twitched his bait a little and really couldn’t help but smile. This place was the picture of serenity. A few automated barges floated through the center of the reservoir bound for the City proper, and on the far shore another K away he could see a few people idling away the time on the manicured grass or toying with kayaks near the opposite dock.
They were all far removed from that, here at their own private dock. Siobhán seemed similarly content, but her fascination was more on the tiny signs of life all around them. The ecological portion of the reservoir certainly wasn’t anywhere near as diverse as its earthly equivalent, but it did serve as a template for things to come. A concept sketch of what the whole planet might look like given another hundred years to finish cooking. A slice of man-made nature.
In general, Martians did not have a concept of nature as most Earthers understood it. Things in themselves certainly did have an essential character which always arose; people had a ‘nature’ for certain. That portion of the idea was core to the whole Red Planet experience. However, that conception of a harmonious whole of being, of cyclical interconnected systems which humans could only disturb. It simply did not exist, because here, those processes did not exist. Everything was carefully crafted, curated, and manufactured.
“Theo?”
“Hmmp?”
“What’re you gonna do after? Like, after we’re done with all this Army shit I mean.”
He twitched his bait and gave her a glance. She was still dangling her feet in the water, now gazing off into the distance. “Not sure. I don’t think I’m gonna stay in, though.” Really, he was already decided. One enlistment and done; he wanted to know some peace before he died. “What about you?”
“Been thinking about that myself lately. Just, I dunno. Kinda scared of the idea of leaving all this behind. Didn’t really have much choice coming in, but it really was for the best. Even after everything that’s happened.”
He twitched his bait again. “Well, I wouldn’t worry about it too much. We still got a few years of this ahead of us. Plenty of time to figure out the details.” He put up a casual facade for a moment, but he felt some familiar dread return as he thought of what lay ahead.
She looked back at him, still smiling, “ You know, if that magistrate hadn’t given me the Army or Hard Labour talk we’d’ve never met.”
The dread disappeared as he met her eyes. “You never did tell me all of that story.”
She shrugged easily. “Not much to tell, got caught sellin’ sterilized vehicle registration chips. I guess that’s tax fraud and petty larceny or something.” She tipped her head away and mirrored his twitch on her line. “Had to make ends meet somehow.”
She was casual about it, but when she spoke of her past before the Army it just highlighted the different worlds they’d come from. He had people who were looking out for him, could’ve done anything he wanted out of school.
She never had much of a choice; labourer, petty criminal, or Soldier. Those were the three choices for someone raised out of Pavin City Human Development barring some act of secular god in the form of truly exceptional academic achievement. She’d cycled through two those options already. For him it seemed like a terrible mistake at times. For her, this life had been an escape from everything she had been born into. He could see why she was scared; leaving meant starting over, perhaps even going farther back.
“Y’know, if it makes you feel any better, I’m sure my old man ’d take you in on apprentice when we’re done with all this. He knows some people in the dirt-track circles too.”
Siobhán just smiled and leaned into him. “Like you said, plenty of time to figure all that out.”
The tiny plastic frog disappeared under the water and he jerked his rod to sink the hook and tightened his drag to prevent the fish from running out too much line. “Siobhán, here.” He offered her his pole and she jumped at the chance, quickly scrambling to her feet and trading with him as line ripped off his reel. “He’s already sunk, just bring him in.”
She cranked away frantically and almost lost the entire rod when the fish yanked and bolted away again. “Fuck me this thing must be like ten kilos.” she blurted out while regripping the pole, propping it against her hip for better leverage.
“Big fish, bigger Rifleman, just tire ‘em out and he’ll come in, babe.” He coached while she kept cranking. With time the fish's jolts of resistance slowed and eventually stopped, letting her reel it up to the dock. He knelt down and grabbed the line, pulling the wriggling seatrout out of the water.
“Nice work, not exactly what I’d call 10 kilos though.” he joked, grabbing it by the lip and snatching a gauge out of his tacklebox. “Nice Brown Seatrout, little over 40cm. It’s a keeper if you want him.”
“Well, you always throw them back right?” she asked while setting down the rod.
He nodded. “Should at least grab a pict.” He swiftly dug the hook out of its lip and then held the seatrout out to her. “Here.”
Without even a moment's hesitation she took the fish, gently grabbing near its tail and belly, while he searched pockets for his comm. She held it up to eye level for a closer look. “These things are so cool. A little slimy, almost?”
Sensing a moment of weakness as all fish are known to, it suddenly flopped as hard as it could. Thrashing back and forth it wriggled out of her grip, bouncing off dock, splashing into the water, and disappearing into the depths again in a single instant.
Siobhan stomped her foot and crossed her fingers at the water. “Fucking savarshi prick, all I wanted was a picture.”
Rand chuckled. “Well now you’ve got your own ‘one that got a way’ story.”
