Battletech I, Caesar (Battletech)
- Thread starter Culsu
- Start date
I will update this post as the story progresses. Images, unless specified otherwise, have been created using the MidJourney AI generator.
Marius O'Reilly
Born: February 06, 2986 C.E. (Alphard)
Died: June 16, 3048 C.E. (OT)
The third person in the O'Reilly dynasty to assume the title of Emperor, in 3009 C.E. Marius O'Reilly is a tall, atlethic young man with thick red-blond hair. He ist he older brother of Sylvana O'Reilly. He is advised by his former tutor, a foreign-born slave called Posca. Marius O'Reilly is a trained mechwarrior, using a custom Marauder battlemech.
Sylvana O'Reilly
Born: September 23, 2990 C.E. (Alphard)
Died:
Second child of Emperor Gaius Mercer O'Reilly and Lucretia Miller. Slim young woman with auburn hair and pale skin, currently studying law and economics and interning at the Alphard Trading Company with the intention of eventually leading it.
„Posca" (Hannibal Patrev Hargraves)
Born: May 27, 2953 C.E. (Stewart)
Died:
A native of the Free Worlds League, Posca was a student of history and economics at one of Stewart's local colleges and later became enrolled in ist PhD program. Taking part in a field study on interstellar colonization he was abducted in a pirate raid on Campoleone in 2977 C.E. and later sold on the slave markets of Suetonius, from where he found himself employed by a minor branch of the O'Reilly family. Recommendations brought him the attention of the imperial family when they started to look for a personal tutor for the heir, a role he took on in 2991 C.E. He considers himself mentor and friend to Marius, as far as his station allows it.
Marius O'Reilly
Born: February 06, 2986 C.E. (Alphard)
Died: June 16, 3048 C.E. (OT)
The third person in the O'Reilly dynasty to assume the title of Emperor, in 3009 C.E. Marius O'Reilly is a tall, atlethic young man with thick red-blond hair. He ist he older brother of Sylvana O'Reilly. He is advised by his former tutor, a foreign-born slave called Posca. Marius O'Reilly is a trained mechwarrior, using a custom Marauder battlemech.
Sylvana O'Reilly
Born: September 23, 2990 C.E. (Alphard)
Died:
Second child of Emperor Gaius Mercer O'Reilly and Lucretia Miller. Slim young woman with auburn hair and pale skin, currently studying law and economics and interning at the Alphard Trading Company with the intention of eventually leading it.
„Posca" (Hannibal Patrev Hargraves)
Born: May 27, 2953 C.E. (Stewart)
Died:
A native of the Free Worlds League, Posca was a student of history and economics at one of Stewart's local colleges and later became enrolled in ist PhD program. Taking part in a field study on interstellar colonization he was abducted in a pirate raid on Campoleone in 2977 C.E. and later sold on the slave markets of Suetonius, from where he found himself employed by a minor branch of the O'Reilly family. Recommendations brought him the attention of the imperial family when they started to look for a personal tutor for the heir, a role he took on in 2991 C.E. He considers himself mentor and friend to Marius, as far as his station allows it.
This is the proposed composition of for the infantry legion briefly mentioned in Chapter 2. It's something the Hegemony can set up relatively easy using domestic production, as far as the bulk of the equipment is concerned.
The bottlenecks here are the attached support element (lower right corner), which mostly need to be imported, and the dearth of experienced officers, given the current size of the Marian forces. There is also the issue that the Hegemony is trying to set up it's first combined arms formation at the same time by turning Legio I into their version of an RCT.
Optimistically, the full formation will be combat ready but rated Green by 3015 as more focus is on Legio I.
The bottlenecks here are the attached support element (lower right corner), which mostly need to be imported, and the dearth of experienced officers, given the current size of the Marian forces. There is also the issue that the Hegemony is trying to set up it's first combined arms formation at the same time by turning Legio I into their version of an RCT.
Optimistically, the full formation will be combat ready but rated Green by 3015 as more focus is on Legio I.
This is something I originally wanted to weave into the main narrative but soon found it spiralling out of proportion, so I'll post it as a side story from time to time.
Prologue: Road to... Somewhere
October 3010 C.E.
The bus rattled as it rolled along the dirt road. It was an old model, its newest pieces being the fresh coat of paint – light army blue, with the Marian crest in plain white – it had received a few weeks prior when it had been requisitioned into service.
Dust rose in its wake like a cloud of memories too heavy to dissipate, much like the thoughts swirling in Cerys' head. The landscape outside the window was typical of Adhara - endless golden steppes stretching into the horizon, broken only by clusters of imported olive trees, patches of local man-high purple blade grass that, if whipping in the occasional storm, could cut your skin, and a rocky river bed here and there. Every couple of kilometers, roads would branch off to clusters of houses further down where whole extended families – and their slaves – lived and worked on terraced farms. Above, the two moons were visible in the broad daylight: the larger one, pale and ghostly, like a second sun hanging over the sky, while the smaller one hid shyly behind it, a faint reflection of its counterpart.
The young woman still felt shaky from her trip through space, where she'd had to experience arduous periods of acceleration and deceleration, plus the first hyperspace jump of her life. A lot of new impressions, and not enough time to digest them. Cerys shifted in her seat, feeling the rough fabric of her drab tunic rub against her skin, beads of sweat running down her back. Adhara was warm and dry, warmer than what been her home even, and people had told her that had already been warm. A small upper part of her seat's window could be opened, and she leaned her head up, trying to catch the cooling wind as the bus rumpled along the road. High above, the contrails of shuttles and planetary airplanes crisscrossed the sky.
Her hands gripped her knees, her knuckles white. The uncertainty of what lay ahead gnawed at her. Bootcamp, a seven-year contract in the Legions, was the only way she could earn her freedom. Just getting here had been a journey in itself.
Freedom. The word felt foreign to her, like something from a story, something reserved for others. It wasn't just for herself, though. Withdrawing a faded photograph from a pouch, her thumb stroked softly across its surface. It was a picture of her parents' parents, back on the world they had lived, before Marian raiders had taken them, a long time ago. Even though Cerys had never known them, she felt a direct connection to the smiling men and women. Her parents hadn't really understood her decision to enlist; they did not know any better. But mom had given her the picture that she had kept behind a loose floor board in their small shack, and kissed her good-bye.
She had been born into slavery, a fate that had seemed inevitable for her entire life. Like most slaves, her life had been defined by work and invisibility. A good slave was a silent one. Unnoticed. Obedient. Now, though, the reforms brought by the Emperor meant there was an escape. Her master had been less than thrilled to let her go, but compared to his will the emperor's word was like a mountain compared to a pebble. Now, she just had to survive the next seven years. Seven years of battle, drills, and discipline, and then she could walk away with a new life. The thought both excited and terrified her.
Her dark hair, tied back in a simple short braid, hung limp against her back, and her sun-tanned skin bore the marks of a life spent outdoors, working on the estates of her master's vineyards. She wasn't used to speaking up, wasn't used to people acknowledging her presence unless it was to give her orders. She wasn't sure how she would fit in here, among these recruits. She felt like an outsider already.
The bus lurched again, and the seat next to her creaked as something shifted. She glanced to her right, catching a pair of bright, eager eyes looking her way. A set of teeth that gleamed in the dusty sunlight filtering through the window smiled at her, belonging to a broad-shouldered, somewhat chubby young man with pale skin and auburn hair.
"Hey, I'm Felix," he said, his voice loud and friendly. "Guessh we're both shtuck on thish bush together, huh?"
Cerys blinked, about as surprised about being approached as she was trying to figure out what she just had heard. She hadn't spoken to anyone yet, preferring the relative anonymity of her seat by the window, with what little she owned in a duffle bag kept overhead. But something about Felix's easy grin made her feel less invisible.
"Cerys," she murmured, her voice barely audible over the rumble of the engine. "You're from, ah, Pompey, right?"
"Ey, what gave it away? No wait, it's the hair and the skhin! We all look like thish there!"
Cerys must have looked real stupid that moment as Felix chuckled, then shook his head. "I'm just messing with ya. Nice to meet you, Cerys. Yeah, I'm from Pompey, but I can talk like a normal human. Mosht of the time, at least," he gave her a friendly wink. "So, where you from? What brings you to this, ahm, illustrious place?" he tilted his head to the rest of the bus.
She opened her mouth, then closed it again, unsure how much to reveal. Would they care? Would they look at her differently if they knew she was a slave? Not like there was much of a chance to hide it anyway. But Felix was waiting, his eyes not judging. Just curious.
"I've been on Alphard all my life. Big vineyard on Gaul, actually. Been born there, worked there." She took a deep breath. "You know, for my master."
"Your master?" Auburn brows furrowed in puzzlement before Felix's eyes lit up in understanding. "Oh. Oooh. I get it. So you're-?"
"A slave," Cerys finished for him, her voice a tad sharper than she intended. "Was a slave. Still am? Weird situation, I know. Enlisted to earn my freedom." But her cut sailed right past the Pompeyan recruit, who was all curiosity now.
"Yeah, I had heard of that new law some time ago, but I've never come across somebody who actually did what you're doing. That's brave of you," he said after a moment. "Suppose not everyone would take that chance. Jupiter's ballsack, I'm a pleb through and through. Father's a butcher, mom keeps the siblings in line," he laughed, fondly, "but they looked at me like I'd grown a second head when I told 'em I wanted to enlist. But with all that chaos swallowing up the Palatinate, and the Janos Marik's ugly mug leering our way? Someone's got to stand up to that rat-faced cunt, right?!"
Like a low rumble a murmur of approval ran through the bus.
"Yeah, leave it to us little guys to actually defend the Hegemony!" a short, black-haired man who introduced himself as Matteo exclaimed. "I've got no qualms about getting my hands dirty and getting the job done. Not like our pampered Patrician overlords, sitting things out, right?" Cheers of agreement erupted.
"Little, eh? You mean that figuratively, or literally?" a voice as smooth as silk and hard as steel cut through the clamor, with a low, sarcastic drawl. The man it belonged to looked... polished, was the best word Cerys could find. Tall, really handsome in a way that made her cheeks blush, tanned, blonde. "Feel like saying that to a Patrician with three generations of military service in the family? Like me, perhaps?" Cold eyes fixed on Matteo, and the small commoner looked away. "I'll be leading a unit in no time, and I won't even have to worry about being a slave." He turned back in his seat with his arms crossed, smiling arrogantly at Cerys, who felt her face flush, and her stomach clenched.
A murmur of conversation rippled through the bus, the other recruits exchanging glances, unsure of how to respond. The tension in the air thickened, and Cerys found herself shrinking back into her seat, wishing she could disappear. Her heart raced, and she fought the urge to look away, to make herself small and insignificant again, the way she had her entire life.
Felix's grin faded, and he straightened in his seat. "Doesn't make you better than anyone else, pretty boy," he said, his voice calm but firm. "We're all here for a reason, right?"
The blonde rolled his piercing blue eyes. "Sure, sure. And that's Ronan to you. Ronan Valerius. You lot might be here for the Emperor's reforms or because you're escaping your drab insignificant homes. Doesn't change the fact that we all have different places in society. Some of us... just have better ones."
Cerys clenched her jaw. She wanted to say something, to defend herself, but the words stuck in her throat. She wasn't used to standing up for herself. She wasn't used to being seen.
Another voice broke the silence, this time from a sinewy, slightly older woman seated across from two benches away from Ronan. Her olive skin and sharp eyes gave her a no-nonsense air. "Leave the girl alone," she snapped at the Valerius boy. "Not everyone's born with a silver spoon in their mouth. Some of us actually have to work for what we get." She turned to Cerys and gave her a small nod of encouragement. "Name's Elara. I'm from Ballalaba."
"Try saying that three times in a row when you're drunk!" someone chuckled.
"You can't," Elara didn't break a beat. "Been there, tried that. A lot. Family's been miners for generations, as long as we can think back. I enlisted because I'm tired of breaking rocks. Figured breaking bones was a better way to make a living."
Cerys managed a weak smile. "Nice to meet you," she said softly.
"Same," Elara replied, her tone gentler now.
From the back of the bus, a deep voice rumbled. "I'm Marcus Caius. From Islington." The man who spoke was nothing like his voice indicated: a tall, lanky youth with an awkward smile. His dark skin glistened with sweat from the heat, and going by his expression he was uncomfortable speaking to groups. "Family's fishermen. I'm here 'cause... well, it's either this or fishing for the rest of my life. I'd rather have a chance to do something more."
"Oh please," Valerius muttered and rolled his yes.
"You know, Ronan," Felix slowly turned to him. "Most patricians my family's ever dealt with got their children into a cockpit, regardless of whether that cockpit was attached to a 'mech or an ASF. Strange to see one of our betters down here in a rusty old bus without AC. Did someone fail their aptitude tests?"
That gained him the laughs of half the bus, and caught Ronan Valerius on the wrong foot. "It's, ah, fuck no! It's neurohelmet incompability, you pleb pissbucket!" he spat back aggressively.
"Pleb pissbucket," Felix tapped his head, refusing to take the bait. "Gotta remember that one, thanks. What about your stories, guys?" he addressed the rest, purposely ignoring Ronan.
The conversation slowly started to flow as more of the recruits shared their stories, the tension easing. Cerys found herself listening intently, her insecurities slowly ebbing as the recruits around her revealed their own reasons for enlisting. They all had their struggles, their own motivations for joining the Legions. Most of them were second sons or third daughters, barred from taking over the family trade due to elder siblings, or just stuck in the wrong place, with the Legions looking like a welcome way out. For the first time in a long while, Cerys felt like maybe she wasn't as alone as she thought.
In time everybody on the full bus shared something about them. There was enough time to do so. Camp Avernus was way out in the boonies, and the bus was struggling with the bumpy dirt road. Three times they had to stop to let military columns pass, the APCs, pickups and tanks far more comfortable with the conditions of the causeway. Each time the recruits hollered and cheered at the veiled and dust-caked men and women in uniform as they rushed by. The evening sun was already starting to set, with Cassandra, the bigger of the two moonlets creeping above the horizon, briefly glowing like a newborn star, when the bus stopped a fourth time. This time, men and women on foot, wearing tank tops, tunics and hauling large rucksacks jogged past the bus, bodies and clothes bathed in sweat, breathing heavily as they tried to maintain pace and shout back the cadence the tall woman up front, seemingly unperturbed by exhaustion and heat bellowed at them.
Cerys felt her anxiety return. It would not be long now.
She did not notice the icy stares Ronan shot her way as the bus rattled closer to their destination.
Part 1 – Boot Camp
Prologue: Road to... Somewhere
October 3010 C.E.
The bus rattled as it rolled along the dirt road. It was an old model, its newest pieces being the fresh coat of paint – light army blue, with the Marian crest in plain white – it had received a few weeks prior when it had been requisitioned into service.
Dust rose in its wake like a cloud of memories too heavy to dissipate, much like the thoughts swirling in Cerys' head. The landscape outside the window was typical of Adhara - endless golden steppes stretching into the horizon, broken only by clusters of imported olive trees, patches of local man-high purple blade grass that, if whipping in the occasional storm, could cut your skin, and a rocky river bed here and there. Every couple of kilometers, roads would branch off to clusters of houses further down where whole extended families – and their slaves – lived and worked on terraced farms. Above, the two moons were visible in the broad daylight: the larger one, pale and ghostly, like a second sun hanging over the sky, while the smaller one hid shyly behind it, a faint reflection of its counterpart.
The young woman still felt shaky from her trip through space, where she'd had to experience arduous periods of acceleration and deceleration, plus the first hyperspace jump of her life. A lot of new impressions, and not enough time to digest them. Cerys shifted in her seat, feeling the rough fabric of her drab tunic rub against her skin, beads of sweat running down her back. Adhara was warm and dry, warmer than what been her home even, and people had told her that had already been warm. A small upper part of her seat's window could be opened, and she leaned her head up, trying to catch the cooling wind as the bus rumpled along the road. High above, the contrails of shuttles and planetary airplanes crisscrossed the sky.
Her hands gripped her knees, her knuckles white. The uncertainty of what lay ahead gnawed at her. Bootcamp, a seven-year contract in the Legions, was the only way she could earn her freedom. Just getting here had been a journey in itself.
Freedom. The word felt foreign to her, like something from a story, something reserved for others. It wasn't just for herself, though. Withdrawing a faded photograph from a pouch, her thumb stroked softly across its surface. It was a picture of her parents' parents, back on the world they had lived, before Marian raiders had taken them, a long time ago. Even though Cerys had never known them, she felt a direct connection to the smiling men and women. Her parents hadn't really understood her decision to enlist; they did not know any better. But mom had given her the picture that she had kept behind a loose floor board in their small shack, and kissed her good-bye.
She had been born into slavery, a fate that had seemed inevitable for her entire life. Like most slaves, her life had been defined by work and invisibility. A good slave was a silent one. Unnoticed. Obedient. Now, though, the reforms brought by the Emperor meant there was an escape. Her master had been less than thrilled to let her go, but compared to his will the emperor's word was like a mountain compared to a pebble. Now, she just had to survive the next seven years. Seven years of battle, drills, and discipline, and then she could walk away with a new life. The thought both excited and terrified her.
Her dark hair, tied back in a simple short braid, hung limp against her back, and her sun-tanned skin bore the marks of a life spent outdoors, working on the estates of her master's vineyards. She wasn't used to speaking up, wasn't used to people acknowledging her presence unless it was to give her orders. She wasn't sure how she would fit in here, among these recruits. She felt like an outsider already.
The bus lurched again, and the seat next to her creaked as something shifted. She glanced to her right, catching a pair of bright, eager eyes looking her way. A set of teeth that gleamed in the dusty sunlight filtering through the window smiled at her, belonging to a broad-shouldered, somewhat chubby young man with pale skin and auburn hair.
"Hey, I'm Felix," he said, his voice loud and friendly. "Guessh we're both shtuck on thish bush together, huh?"
Cerys blinked, about as surprised about being approached as she was trying to figure out what she just had heard. She hadn't spoken to anyone yet, preferring the relative anonymity of her seat by the window, with what little she owned in a duffle bag kept overhead. But something about Felix's easy grin made her feel less invisible.
"Cerys," she murmured, her voice barely audible over the rumble of the engine. "You're from, ah, Pompey, right?"
"Ey, what gave it away? No wait, it's the hair and the skhin! We all look like thish there!"
Cerys must have looked real stupid that moment as Felix chuckled, then shook his head. "I'm just messing with ya. Nice to meet you, Cerys. Yeah, I'm from Pompey, but I can talk like a normal human. Mosht of the time, at least," he gave her a friendly wink. "So, where you from? What brings you to this, ahm, illustrious place?" he tilted his head to the rest of the bus.
She opened her mouth, then closed it again, unsure how much to reveal. Would they care? Would they look at her differently if they knew she was a slave? Not like there was much of a chance to hide it anyway. But Felix was waiting, his eyes not judging. Just curious.
"I've been on Alphard all my life. Big vineyard on Gaul, actually. Been born there, worked there." She took a deep breath. "You know, for my master."
"Your master?" Auburn brows furrowed in puzzlement before Felix's eyes lit up in understanding. "Oh. Oooh. I get it. So you're-?"
"A slave," Cerys finished for him, her voice a tad sharper than she intended. "Was a slave. Still am? Weird situation, I know. Enlisted to earn my freedom." But her cut sailed right past the Pompeyan recruit, who was all curiosity now.
"Yeah, I had heard of that new law some time ago, but I've never come across somebody who actually did what you're doing. That's brave of you," he said after a moment. "Suppose not everyone would take that chance. Jupiter's ballsack, I'm a pleb through and through. Father's a butcher, mom keeps the siblings in line," he laughed, fondly, "but they looked at me like I'd grown a second head when I told 'em I wanted to enlist. But with all that chaos swallowing up the Palatinate, and the Janos Marik's ugly mug leering our way? Someone's got to stand up to that rat-faced cunt, right?!"
Like a low rumble a murmur of approval ran through the bus.
"Yeah, leave it to us little guys to actually defend the Hegemony!" a short, black-haired man who introduced himself as Matteo exclaimed. "I've got no qualms about getting my hands dirty and getting the job done. Not like our pampered Patrician overlords, sitting things out, right?" Cheers of agreement erupted.
"Little, eh? You mean that figuratively, or literally?" a voice as smooth as silk and hard as steel cut through the clamor, with a low, sarcastic drawl. The man it belonged to looked... polished, was the best word Cerys could find. Tall, really handsome in a way that made her cheeks blush, tanned, blonde. "Feel like saying that to a Patrician with three generations of military service in the family? Like me, perhaps?" Cold eyes fixed on Matteo, and the small commoner looked away. "I'll be leading a unit in no time, and I won't even have to worry about being a slave." He turned back in his seat with his arms crossed, smiling arrogantly at Cerys, who felt her face flush, and her stomach clenched.
A murmur of conversation rippled through the bus, the other recruits exchanging glances, unsure of how to respond. The tension in the air thickened, and Cerys found herself shrinking back into her seat, wishing she could disappear. Her heart raced, and she fought the urge to look away, to make herself small and insignificant again, the way she had her entire life.
Felix's grin faded, and he straightened in his seat. "Doesn't make you better than anyone else, pretty boy," he said, his voice calm but firm. "We're all here for a reason, right?"
The blonde rolled his piercing blue eyes. "Sure, sure. And that's Ronan to you. Ronan Valerius. You lot might be here for the Emperor's reforms or because you're escaping your drab insignificant homes. Doesn't change the fact that we all have different places in society. Some of us... just have better ones."
Cerys clenched her jaw. She wanted to say something, to defend herself, but the words stuck in her throat. She wasn't used to standing up for herself. She wasn't used to being seen.
Another voice broke the silence, this time from a sinewy, slightly older woman seated across from two benches away from Ronan. Her olive skin and sharp eyes gave her a no-nonsense air. "Leave the girl alone," she snapped at the Valerius boy. "Not everyone's born with a silver spoon in their mouth. Some of us actually have to work for what we get." She turned to Cerys and gave her a small nod of encouragement. "Name's Elara. I'm from Ballalaba."
"Try saying that three times in a row when you're drunk!" someone chuckled.
"You can't," Elara didn't break a beat. "Been there, tried that. A lot. Family's been miners for generations, as long as we can think back. I enlisted because I'm tired of breaking rocks. Figured breaking bones was a better way to make a living."
Cerys managed a weak smile. "Nice to meet you," she said softly.
"Same," Elara replied, her tone gentler now.
From the back of the bus, a deep voice rumbled. "I'm Marcus Caius. From Islington." The man who spoke was nothing like his voice indicated: a tall, lanky youth with an awkward smile. His dark skin glistened with sweat from the heat, and going by his expression he was uncomfortable speaking to groups. "Family's fishermen. I'm here 'cause... well, it's either this or fishing for the rest of my life. I'd rather have a chance to do something more."
"Oh please," Valerius muttered and rolled his yes.
"You know, Ronan," Felix slowly turned to him. "Most patricians my family's ever dealt with got their children into a cockpit, regardless of whether that cockpit was attached to a 'mech or an ASF. Strange to see one of our betters down here in a rusty old bus without AC. Did someone fail their aptitude tests?"
That gained him the laughs of half the bus, and caught Ronan Valerius on the wrong foot. "It's, ah, fuck no! It's neurohelmet incompability, you pleb pissbucket!" he spat back aggressively.
"Pleb pissbucket," Felix tapped his head, refusing to take the bait. "Gotta remember that one, thanks. What about your stories, guys?" he addressed the rest, purposely ignoring Ronan.
The conversation slowly started to flow as more of the recruits shared their stories, the tension easing. Cerys found herself listening intently, her insecurities slowly ebbing as the recruits around her revealed their own reasons for enlisting. They all had their struggles, their own motivations for joining the Legions. Most of them were second sons or third daughters, barred from taking over the family trade due to elder siblings, or just stuck in the wrong place, with the Legions looking like a welcome way out. For the first time in a long while, Cerys felt like maybe she wasn't as alone as she thought.
In time everybody on the full bus shared something about them. There was enough time to do so. Camp Avernus was way out in the boonies, and the bus was struggling with the bumpy dirt road. Three times they had to stop to let military columns pass, the APCs, pickups and tanks far more comfortable with the conditions of the causeway. Each time the recruits hollered and cheered at the veiled and dust-caked men and women in uniform as they rushed by. The evening sun was already starting to set, with Cassandra, the bigger of the two moonlets creeping above the horizon, briefly glowing like a newborn star, when the bus stopped a fourth time. This time, men and women on foot, wearing tank tops, tunics and hauling large rucksacks jogged past the bus, bodies and clothes bathed in sweat, breathing heavily as they tried to maintain pace and shout back the cadence the tall woman up front, seemingly unperturbed by exhaustion and heat bellowed at them.
Cerys felt her anxiety return. It would not be long now.
She did not notice the icy stares Ronan shot her way as the bus rattled closer to their destination.
Last edited:
With the new chapter in the works, lets bridge some time by letting Cerys and her fellow recruits catch up a few weeks to the main narrative.
Camp Avernus, Adhara
Marian Hegemony
November 3010 C.E.
Echoing off the sheet metal roofs of the long row of barracks, the haunting croaks of the Orlesian rat bird circling high above had a certain mocking quality, Cerys thought dryly as she felt the day's heat already encroach on her. The sun hung low in Adhara's morning sky, a boiling red disc slowly baking the earth beneath it. Not yet fully vanished in the rising morning glow, a sickle and two moonlets slowly faded out of view. The training field, an expanse of dust, fresh concrete slabs, and misery, seemed to stretch forever, punctuated by obstacles that rose like twisted monuments to human suffering. Her mouth quirked at the thought, if only for a second. Quite poetic for a slave girl, and that early in the day.
The levity lasted ever so briefly. It was only six hours past midnight in Adhara's twenty-six hour day, but already the heat was unbearable, smothering the air, making every breath feel like a punishment. Pork Chops had tried his best to explain to her why that was.
Felix, she had to correct herself in her mind. Not Pork Chops, but Felix. Something about a tilted axis and elliptical orbits. He was usually very good in explaining stuff, but some concepts needed to marinate a bit longer with her. The downsides of not having a formal education.
Rigorously standing at attention, their bodies stiff, the recruits of Training Quartex A 10-4 were already sweating like pigs, their uniforms soaked through and clinging to their skin like wet rags.
Armies had a thing for codes and abbreviations, Cerys had quickly realized. A Maniple was five people, as in five fingers deriving from the ancient Terran Latin for 'hand'. A Quartex, she was given to understand, was the fourth part of a Centuria. So, twenty-five people. That's how they were divided in Camp Avernus: into training units of twenty-five people, sharing one bunk house; Quartex A, 10th Cohort, 4th Centuria.
They knew what was coming; they had been through it before twenty-three times. This was Day 24, and the obstacle course had become their daily enemy. Physical training, for hours, every day. Plus learning ranks, regulations, discipline. Hours spent on keeping their bunks and lockers pristine. That, and stomach cramps because she wasn't used to the kind of protein-rich diet they were being fed in chow hall. Felix shoveled it down like it was nothing. Ronan called it disgusting slop.
A figure stalked toward them, his boots crunching on the gravel, his presence casting a shadow over the line of young men and women. If their daily training course was their enemy, this was their judge, jury, and executioner. Drill Sergeant Hannibal 'Mad Dog' Mitchell was a lean man, tall and built like a coil of razor wire. Technically, his rank was Decurio, but everybody called him by his function, himself included. His face was a mask of controlled fury, the kind of fury that had been honed by years of service in the Marian legions and could be unleashed at will. His eyes, cold and calculating, flicked over each recruit with the precision of a sniper's scope, looking for weakness, for flaws. Usually he found some.
He halted in front of the group, his hands clasped behind his back, and let the silence hang heavy. No one dared move. No one even dared blink.
"You maggots look like you've been sleeping in a pigsty," Mad Dog growled, his voice low and gravelly, yet carrying the kind of power that could snap bones. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to piss me off. And let me tell you something, ladies, you do not want to piss me off. Not today, not ever!"
He began pacing in front of the line, his boots kicking up dust that clung to the sweat on the recruits' faces.
"Today's a special day," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Today is the day we see just how much of your sorry asses I need to kick before you can call yourselves legionaries of the Hegemony. You see that course behind me?" He gestured to the hellish landscape of wooden walls, rope climbs, barbed wire crawls, and mud pits. "That course is your only friend. And like any good friend, it's going to beat the living shit out of you until you either break or come out the other side stronger. Now let's see what kind of sorry excuses I've got to work with today."
Mad Dog stopped in front of the first recruit, a tall, lanky kid with a face full of freckles and a nose that seemed too big for his head. The kid stared straight ahead, but his eyes were wide with fear.
"Private Slowpoke," Mad Dog sneered. "You got a reason your face looks like a goddamn roadmap to nowhere?"
Cerys kept her gaze steady and still as Slowpoke – Marcus Caius – blinked and audibly swallowed. "Sir, no, sir."
"No, sir," Mad Dog mimicked, leaning in closer. "I can't hear you!"
"Sir, no, sir!" Marcus barked, his back so straight Cerys thought it might snap.
Mad Dog's lips curled in disgust. "Let me tell you something, Slowpoke. You're gonna need more than a backbone made of Jell-O and brains running on standby if you want to survive my training."
He moved on, his gaze landing on the next recruit. They'd all gotten their new names by Mitchell. Some were just a bit more obviously insulting than the others.
Elara, who had stuck up for her when they first came to bootcamp, was older than the rest of the recruits, pushing thirty, with a face prematurely lined with age and years of hard labor. Her hair, though shaved down like the rest, still showed a strand of gray here and there.
Mad Dog stopped in front of her, his lips a tight line.
"Granny. Tens of thousands lining up to enlist, and I get the oldest of them all. You know, the Legion isn't some retirement home for washed-up miners too weak to hold a pickax any longer. You sure you're not here by mistake?"
Granny's face remained impassive, her eyes locked forward. She had heard it all before, and she wasn't about to give Mad Dog the satisfaction of seeing her react. That patience, too, came with the additional years she carried on her shoulders compared to her comrades.
"Sir, no, sir," she said, her voice steady.
Mad Dog chuckled, almost friendly. "Well, Granny, let's see if you can keep up with the kids today. Wouldn't want you breaking a hip out there."
Then he faced Cerys.
"Slave Girl," Mad Dog said, almost admiringly, crossing his arms as he swirled his swagger stick with a few fingers. "I see you've been pumping iron, but let's see if all those muscles mean you've got brains to go with them. Or are you just here to flex for the boys?"
Cerys didn't flinch, her jaw tightening. Of course, her nick name had been Slave Girl. But a high protein diet and weeks of hard workouts had indeed started to add more muscles to a lean athletic frame. "Sir, no, sir!"
"Good," Mad Dog said. "Keep that attitude, and maybe you won't end up face-first in the mud."
He continued down the line, each recruit called up with their own special form of verbal abuse. Part of Cerys' mind found it impressive that the man could come up with -- and remember! – the insults for all twenty-five of them. But that was a small part.
There was Private 'Mudflat', a short, stocky kid who hailed from the southern swamps of Pompey. 'Noodles', a lanky pale girl with too long arms who, maybe more than most, struggled with the physical stress they were all constantly subjected to.
And, of course, Private 'Hollywood'. Looking like a model, or a movie star from Old Terra, 'Mad Dog' Mitchel had not taken a liking to Ronan Valerius. Whatever you could say about the Sarge, a friend of Patrician privileges he was not.
He finally turned to face the entire group, his hands once again clasped behind his back.
"Alright, ladies, listen up!" he barked. "Today, you're going to run this course over and over until I say stop. You will not quit. You will not slow down. You will not give up. And if any of you so much as think about giving me less than one hundred percent, I will personally make sure you regret it for the rest of your miserable lives. Do I make myself clear?"
"Sir, yes, sir!" the recruits shouted in unison.
"Good," Mad Dog said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Now move!"
The recruits broke into a sprint, heading for the first obstacle: a tall wooden wall that loomed over them like the side of a building. They threw themselves at it, clawing and scrambling to get over, their bodies moving in a chaotic dance of desperation and determination.
Slowpoke was the first to struggle, his lanky frame not giving him enough leverage to pull himself up. He dangled there for a moment, his legs kicking uselessly against the wall.
Mad Dog was on him in an instant, his voice a whipcrack in the air.
"Come on, Slowpoke!" he snarled. "You call that climbing? My grandma could scale this wall faster than you, and she's been dead for ten years! Get your sorry ass over that wall or I'll make sure you never walk again!"
Slowpoke gritted his teeth, his face turning red with exertion. With a final, desperate heave, he managed to throw one leg over the top and rolled down the other side, landing in a heap. He barely had time to catch his breath before Mad Dog was on him again.
"Get up!" he roared. "You think an enemy autocannon round's gonna wait until you're ready to move again? Move!"
Slowpoke scrambled to his feet, his legs shaking as he sprinted toward the next obstacle: a series of tires laid out on the ground, waiting to trip up anyone who wasn't paying attention.
Meanwhile, Cerys was tearing through the course like a machine. She cleared the wall with ease, her muscular arms pulling her up and over in one fluid motion. She landed on the other side and didn't even pause to catch her breath before charging toward the tires, her legs pumping like pistons. The first rounds were easy. The hard part began when breathing became painful and your every muscle was on fire. Part of her knew that she wasn't really better than some of her comrades at this; she was just used to take suffering in strides.
Mad Dog watched her with narrowed eyes.
Mudflat was struggling with the tires, his short legs making it difficult for him to keep his balance. He stumbled, nearly falling, but caught himself at the last second. His face was twisted in concentration, his lips moving silently as he muttered to himself, trying to stay focused.
"Pick up your feet, Mudflat!" Mad Dog shouted. "Or are you planning on tripping your way to victory?"
Mudflat didn't respond, his eyes locked on the ground as he pushed forward, sweat dripping from his brow. He was slow, but he was determined, and that seemed to be enough for now.
Hollywood – Ronan – on the other hand, almost seemed to glide through the course with an almost effortless grace. Despite the dust and sweat, any signs of strain on his face were, at best, subdued. He flashed a quick grin at the other recruits as he passed them, his confidence bordering on arrogance.
Despite the apparent aptitude at handling 'his' course, Mad Dog's eyes narrowed as he watched the offspring of House Valerius prance his way through the obstacles. He hated that kind of cockiness, the kind that came from someone who had never truly been tested.
"You think this is a joke, Hollywood?" Mad Dog called after him. "You think that pretty face of yours is gonna save you when the bullets start flying? You better start acting like a soldier or I'll personally make sure you don't leave this course in one piece."
Hollywood's grin faltered for a moment, but he quickly regained his composure, shouting a forced "Sir, yes, sir!" into Mad Dog's direction before continuing on.
As the recruits moved deeper into the course, the obstacles became more punishing. There was the barbed wire crawl, where they had to drag themselves through the mud, their bodies scraping against the sharp metal above them. The mud pits that sucked at their legs, threatening to swallow them whole if they didn't keep moving. And the wooden gallows with the knotted ropes, thirty feet high.
Cerys hated that one. She'd been not a day older than ten when one of the slaves on their vineyard had disobeyed a foreman and then committed the sin of raising his hands at them. Their master had made them all watch when they hanged the man on a contraption not too dissimilar to the one they all had to climb. The man's neck had not broken, and he had suffocated cruelly over two long, agonizing minutes. All had had to watch. Those who averted their eyes got the whip.
Noodles always failed this one, her gangly arms too long for her frame.
"Come on, Noodles!" Mad Dog barked from below. "Get up that rope or I'll make sure you spend the next two weeks scrubbing latrines! You want to be a legionary? Then overcome challenges! If you can't get up that rope now, how'll you be able to do it with sixty pounds of gear strapped to your body!? Move your ass!"
Noodles tried to pull herself up, but her grip failed to carry her weight as her legs didn't manage to grab onto the lower end of the rope. She fell back to the ground, landing hard on her back.
Mad Dog's was over her in the blink of an eye.
"You think that's good enough?" he snarled. "You think you're done? Get up, Noodles! Get up and climb that goddamn rope or I'll drag you up there myself!"
In her peripheral vision Cerys watched as Noodles groaned, but she slowly pushed herself up. She grabbed the rope again, her hands raw and bleeding, and began to climb. It was slow, agonizingly slow, but she refused to give up. Inch by inch, she made the way to the top, her entire body shaking with the effort. When she finally reached the top, she nearly collapsed from exhaustion, but she managed to hold on just long enough to slide back down the rope, her breath ragged and uneven.
Mad Dog watched her go with a critical eye, but he didn't say anything. He didn't need to. Noodles had done what was expected of her. For now, that was enough.
Cerys was already zig-zagging through a maze of walls of different height when Private Granny tackled the gallows. She grabbed the rope and began to climb, her arms straining, her muscles protesting with every pull. She wasn't as fast as the others, but she was methodical, her movements steady and deliberate. Elara knew her limits, and she knew how to push them.
Mad Dog watched her closely, his expression unreadable. He had been hard on her from the start. She understood that was his job: to weed out those who didn't have it in themselves to be a soldier in the field. Out there, one legionary failing would put all their comrades in danger.
Granny was older, slower, but she wasn't weak. She had something many of the others didn't – a kind of grit that came from years of hardship. When Elara reached the top, she paused for a moment, taking a deep breath before sliding back down. Her landing was rough, but she swiftly rolled off to the side, getting back up in one fluid motion, and hurried off to the next part of Mad Dog's course.
The drill sergeant nodded to himself, a small, almost imperceptible gesture of approval.
The day dragged on, the sun climbing higher in the sky, the heat becoming more oppressive with every passing minute. The recruits pushed themselves through the course again and again, their bodies growing weaker, their movements more sluggish. But Mad Dog didn't let up. He was relentless, driving them harder and harder, his voice cutting through the air like a blade.
By the time the sun began to set, casting long shadows over the training field, the recruits were barely standing. Their uniforms were torn, their bodies bruised and battered. They were covered in mud and blood from cuts and scrapes, their faces pale with exhaustion. But they had made it through another day.
Mad Dog stood before them, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes scanning the line of recruits.
"Alright, ladies," he said, his voice still rough, but lacking the usual venom. "Some of you did good today. Which means tomorrow we'll start doing this with your gear on! And then we do it all over again. And the day after that. And the day after that. Until you either break or become the kind of soldiers this country can be proud of. Ave Imperator, I love the Legion! Now get out of my sight and get some rest. You're gonna need it. Dismissed!"
That was something Cerys and the others didn't need to be told twice. It was as if the training platoon exhaled as one. Aching, limping, and tired with every cell of their bodies they made it to the chow hall, where twenty-five famished mouths shoveled down lukewarm dinner. After fifteen hours, nobody cared about that.
Later
The barracks were quiet except for the heavy breathing of exhausted bodies, the creaking of metal bunk beds and the occasional murmured conversation. Cerys kept thinking that after weeks of the same procedure, surely they'd all get used to the exhaustion, but after another grueling day on the obstacle course, the neither she nor her comrades were willing – or able – to do much anymore.
Cerys sat on the edge of her bunk, her hands raw and aching from training. She stared down at the worn booklet in front of her, her brows furrowed in concentration. Words were scribbled in a rough, uneven hand, and though she could make out their general meaning, putting them together into coherent sentences felt like trying to fit broken glass into a smooth pane. She hated this part. Not the physical challenges – the pain was bad enough, sure – that she could handle. But this... this was harder. This was the part that made her feel small again. Inadequate. Like a slave.
"You're doing fine, Cerys," a voice said softly from the bunk across from her.
It was Pork Chops — Felix, damn it! Despite weeks of grueling training he was still a heavyset guy, with a round face that seemed to always carry a trace of sweat no matter the temperature. His fatigues seemed perpetually tight, straining against his bulk, and he wasn't exactly fast on the obstacle course. But even the Mad Dog probably agreed – grudgingly, probably – that Felix did not lack dedication, or the will to pull others with him. He was also perceptive. That's why it hadn't taken him long to realize how she struggled with reading and writing. She didn't even have to swallow her pride and ask him for help; he had offered it freely, just as he had offered it to others.
She looked up from the paper, her dark eyes locking with his. "I don't feel like I'm doing fine, Felix," she muttered, her voice low but thick with frustration. "This is harder than anything out there. I feel stupid." She was trying. She always tried. Words, however, were foreign to her. As a child born into bondage, literacy was not a skill she had been taught. Intelligence, strength, and strategy had kept her alive, but now, in this new world where reading and writing meant everything, she struggled like a fish out of water.
"You're not stupid," Felix said firmly, pushing himself up from his bunk and waddling over to her side with a painful sigh. "You just didn't get the chance to learn like the rest of us. You're doing great. You're picking it up faster than most people would, considering... well, considering everything," he said in his soft, almost apologetic voice. "Let's take it from the top again. You're getting better, I can tell."
He was careful with his words, but Cerys could still hear the pity behind them. Her education had consisted of labor from an early age on, to follow orders, to keep her head down. Sure, she knew a word, or even a sentence or two. What good was a slave who didn't know how to read simple directions?
"Alright," she nodded and began reading. "No one would have believed in the last years of the nine...teenth century that this world was being watched keenly and closely by in... intelligences greater than man's and yet as mortal as his-" She let out a frustrated breath and shoved the paper away. "This is bullshit, Pork Chops."
"It's not bullshit. You are improving," Felix replied, calmly but firmly. "It's just practice, like the obstacle course, or cleaning and reassembling our guns. You didn't get as good as you are at the course without practice. Same with this. Just keep at it."
"I wonder when we'll get to actually shoot those guns?"
"No side tracking, Slave Girl," he reprimanded her with a smile, and she ignored her nickname. With some, it didn't sting.
"Fine. I guess with all that chaos in Illyria it'll be sooner rather than later anyway. I just need to get through this. If I can pass the tests, I can move on. I'll worry about the rest later."
Felix nodded, understanding. "One step at a time. That's all it is. Just like the course."
Across the barracks, a voice cut through the relative quiet, sharp and mocking.
"Well, isn't this just precious? Or rather, you know," Hollywood's voice cut through the barracks like a blade, "it's kind of pathetic, isn't it? You'd think they'd require basic literacy before letting someone like her into the Legion."
Cerys' head snapped toward Hollywood, her eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. She didn't need to ask who he meant by 'someone like her'. She could feel the heat rushing into her head, but she stayed silent, focusing on the book in front of her. This was a battle she had fought before—letting people's words roll off her like rain. But Hollywood had a way of digging under her skin. Because, aloof asshole that he was, he didn't know when to stop.
"Look at this," he said, loud enough for the rest of the barracks to hear. "The slave and the fat guy, bonding over their ABCs. Isn't that adorable?"
Felix slowly, deliberately took the book from Cerys' hands and placed it onto his bunk, taking his time to look up to Hollywood who had deigned to saunter over to them. He was always the target of jokes about his weight, but he wasn't dumb. And he wasn't blind. He knew exactly what Hollywood was doing.
"Shut up, Hollywood," Felix muttered, his usually calm voice tinged with irritation. "Not everyone had their education handed to them on a silver plate. At least I'm doing something with mine," he tilted his head to the rest of the platoon. "Can't say you've put the money your parents spent on tutors to good use, on the other hand. Still one of us."
Hollywood chuckled darkly. "Yeah, well, some people don't need their hand held through basic training, Pork Chops. And some people definitely don't need tutoring from a – what was it Mad Dog called you?—a 'walking tub of lard'? Shouldn't you be spending your time running laps, or at least trying not to sweat through your bunk?"
Cerys shot up from her bunk with a snarl. The insult wasn't just to her anymore – it was aimed at the only person who had been helping her without judgment. She took a step forward, but Felix almost leisurely grabbed her arm, holding her back with no effort.
"Don't." He didn't take his eyes off Hollywood. "He's not worth the trouble it'll get you."
Hollywood wasn't done, though. He stepped closer, his smirk twisting into something crueler.
"Tell me, Slave Girl, what's it like to be so far out of your depth? I mean, look at you. You can barely read, you can't write, and you're what – hoping to buy your freedom by playing soldier? It's almost tragic. Almost. You belong back in the fields or wherever they dug you up from. You're just here to make people like me look good when we become officers."
She turned to face him, deliberately forcing herself to act calm as she strained against the vise of Felix's hand around her arm.
"Fancy talk from someone who hasn't actually achieved anything yet," she replied evenly, but her eyes burned with cold fury. "You've got a lot to say for someone who hasn't earned a damn thing in his life," she said, her voice low and dangerous. "You think your family name is gonna save you out there? On the battlefield? When the bullets are flying and the bodies are dropping? You think any of that shit matters?"
Hollywood's smirk faltered, just for a moment, before he recovered. He took a step closer, looking down at her, his voice dripping with condescension. "Bitch, I've achieved more by being born than you'll ever achieve by being alive. You see, people like me? We don't have to worry about things like you do. We're taken care of. Always have been, always will be. That's just the way the world works, Slave Girl. You? You'll never be more than dirt. No matter how hard you try."
That was it.
Whether she truly tore her arm free from Felix' grasp, or whether he finally let her go, in two strides she was face to face with Hollywood. He was just a tad bit taller than her, something she'd never realized before, and her own green eyes burned into his blue ones. "Say that again," she growled, her voice low and dangerous. "Say it to my face."
Felix, perhaps sensing the last chance to avoid worse, called from behind, trying to diffuse the situation. "Come on, Hollywood, knock it off. We're all on the same team here."
Hollywood glanced at him, his lip curling in disdain. "Oh, please, Pork Chops. Don't tell me you're actually sticking up for her. What, are you her tutor now? Gonna help her learn her ABCs while she dreams about being a real soldier? Hoping to get into her pants or what? I said," he repeated, a little too loudly, "you'll never be anything but dirt."
Then she saw it.
The bait. The way Hollywood stood there, smug and sure of himself, waiting for her to snap. He wanted her to hit him. He wanted her to lose control because he knew that if she did, she'd most likely be out. Court-martialed. Dishonorably discharged. She would lose her chance at freedom. All of it. And he would still be here, still grinning, still on his path to becoming an officer. Still thinking he was better than all of them.
Felix opened his mouth to respond, but Cerys cut him off, her voice like steel. "You don't get it, do you, Hollywood? You've never had to fight for anything in your life. But me? I've been fighting every single day since I was born. You? You're nothing. Just a little boy pretty playing dress-up, thinking the world owes you something because of who your daddy is. And still, you're here with us, down in the gutter. What a disappointment to daddy dear you've got to be."
Two could play this game.
Hollywood's face twitched, the insult cutting deeper than he had expected. His eyes flashed with anger, and for a moment, it looked like he might lash out.
Now it was on her to lean forward. "Keep running your mouth, Hollywood. But remember this: out there, in the field, who your daddy is doesn't mean shit."
The tension between them was so thick it could be cut with a knife. But before anything could happen, the door to the barracks slammed open with a loud bang, and Mad Dog Mitchell strode in.
"What the hell is going on in here?!" the drill sergeant barked, his eyes sweeping over the room. "I leave you maggots alone for five minutes and you're already at each other's throats? You think this is some kind of goddamn playground?"
The whole barracks immediately snapped to attention.
Hollywood stepped back, carefully swallowing the venom his face still radiated, while Cerys almost lightfootedly returned to her bunk to stand at attention.
Mitchell's eyes landed on the Valerius scion, narrowing dangerously. "Hollywood, you got something to say to me?"
Stiffly, Ronan Valerius stared straight ahead. "Sir, no, sir."
Mad Dog's gaze shifted to Cerys, and for a moment, his expression softened, just a fraction.
"That's what I thought. Listen up, all of you," he said, his voice low but full of authority. "Tomorrow, you'll start out on the range, and I expect you to spend your energy and anger there. Things have been happening in Illyria, and command wants to get you sorry excuses ready as soon as possible. Which forces my hand! I'll have to up the ante to make you into soldiers, no matter where you're from or what your parents are!" He raised his voice. "Slave Girl is right on one count: Out there, none of this shit matters. Not your background, not your family name, not your past. The only thing that matters is whether you can do the job. Whether you can watch the back of the person next to you. And if any of you can't get that through your thick skulls, then you've got no place in the Legion! Understood?"
A chorus of "Sir, yes, sir!" echoed through the barracks, but the tension lingered in the air, unspoken and unresolved. Mad Dog gave them one last look before turning on his heel and marching out, leaving the recruits in uneasy silence.
Cerys slowly sat back down on her bunk, her hands still no shaking as the adrenaline rushed out of her. Hollywood retreated to his own corner of the room, casting glances over to her. It didn't take a genius to sense the anger simmering beneath the surface. She knew this wasn't over. Not by a long shot.
Felix slumped down on his bunk opposite hers. "Well, that could've ended worse. You handled yourself well enough," he shrugged.
She let out a bitter laugh. "I don't feel like I handled anything."
"Oh, but you did," the son of a butcher insisted with a small mischievous smile. "You kept your cool. That's more than a lot of people can say. More than pretty boy expected."
Looking at him, she felt a small flicker of gratitude, answering his own smile with a lopsided grin. "I guess that's something, yeah."
Better make it count then, Slave Girl, she told herself, and picked up Felix's book again.
Chapter 1: Training Day
Camp Avernus, Adhara
Marian Hegemony
November 3010 C.E.
Echoing off the sheet metal roofs of the long row of barracks, the haunting croaks of the Orlesian rat bird circling high above had a certain mocking quality, Cerys thought dryly as she felt the day's heat already encroach on her. The sun hung low in Adhara's morning sky, a boiling red disc slowly baking the earth beneath it. Not yet fully vanished in the rising morning glow, a sickle and two moonlets slowly faded out of view. The training field, an expanse of dust, fresh concrete slabs, and misery, seemed to stretch forever, punctuated by obstacles that rose like twisted monuments to human suffering. Her mouth quirked at the thought, if only for a second. Quite poetic for a slave girl, and that early in the day.
The levity lasted ever so briefly. It was only six hours past midnight in Adhara's twenty-six hour day, but already the heat was unbearable, smothering the air, making every breath feel like a punishment. Pork Chops had tried his best to explain to her why that was.
Felix, she had to correct herself in her mind. Not Pork Chops, but Felix. Something about a tilted axis and elliptical orbits. He was usually very good in explaining stuff, but some concepts needed to marinate a bit longer with her. The downsides of not having a formal education.
Rigorously standing at attention, their bodies stiff, the recruits of Training Quartex A 10-4 were already sweating like pigs, their uniforms soaked through and clinging to their skin like wet rags.
Armies had a thing for codes and abbreviations, Cerys had quickly realized. A Maniple was five people, as in five fingers deriving from the ancient Terran Latin for 'hand'. A Quartex, she was given to understand, was the fourth part of a Centuria. So, twenty-five people. That's how they were divided in Camp Avernus: into training units of twenty-five people, sharing one bunk house; Quartex A, 10th Cohort, 4th Centuria.
They knew what was coming; they had been through it before twenty-three times. This was Day 24, and the obstacle course had become their daily enemy. Physical training, for hours, every day. Plus learning ranks, regulations, discipline. Hours spent on keeping their bunks and lockers pristine. That, and stomach cramps because she wasn't used to the kind of protein-rich diet they were being fed in chow hall. Felix shoveled it down like it was nothing. Ronan called it disgusting slop.
A figure stalked toward them, his boots crunching on the gravel, his presence casting a shadow over the line of young men and women. If their daily training course was their enemy, this was their judge, jury, and executioner. Drill Sergeant Hannibal 'Mad Dog' Mitchell was a lean man, tall and built like a coil of razor wire. Technically, his rank was Decurio, but everybody called him by his function, himself included. His face was a mask of controlled fury, the kind of fury that had been honed by years of service in the Marian legions and could be unleashed at will. His eyes, cold and calculating, flicked over each recruit with the precision of a sniper's scope, looking for weakness, for flaws. Usually he found some.
He halted in front of the group, his hands clasped behind his back, and let the silence hang heavy. No one dared move. No one even dared blink.
"You maggots look like you've been sleeping in a pigsty," Mad Dog growled, his voice low and gravelly, yet carrying the kind of power that could snap bones. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to piss me off. And let me tell you something, ladies, you do not want to piss me off. Not today, not ever!"
He began pacing in front of the line, his boots kicking up dust that clung to the sweat on the recruits' faces.
"Today's a special day," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Today is the day we see just how much of your sorry asses I need to kick before you can call yourselves legionaries of the Hegemony. You see that course behind me?" He gestured to the hellish landscape of wooden walls, rope climbs, barbed wire crawls, and mud pits. "That course is your only friend. And like any good friend, it's going to beat the living shit out of you until you either break or come out the other side stronger. Now let's see what kind of sorry excuses I've got to work with today."
Mad Dog stopped in front of the first recruit, a tall, lanky kid with a face full of freckles and a nose that seemed too big for his head. The kid stared straight ahead, but his eyes were wide with fear.
"Private Slowpoke," Mad Dog sneered. "You got a reason your face looks like a goddamn roadmap to nowhere?"
Cerys kept her gaze steady and still as Slowpoke – Marcus Caius – blinked and audibly swallowed. "Sir, no, sir."
"No, sir," Mad Dog mimicked, leaning in closer. "I can't hear you!"
"Sir, no, sir!" Marcus barked, his back so straight Cerys thought it might snap.
Mad Dog's lips curled in disgust. "Let me tell you something, Slowpoke. You're gonna need more than a backbone made of Jell-O and brains running on standby if you want to survive my training."
He moved on, his gaze landing on the next recruit. They'd all gotten their new names by Mitchell. Some were just a bit more obviously insulting than the others.
Elara, who had stuck up for her when they first came to bootcamp, was older than the rest of the recruits, pushing thirty, with a face prematurely lined with age and years of hard labor. Her hair, though shaved down like the rest, still showed a strand of gray here and there.
Mad Dog stopped in front of her, his lips a tight line.
"Granny. Tens of thousands lining up to enlist, and I get the oldest of them all. You know, the Legion isn't some retirement home for washed-up miners too weak to hold a pickax any longer. You sure you're not here by mistake?"
Granny's face remained impassive, her eyes locked forward. She had heard it all before, and she wasn't about to give Mad Dog the satisfaction of seeing her react. That patience, too, came with the additional years she carried on her shoulders compared to her comrades.
"Sir, no, sir," she said, her voice steady.
Mad Dog chuckled, almost friendly. "Well, Granny, let's see if you can keep up with the kids today. Wouldn't want you breaking a hip out there."
Then he faced Cerys.
"Slave Girl," Mad Dog said, almost admiringly, crossing his arms as he swirled his swagger stick with a few fingers. "I see you've been pumping iron, but let's see if all those muscles mean you've got brains to go with them. Or are you just here to flex for the boys?"
Cerys didn't flinch, her jaw tightening. Of course, her nick name had been Slave Girl. But a high protein diet and weeks of hard workouts had indeed started to add more muscles to a lean athletic frame. "Sir, no, sir!"
"Good," Mad Dog said. "Keep that attitude, and maybe you won't end up face-first in the mud."
He continued down the line, each recruit called up with their own special form of verbal abuse. Part of Cerys' mind found it impressive that the man could come up with -- and remember! – the insults for all twenty-five of them. But that was a small part.
There was Private 'Mudflat', a short, stocky kid who hailed from the southern swamps of Pompey. 'Noodles', a lanky pale girl with too long arms who, maybe more than most, struggled with the physical stress they were all constantly subjected to.
And, of course, Private 'Hollywood'. Looking like a model, or a movie star from Old Terra, 'Mad Dog' Mitchel had not taken a liking to Ronan Valerius. Whatever you could say about the Sarge, a friend of Patrician privileges he was not.
He finally turned to face the entire group, his hands once again clasped behind his back.
"Alright, ladies, listen up!" he barked. "Today, you're going to run this course over and over until I say stop. You will not quit. You will not slow down. You will not give up. And if any of you so much as think about giving me less than one hundred percent, I will personally make sure you regret it for the rest of your miserable lives. Do I make myself clear?"
"Sir, yes, sir!" the recruits shouted in unison.
"Good," Mad Dog said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Now move!"
The recruits broke into a sprint, heading for the first obstacle: a tall wooden wall that loomed over them like the side of a building. They threw themselves at it, clawing and scrambling to get over, their bodies moving in a chaotic dance of desperation and determination.
Slowpoke was the first to struggle, his lanky frame not giving him enough leverage to pull himself up. He dangled there for a moment, his legs kicking uselessly against the wall.
Mad Dog was on him in an instant, his voice a whipcrack in the air.
"Come on, Slowpoke!" he snarled. "You call that climbing? My grandma could scale this wall faster than you, and she's been dead for ten years! Get your sorry ass over that wall or I'll make sure you never walk again!"
Slowpoke gritted his teeth, his face turning red with exertion. With a final, desperate heave, he managed to throw one leg over the top and rolled down the other side, landing in a heap. He barely had time to catch his breath before Mad Dog was on him again.
"Get up!" he roared. "You think an enemy autocannon round's gonna wait until you're ready to move again? Move!"
Slowpoke scrambled to his feet, his legs shaking as he sprinted toward the next obstacle: a series of tires laid out on the ground, waiting to trip up anyone who wasn't paying attention.
Meanwhile, Cerys was tearing through the course like a machine. She cleared the wall with ease, her muscular arms pulling her up and over in one fluid motion. She landed on the other side and didn't even pause to catch her breath before charging toward the tires, her legs pumping like pistons. The first rounds were easy. The hard part began when breathing became painful and your every muscle was on fire. Part of her knew that she wasn't really better than some of her comrades at this; she was just used to take suffering in strides.
Mad Dog watched her with narrowed eyes.
Mudflat was struggling with the tires, his short legs making it difficult for him to keep his balance. He stumbled, nearly falling, but caught himself at the last second. His face was twisted in concentration, his lips moving silently as he muttered to himself, trying to stay focused.
"Pick up your feet, Mudflat!" Mad Dog shouted. "Or are you planning on tripping your way to victory?"
Mudflat didn't respond, his eyes locked on the ground as he pushed forward, sweat dripping from his brow. He was slow, but he was determined, and that seemed to be enough for now.
Hollywood – Ronan – on the other hand, almost seemed to glide through the course with an almost effortless grace. Despite the dust and sweat, any signs of strain on his face were, at best, subdued. He flashed a quick grin at the other recruits as he passed them, his confidence bordering on arrogance.
Despite the apparent aptitude at handling 'his' course, Mad Dog's eyes narrowed as he watched the offspring of House Valerius prance his way through the obstacles. He hated that kind of cockiness, the kind that came from someone who had never truly been tested.
"You think this is a joke, Hollywood?" Mad Dog called after him. "You think that pretty face of yours is gonna save you when the bullets start flying? You better start acting like a soldier or I'll personally make sure you don't leave this course in one piece."
Hollywood's grin faltered for a moment, but he quickly regained his composure, shouting a forced "Sir, yes, sir!" into Mad Dog's direction before continuing on.
As the recruits moved deeper into the course, the obstacles became more punishing. There was the barbed wire crawl, where they had to drag themselves through the mud, their bodies scraping against the sharp metal above them. The mud pits that sucked at their legs, threatening to swallow them whole if they didn't keep moving. And the wooden gallows with the knotted ropes, thirty feet high.
Cerys hated that one. She'd been not a day older than ten when one of the slaves on their vineyard had disobeyed a foreman and then committed the sin of raising his hands at them. Their master had made them all watch when they hanged the man on a contraption not too dissimilar to the one they all had to climb. The man's neck had not broken, and he had suffocated cruelly over two long, agonizing minutes. All had had to watch. Those who averted their eyes got the whip.
Noodles always failed this one, her gangly arms too long for her frame.
"Come on, Noodles!" Mad Dog barked from below. "Get up that rope or I'll make sure you spend the next two weeks scrubbing latrines! You want to be a legionary? Then overcome challenges! If you can't get up that rope now, how'll you be able to do it with sixty pounds of gear strapped to your body!? Move your ass!"
Noodles tried to pull herself up, but her grip failed to carry her weight as her legs didn't manage to grab onto the lower end of the rope. She fell back to the ground, landing hard on her back.
Mad Dog's was over her in the blink of an eye.
"You think that's good enough?" he snarled. "You think you're done? Get up, Noodles! Get up and climb that goddamn rope or I'll drag you up there myself!"
In her peripheral vision Cerys watched as Noodles groaned, but she slowly pushed herself up. She grabbed the rope again, her hands raw and bleeding, and began to climb. It was slow, agonizingly slow, but she refused to give up. Inch by inch, she made the way to the top, her entire body shaking with the effort. When she finally reached the top, she nearly collapsed from exhaustion, but she managed to hold on just long enough to slide back down the rope, her breath ragged and uneven.
Mad Dog watched her go with a critical eye, but he didn't say anything. He didn't need to. Noodles had done what was expected of her. For now, that was enough.
Cerys was already zig-zagging through a maze of walls of different height when Private Granny tackled the gallows. She grabbed the rope and began to climb, her arms straining, her muscles protesting with every pull. She wasn't as fast as the others, but she was methodical, her movements steady and deliberate. Elara knew her limits, and she knew how to push them.
Mad Dog watched her closely, his expression unreadable. He had been hard on her from the start. She understood that was his job: to weed out those who didn't have it in themselves to be a soldier in the field. Out there, one legionary failing would put all their comrades in danger.
Granny was older, slower, but she wasn't weak. She had something many of the others didn't – a kind of grit that came from years of hardship. When Elara reached the top, she paused for a moment, taking a deep breath before sliding back down. Her landing was rough, but she swiftly rolled off to the side, getting back up in one fluid motion, and hurried off to the next part of Mad Dog's course.
The drill sergeant nodded to himself, a small, almost imperceptible gesture of approval.
The day dragged on, the sun climbing higher in the sky, the heat becoming more oppressive with every passing minute. The recruits pushed themselves through the course again and again, their bodies growing weaker, their movements more sluggish. But Mad Dog didn't let up. He was relentless, driving them harder and harder, his voice cutting through the air like a blade.
By the time the sun began to set, casting long shadows over the training field, the recruits were barely standing. Their uniforms were torn, their bodies bruised and battered. They were covered in mud and blood from cuts and scrapes, their faces pale with exhaustion. But they had made it through another day.
Mad Dog stood before them, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes scanning the line of recruits.
"Alright, ladies," he said, his voice still rough, but lacking the usual venom. "Some of you did good today. Which means tomorrow we'll start doing this with your gear on! And then we do it all over again. And the day after that. And the day after that. Until you either break or become the kind of soldiers this country can be proud of. Ave Imperator, I love the Legion! Now get out of my sight and get some rest. You're gonna need it. Dismissed!"
That was something Cerys and the others didn't need to be told twice. It was as if the training platoon exhaled as one. Aching, limping, and tired with every cell of their bodies they made it to the chow hall, where twenty-five famished mouths shoveled down lukewarm dinner. After fifteen hours, nobody cared about that.
Later
The barracks were quiet except for the heavy breathing of exhausted bodies, the creaking of metal bunk beds and the occasional murmured conversation. Cerys kept thinking that after weeks of the same procedure, surely they'd all get used to the exhaustion, but after another grueling day on the obstacle course, the neither she nor her comrades were willing – or able – to do much anymore.
Cerys sat on the edge of her bunk, her hands raw and aching from training. She stared down at the worn booklet in front of her, her brows furrowed in concentration. Words were scribbled in a rough, uneven hand, and though she could make out their general meaning, putting them together into coherent sentences felt like trying to fit broken glass into a smooth pane. She hated this part. Not the physical challenges – the pain was bad enough, sure – that she could handle. But this... this was harder. This was the part that made her feel small again. Inadequate. Like a slave.
"You're doing fine, Cerys," a voice said softly from the bunk across from her.
It was Pork Chops — Felix, damn it! Despite weeks of grueling training he was still a heavyset guy, with a round face that seemed to always carry a trace of sweat no matter the temperature. His fatigues seemed perpetually tight, straining against his bulk, and he wasn't exactly fast on the obstacle course. But even the Mad Dog probably agreed – grudgingly, probably – that Felix did not lack dedication, or the will to pull others with him. He was also perceptive. That's why it hadn't taken him long to realize how she struggled with reading and writing. She didn't even have to swallow her pride and ask him for help; he had offered it freely, just as he had offered it to others.
She looked up from the paper, her dark eyes locking with his. "I don't feel like I'm doing fine, Felix," she muttered, her voice low but thick with frustration. "This is harder than anything out there. I feel stupid." She was trying. She always tried. Words, however, were foreign to her. As a child born into bondage, literacy was not a skill she had been taught. Intelligence, strength, and strategy had kept her alive, but now, in this new world where reading and writing meant everything, she struggled like a fish out of water.
"You're not stupid," Felix said firmly, pushing himself up from his bunk and waddling over to her side with a painful sigh. "You just didn't get the chance to learn like the rest of us. You're doing great. You're picking it up faster than most people would, considering... well, considering everything," he said in his soft, almost apologetic voice. "Let's take it from the top again. You're getting better, I can tell."
He was careful with his words, but Cerys could still hear the pity behind them. Her education had consisted of labor from an early age on, to follow orders, to keep her head down. Sure, she knew a word, or even a sentence or two. What good was a slave who didn't know how to read simple directions?
"Alright," she nodded and began reading. "No one would have believed in the last years of the nine...teenth century that this world was being watched keenly and closely by in... intelligences greater than man's and yet as mortal as his-" She let out a frustrated breath and shoved the paper away. "This is bullshit, Pork Chops."
"It's not bullshit. You are improving," Felix replied, calmly but firmly. "It's just practice, like the obstacle course, or cleaning and reassembling our guns. You didn't get as good as you are at the course without practice. Same with this. Just keep at it."
"I wonder when we'll get to actually shoot those guns?"
"No side tracking, Slave Girl," he reprimanded her with a smile, and she ignored her nickname. With some, it didn't sting.
"Fine. I guess with all that chaos in Illyria it'll be sooner rather than later anyway. I just need to get through this. If I can pass the tests, I can move on. I'll worry about the rest later."
Felix nodded, understanding. "One step at a time. That's all it is. Just like the course."
Across the barracks, a voice cut through the relative quiet, sharp and mocking.
"Well, isn't this just precious? Or rather, you know," Hollywood's voice cut through the barracks like a blade, "it's kind of pathetic, isn't it? You'd think they'd require basic literacy before letting someone like her into the Legion."
Cerys' head snapped toward Hollywood, her eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. She didn't need to ask who he meant by 'someone like her'. She could feel the heat rushing into her head, but she stayed silent, focusing on the book in front of her. This was a battle she had fought before—letting people's words roll off her like rain. But Hollywood had a way of digging under her skin. Because, aloof asshole that he was, he didn't know when to stop.
"Look at this," he said, loud enough for the rest of the barracks to hear. "The slave and the fat guy, bonding over their ABCs. Isn't that adorable?"
Felix slowly, deliberately took the book from Cerys' hands and placed it onto his bunk, taking his time to look up to Hollywood who had deigned to saunter over to them. He was always the target of jokes about his weight, but he wasn't dumb. And he wasn't blind. He knew exactly what Hollywood was doing.
"Shut up, Hollywood," Felix muttered, his usually calm voice tinged with irritation. "Not everyone had their education handed to them on a silver plate. At least I'm doing something with mine," he tilted his head to the rest of the platoon. "Can't say you've put the money your parents spent on tutors to good use, on the other hand. Still one of us."
Hollywood chuckled darkly. "Yeah, well, some people don't need their hand held through basic training, Pork Chops. And some people definitely don't need tutoring from a – what was it Mad Dog called you?—a 'walking tub of lard'? Shouldn't you be spending your time running laps, or at least trying not to sweat through your bunk?"
Cerys shot up from her bunk with a snarl. The insult wasn't just to her anymore – it was aimed at the only person who had been helping her without judgment. She took a step forward, but Felix almost leisurely grabbed her arm, holding her back with no effort.
"Don't." He didn't take his eyes off Hollywood. "He's not worth the trouble it'll get you."
Hollywood wasn't done, though. He stepped closer, his smirk twisting into something crueler.
"Tell me, Slave Girl, what's it like to be so far out of your depth? I mean, look at you. You can barely read, you can't write, and you're what – hoping to buy your freedom by playing soldier? It's almost tragic. Almost. You belong back in the fields or wherever they dug you up from. You're just here to make people like me look good when we become officers."
She turned to face him, deliberately forcing herself to act calm as she strained against the vise of Felix's hand around her arm.
"Fancy talk from someone who hasn't actually achieved anything yet," she replied evenly, but her eyes burned with cold fury. "You've got a lot to say for someone who hasn't earned a damn thing in his life," she said, her voice low and dangerous. "You think your family name is gonna save you out there? On the battlefield? When the bullets are flying and the bodies are dropping? You think any of that shit matters?"
Hollywood's smirk faltered, just for a moment, before he recovered. He took a step closer, looking down at her, his voice dripping with condescension. "Bitch, I've achieved more by being born than you'll ever achieve by being alive. You see, people like me? We don't have to worry about things like you do. We're taken care of. Always have been, always will be. That's just the way the world works, Slave Girl. You? You'll never be more than dirt. No matter how hard you try."
That was it.
Whether she truly tore her arm free from Felix' grasp, or whether he finally let her go, in two strides she was face to face with Hollywood. He was just a tad bit taller than her, something she'd never realized before, and her own green eyes burned into his blue ones. "Say that again," she growled, her voice low and dangerous. "Say it to my face."
Felix, perhaps sensing the last chance to avoid worse, called from behind, trying to diffuse the situation. "Come on, Hollywood, knock it off. We're all on the same team here."
Hollywood glanced at him, his lip curling in disdain. "Oh, please, Pork Chops. Don't tell me you're actually sticking up for her. What, are you her tutor now? Gonna help her learn her ABCs while she dreams about being a real soldier? Hoping to get into her pants or what? I said," he repeated, a little too loudly, "you'll never be anything but dirt."
Then she saw it.
The bait. The way Hollywood stood there, smug and sure of himself, waiting for her to snap. He wanted her to hit him. He wanted her to lose control because he knew that if she did, she'd most likely be out. Court-martialed. Dishonorably discharged. She would lose her chance at freedom. All of it. And he would still be here, still grinning, still on his path to becoming an officer. Still thinking he was better than all of them.
Felix opened his mouth to respond, but Cerys cut him off, her voice like steel. "You don't get it, do you, Hollywood? You've never had to fight for anything in your life. But me? I've been fighting every single day since I was born. You? You're nothing. Just a little boy pretty playing dress-up, thinking the world owes you something because of who your daddy is. And still, you're here with us, down in the gutter. What a disappointment to daddy dear you've got to be."
Two could play this game.
Hollywood's face twitched, the insult cutting deeper than he had expected. His eyes flashed with anger, and for a moment, it looked like he might lash out.
Now it was on her to lean forward. "Keep running your mouth, Hollywood. But remember this: out there, in the field, who your daddy is doesn't mean shit."
The tension between them was so thick it could be cut with a knife. But before anything could happen, the door to the barracks slammed open with a loud bang, and Mad Dog Mitchell strode in.
"What the hell is going on in here?!" the drill sergeant barked, his eyes sweeping over the room. "I leave you maggots alone for five minutes and you're already at each other's throats? You think this is some kind of goddamn playground?"
The whole barracks immediately snapped to attention.
Hollywood stepped back, carefully swallowing the venom his face still radiated, while Cerys almost lightfootedly returned to her bunk to stand at attention.
Mitchell's eyes landed on the Valerius scion, narrowing dangerously. "Hollywood, you got something to say to me?"
Stiffly, Ronan Valerius stared straight ahead. "Sir, no, sir."
Mad Dog's gaze shifted to Cerys, and for a moment, his expression softened, just a fraction.
"That's what I thought. Listen up, all of you," he said, his voice low but full of authority. "Tomorrow, you'll start out on the range, and I expect you to spend your energy and anger there. Things have been happening in Illyria, and command wants to get you sorry excuses ready as soon as possible. Which forces my hand! I'll have to up the ante to make you into soldiers, no matter where you're from or what your parents are!" He raised his voice. "Slave Girl is right on one count: Out there, none of this shit matters. Not your background, not your family name, not your past. The only thing that matters is whether you can do the job. Whether you can watch the back of the person next to you. And if any of you can't get that through your thick skulls, then you've got no place in the Legion! Understood?"
A chorus of "Sir, yes, sir!" echoed through the barracks, but the tension lingered in the air, unspoken and unresolved. Mad Dog gave them one last look before turning on his heel and marching out, leaving the recruits in uneasy silence.
Cerys slowly sat back down on her bunk, her hands still no shaking as the adrenaline rushed out of her. Hollywood retreated to his own corner of the room, casting glances over to her. It didn't take a genius to sense the anger simmering beneath the surface. She knew this wasn't over. Not by a long shot.
Felix slumped down on his bunk opposite hers. "Well, that could've ended worse. You handled yourself well enough," he shrugged.
She let out a bitter laugh. "I don't feel like I handled anything."
"Oh, but you did," the son of a butcher insisted with a small mischievous smile. "You kept your cool. That's more than a lot of people can say. More than pretty boy expected."
Looking at him, she felt a small flicker of gratitude, answering his own smile with a lopsided grin. "I guess that's something, yeah."
Better make it count then, Slave Girl, she told herself, and picked up Felix's book again.
Chapter 2: Shooting Gallery
Shooting Gallery
Camp Avernus, Adhara
Marian Hegemony
November 3010 C.E.
The next morning dawned with a heavy mist clinging to the training grounds, turning the sun into a dim, orange disk that barely cut through the fog. Given the usual heat, this just made everything stick to their skins even sooner, and the humidity made breathing harder.
Mad Dog Mitchell, as usual, was up before the recruits, and barreled into their barracks with the first light of the morning. His voice thundered, dragging the recruits out of their hard-won sleep.
"Rise and shine, ladies!" he bellowed. "You think rat-faced Anton Marik or that Centrella bitch give a damn that you're tired? You think they care that your muscles ache, that you've got blisters on your feet? Hell no! Now get your asses in gear, because today is range day, and I don't want to see any of you idiots shooting yourselves in the foot!"
They scrambled to get dressed, still sore from the previous day's punishment. Cerys pulled on her boots while trying to rub sleep from her eyes, wondering just how in Jupiter's name Mad Dog avoided sweating like a pig. Like them. She glanced at Felix.
Pork Chops was already a waterfall of perspiration. Adhara's sun had not been kind to his pale skin early on, and even though the constant red of a sunburn slowly had begun to turn into a subtle tan. Despite this, there was a quiet resilience to him as he methodically got himself ready. He didn't complain, didn't make excuses. He just kept going, step after step, his eyes fixed on the task at hand.
Unsurprisingly, Hollywood looked as immaculate as ever, his boots polished, as he sauntered through the room with his customary entitled confidence.
"Time to show you plebs how it's done," he proclaimed. "I've been shooting since I've been a teenager!"
Granny, Noodles and the others exchanged quick glances, rolling their eyes or simply shrugging.
"Putting lipstick on a pig still makes it a pig," Felix whispered just low enough for Cerys to hear it.
Mitchell either hadn't heard him or had decided to ignore the Patrician. They left the barracks on the double.
By the time they reached the shooting range after a detour to the base's armory, the fog was beginning to lift, revealing a series of targets set up at various distances, some stationary, others moving along tracks that crisscrossed the field. Ammunition and heavier weapons were laid out on benches, waiting for the recruits to take their places.
Mad Dog paced in front of them, his eyes sweeping over the line of recruits. "Alright, listen up! Today, we're gonna find out which of you sorry lot can actually shoot. This ain't no game in the arcade, boys and girls. Out there, you miss, you die. You miss, your buddy dies. So you better learn to hit what you're aiming at, or you're as good as dead."
He pointed to the rifles in their hands. "We'll start with the basics. Standard issue automatic rifle. 5.8mm, forty rounds in one clip. No fancy sights, no bells and whistles. Single shots first, then full auto. I want to see tight groups, center mass. No spray and pray bullshit!" his voice carried across the whole range. "Then we'll move on to the heavier stuff. And if any of you disappoint me, you'll wish you were back on the obstacle course."
With a rumble of low conversations everybody got their ammo and lined up at the firing stations. Cerys took her place, feeling the unfamiliar weight of the rifle in her hands. It was an ugly, black thing, weighing a few kilograms, the stock and body feeling a bit like old rubber to the touch, with the curved 40-rounds clip coming before the grip, which had no pretenses at all about being ergonomic.
Beside her, Hollywood was already positioning himself at his station, his face set in a mask of concentration. She thought she could see uncertainty in his face for a moment, then the mask was back.
"You'll start out prone!" Sergeant Mitchell barked. "Down on your bellies, now!"
Everybody scrambled to lie down in the dirt, trying to wield the unfamiliar shapes of the guns, trying to find a way to make the position somewhat comfortable in their tunics. Gravel and sharp stones scratched their knees and legs no matter how.
"Single shots! Press the stock against your shoulders. Put your bodyweight into it. Take aim. Exhale, then pull the trigger. Safety off!"
Twenty-five thumbs fumbled, then found the switch.
Mad Dog barked out the first command, and the range came alive with the sound of gunfire.
The first thunderous roar of the guns took her unexpected, shaking her to her core. Some of the overseers of her master's estate had had guns. When they got bored, they used to shoot them. When they got bored and drunk, things got ugly. She shook her head to get rid of the images of her past. Cerys focused on her vaguely man-shaped target, her mind slowly cutting out everything else. She took a deep breath, exhaled – and squeezed the trigger. The rifle rocked back against her shoulder, but not as much as she had expected. She peered down the range – and was surprised to see that she had hit. Not perfectly, but she had hit. Taking aim again, she soon found her rhythm. To her great joy, most of her shots were landing on target, tightening towards the center mass the more bullets she sent downrange. She allowed herself a small breath of relief, the satisfaction of knowing she could do this, that she could be more than just another body in the mud.
Next to her, Hollywood – surprisingly – struggled. Some of his bullets hit the target, but they were scattered. He frowned, adjusting his stance again and again, uncomfortably shifting against the service rifle's stock. There was a stiffness to his movements that Cerys rather gleefully recognized as insecurity. Pretty boy wasn't used to not getting things his way.
Mad Dog also had noticed, as he was over him in a heartbeat.
"Miss! Another miss! And another one!" he barked. "What the hell is wrong with you, Private Hollywood?! I heard you loud and clear back there that you're an experienced shot! All I can see is a shit shot. Are you a liar, Hollywood?!" Mitchell had lowered himself almost down to Hollywood's face, but his voice echoed across the range. Around them, the cascade of bullet fire slowly ebbed off as the recruits' attention focused on their Patrician comrade.
"Sir, no, sir!" Hollywood replied through gritted teeth. "Just not used to the caliber."
"Bullshit! A child could handle that caliber. Granny is handling that caliber. Pork Chops could probably shoot that rifle one-handed! And the Slave Girl next to you has never held a rifle before, and she hits five times as often as you do! What the hell did you train on, Hollywood?" Mad Dog demanded.
Cerys did her very best to stare ahead, pulling the trigger again, but her eyes flicked to the man on her right and the angry sergeant hanging over him.
Hollywood ground his teeth, his mouth working silently.
"I'm waiting, maggot!" Mitchell spat.
Hollywood's shoulders stiffened, and his face was a mask of anger. But he dared not move and stared right ahead. "Sir… I trained on laser rifles, sir! No recoil there, sir!"
"Does this look like a toy store to you, Hollywood?"
"Sir, no, sir!"
"Good, because it isn't. These are real guns, for real soldiers. Are you a real soldier, pretty boy?"
"Sir, yes, sir!" Hollywood yelled, his face red from embarrassment.
"Then shoot like one, by Jupiter's balls!"
Further down the range, Felix proved a counterpoint to the Valerius scion. His shots were slow and deliberate, but every single one hit the mark, his hand-eye coordination seemingly at odds with his heavy frame. Cerys watched from the corner of her eyes as he fired, almost each shot landing dead center, his large hands handling the rifle with an ease that belied his appearance.
Mad Dog had noticed too. When the initial round of firing was over, and the recruits were ordered to stand down, Mad Dog walked over to the Pompey-born recruit's station, eyeing the tight grouping of holes in the target.
"Well, well, well, I'll be damned," Mad Dog drawled, crossing his arms over his chest. "Looks like the big man's got some skills after all. Didn't expect that, Pork Chops. Maybe you're not as useless as you look. Let's see if you can keep this up."
Felix swallowed. "Sir, thank you, sir," he muttered, not quite sure how to respond to what was, by Mad Dog's standards, practically a glowing compliment.
Mitchell grunted, then pointed to the recoilless rifle set up at the far end of the range. It was an olive-green meter-long tube, firing fin-stabilized rockets, equipped with basic sights and a forward grip. In the field, it was designed for taking on armored vehicles and fortified positions. "I'm curious. Let's see if you can handle something with a bit more kick," Mad Dog said, his voice full of challenge. "Think you can manage, Pork Chops?"
Felix rose, but not before carefully flipping the safety back on his rifle. "Sir, I can handle it, sir."
Mad Dog stepped back, giving him space. The other recruits watched with a mix of curiosity and doubt, some of them snickering quietly, clearly expecting the heavy man to fail. But Cerys watched with a different kind of focus. By now she knew better than to underestimate him. Remembering his vice-like grip, to Felix the shoulder-launched weapon weighed probably as much as her rifle did to her.
He took his place at the firing station, moving with surprising precision as he adjusted the sights, taking a moment to line up his shot. The target he was aiming for was a moving one—an armored vehicle silhouette that was rolling along the track at the far end of the range.
Mad Dog stood off to the side, clearing the backblast, his eyes sharp, waiting for the inevitable mistake. But it didn't come.
The rifle screeched as the missile cleared its tube, racing downrange. The shot streaked across the open field, slamming into the moving target with pinpoint accuracy. The explosion of the impact was almost deafening, and when the smoke cleared, the target was nothing but shattered pieces.
There was a moment of stunned silence on the range. Even Mitchell looked taken aback, his usual scowl replaced by something resembling surprise. He glanced at Felix, then at the destroyed target, then back at Felix again.
"Well, shit," Mad Dog muttered, more to himself than to anyone else. Then he raised his voice, barking out to the rest of the recruits. "You see that, ladies? That's how it's done! Maybe you could all learn a thing or two from Pork Chops here. Looks like he's got more talent than the rest of you combined! Some ought to take note." His glare at Hollywood was not missed by anyone. "Alright, back down, one clip single shot, then one burst. Get it on, ladies!"
A choir of affirmatives answered him, and soon a staccato of gunfire filled the range again.
Mad Dog's voice echoed across the range, barking orders, berating those who lagged behind, and throwing out a rare, grudging compliment when someone did something impressive. But the drill sergeant's earlier surprise at Felix's prowess had not escaped anyone's notice, least of all Hollywood's.
Soon the next stage of the exercise was on.
The recruits lined up at the firing stations again, this time to engage in a more tactical exercise—shooting while advancing under simulated fire. They would move from cover to cover, firing controlled bursts at targets that popped up at random intervals, testing both their reflexes and marksmanship. It was designed to simulate real combat, the kind of pressure that would make or break a soldier.
Cerys took her position, crouching low behind the first piece of cover, a sandbag wall. The world shrank to the narrow focus of the sight, the target, and the trigger. Her mind slipped into the rhythm of it, the recoil pushing back against her shoulder with each shot, the sound of bullets tearing through the air like an angry swarm of bees. She moved from cover to cover with a fluidity that surprised even her, firing as she went, her shots hitting home more often than not. The targets dropped one by one, and with each success, she felt a flicker of satisfaction. This was something she could excel at, something that proved she belonged here, no matter what anyone said.
When the exercise ended, Mad Dog walked the line, checking each one's performance. With her, he didn't say anything at first, just gave a small, approving nod before moving on. That single nod was worth more than any words of praise.
But Hollywood wasn't so lucky. His shots were scattered, some wide, some too high, a few landing off-target entirely. His frustration was clear as he unloaded the last rounds, his normally composed face twisting into a scowl. He knew he was being watched, knew that his performance was falling short of expectations, and it was eating away at him.
Mad Dog paused in front of Hollywood's station. "Hollywood," he drawled, his voice dripping with contempt. "You shooting at ghosts out here? Or did the enemy suddenly become a bunch of trees?"
Hollywood's jaw clenched, his knuckles white around the grip of his rifle. "Sir, no, sir," he muttered through gritted teeth.
"Then explain to me why half your rounds are missing the target. You think you're too good to aim like the rest of us? Or maybe you're just not as good as you think you are." Mad Dog leaned in closer, his voice lowering to a dangerous growl. "News flash, Hollywood: your daddy's money doesn't mean shit out here. You want to survive, you need to earn it. You're a big boy; you can handle the recoil. Now get your head out of your ass and start acting like a goddamn soldier."
Hollywood didn't respond, but the tension in his body was clear. He stepped back from the firing line. His eyes flickered toward Cerys, then Felix, and she could see the resentment burning there, a silent accusation. Getting outperformed by the slave girl and the fat pleb. What an embarrassment.
The rest of the morning continued in much the same way, with Mad Dog pushing them through different weapon drills, testing their endurance and focus. A brief half-hour respite at the chow hall allowed for some much-needed rations, but soon thereafter the firing range rang again with the echoes of their platoon's training. Up above, Adhara's unforgiving midday sun bathed them all in sweat.
Felix continued to surprise everyone with his skill, especially with the heavier weapons, where his size and strength worked to his advantage. After a while, Mad Dog just had him stick with the light recoilless rifle, watching with barely hidden bafflement as the Pompeian recruit sent missile after missile into ever more challenging targets with eerie precision.
As for Cerys, getting the hang of shooting proved delightfully satisfying. Aim, breathe out, squeeze the trigger, hit the target. Understanding the weight of the weapon and its quirks would take time, of course, but she thought she did well for a first-timer, something apparently underscored largely by the absence of Mad Dog's scorn. The grenade launcher was a bit more challenging as you had to get the trajectory right. Their service pistol seemed almost flimsy compared to the rest of their gear, but Mad Dog insisted on them putting rounds down range despite sore arms and shoulders.
Hollywood still struggled. Somewhere around the middle of the shooting exercise his carefully composed mask slipped, and anger and frustration manifested on his pretty face. Not just that he didn't achieve the results he must have hoped for. It was probably bad enough to be outshone by the fat pleb – Felix – and that slave bitch – Cerys – but when all was said and done, he scored in the lower twenty percent of the full quartex.
Granny – Elara – with her stocky frame was a savage in full auto, and almost rivaled Pork Chops with the recoilless rifle.
Noodles with her long arms looked awkward but placed her shots with deadly precision.
Even Slowpoke proved his name wrong on the parcours.
Mad Dog noticed. As did everybody else.
When the drills finally ended the sun had already begun to set and the planet's two moonlets had crept over the horizon. Everybody was sore, their shoulders and hands aching, their ears ringing.
Decurio Mitchell, his uniform still proper and untainted by sweat – by now Felix and Cerys had a pool running with bets about him being a robot – ordered them to clean their weapons and regroup. The shooting range emptied out, tired soldiers moving toward the armory in small clusters, talking quietly among themselves. Cerys wiped down her rifle in silence. Besides her, Felix had just sat down when Mad Dog's voice echoed across the yard.
"Pork Chops! Noodles! Get your asses back to the armory, on the double!"
Cerys raised her eyebrows, but her heavy-set comrade just shrugged and got up again. Orders were orders.
Across from her, Elara was stretching, cracking her joints as she massaged her hands and shoulders. She saw Cerys's look and gave her a nod and a smile.
"You did good today," she said in her melodic drawl. "Mad Dog didn't yell at you much, which means you must've done something right, eh?"
Stifling a yawn while she tried to avoid getting gun oil on her bunk, Cerys couldn't help but feel a small spark of pride. As a slave, pride was not something you got to feel often. "Just doing what I've got to do. Same as you." She smiled back at the older woman. "I wouldn't wanna be on the receiving end of your bursts. The way you handled that rifle you'll end up cleaning out enemy bunkers all by yourself."
"I'm hard to hit, too," she held her hand up to her head, indicating her lack of height which was contrasted by her wide shoulders. In comparison, Cerys was a full head taller. Elara finally dropped down on her bunk, her smile fading. "Yeah, well, doing what you've got to do is a hell of a lot harder than most people think."
They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, the clinking of metal and the soft murmur of voices filling the air around them. But it didn't last.
Hollywood walked past them, his eyes narrowing as he looked down at them.
"You think you're so damn special, don't you?" he muttered, his voice low but venomous. "You think you've earned something because you got a few good shots in today?"
Briefly closing her eyes, Cerys took a deep breath and silently counted to three. She knew the wise thing was to just ignore him, but every fiber of her felt annoyed by the arrogant Patrician's entitled attitude. She looked up at him, annoyance flashing in her green eyes. "You just can't give it a rest, can ya? Just leave me the fuck alone, shut the fuck up, and get some rest like all the rest of us!" she gestured to his bunk, exasperated.
Never one to take a hint, Hollywood sneered, taking a step closer. "I'm not like all the rest. Neither are you, Slave Girl. We're on opposite ends of the equation, if you even know what an equation is. You're just a charity case. A slave playing at being a soldier. You think you belong here? You don't. You never will. You're just passing through until they toss you back where you came from."
Even though her hands twitched hard enough to punch him by themselves, somehow Cerys just smiled up at him. "Well, maybe one day I'll consider your opinion. That is, once you start shooting like a man and stop being such an annoying prick, Hollywood." She showed him her pearly white teeth.
Opposite her, Elara tensed, warily eying both of them. "That's enough. Both of you. Hollywood," she said, her voice firm but not loud. "Back off."
But Hollywood wasn't listening. He was too deep in his own anger, too consumed by the blow his ego had taken over the day. He took another step forward, making himself bigger to loom over Cerys', his face twisted with disdain. "You think you're better than me? You think you've earned a place here just because you got lucky on the range? You're nothing, slave bitch. You'll always be nothing."
"The fuck's your problem, Hollywood?" Elara was up and shoved herself between them, throwing a warning glance at Cerys. "Nothing you've done in basic so far gives you any reason for this shit," she growled, looking up at him, the muscles on her neck bulging. "You're decent on the course, and you're lousy on the range, you've thrown nothing but shade at the people you think you'll lead one day." She poked a finger into his chest, hard, catching him off guard. "Pretty boy with a big mouth and nothing to back it up. Guys like you were a dime a dozen in the mines, and none of them lasted long." She glanced back at Cerys, then at the rest of the platoon's barracks. "She doesn't need to think she's better than you. We all know she is."
"Cut him some slack, Granny," Cerys told her softly as she stood up. "He's just finding out how it is when daddy's name doesn't do jack shit for you and you've got fuck all to help you compensate. You're just a spoiled brat playing soldier, and the second things get real, you'll fold. So, don't you dare stand there and tell me I don't belong here."
For a moment, it seemed like Hollywood might lash out.
But before anything could happen, a voice cut through the tension like a knife.
"What the hell is going on here?"
Mad Dog Mitchell stood in the doorframe, having appeared out of nowhere like an angry spirit with uncanny timing for the second time in a row. He marched over to where they stood, his eyes narrowing as he took in the scene. Hollywood for once wisely and immediately stepped back, his face shifting from anger to forced neutrality, but the damage was done.
The drill sergeant between the three of them, his gaze settling on Hollywood with a dangerous glint. "You got something you want to say, Hollywood?" he asked, his voice cold.
Hollywood swallowed, shaking his head quickly. "Sir, no, sir."
Mad Dog's eyes flicked to Cerys, then Elara, and then back to Hollywood. "I don't care what your issues are with each other," he growled. "This is the second time I catch you causing shit like this, and there better be not a third, or you'll wish you never signed up. Is that clear?"
"Sir, yes, sir," both Cerys and the Patrician boy barked back, standing straight as a pole.
"Let's make sure both of you stupid maggots really understand it. Since you've both still got sooo much energy to fight: out on the track with you, now. Ten laps each, and fifty push-ups. On the double!" The last words were yelled so loud everybody's ears rang for a moment.
"Sir, yes, sir!" came their reply. Cerys shot a last, mournful glance at the comfort of her bunk, then jogged outside towards the sports field where she forced herself into a running rhythm. After the third lap, her legs felt like fire. After the sixth, she just wanted to die. Hollywood always ran close to her, his face a mask of anger, hate, and grim determination. Every breath burned in her lungs like acid. When Mitchell finally waved them off the tracks, she almost doubled over. Hollywood looked no better. But before she could even gather a thought, she found herself down on the ground, pushing her aching body up and down as the Mad Dog counted to fifty, his voice soon just a buzz in her ears.
Eventually, the stars came up, followed by Adhara's main satellite. She barely even noticed Mitchell dismissing them, her hands raw, her breath ragged.
Both she and Hollywood stumbled back to the barracks more than they walked, and just for once there was peace between the two of them. Inside, the lights were on. She faintly noticed that Pork Chops and Noodles were both back, looking relaxed, almost happy, with the former cleaning and showing off a submachinegun that looked tiny in his bear paws, and the latter lugging a long, mean rifle with a scope, before she collapsed on her bunk and drifted off to sleep.
Chapter 3: Moves and Consequences
Camp Avernus, Adhara
Marian Hegemony
Late December 3010 C.E.
As the punishment waned, the next few weeks blurred into an endless grind of harsh marches, brutal drills, and grueling weapons exercises. Mad Dog Mitchell never relented. If anything, he became more relentless as the days wore on. He pushed them harder, drilled them longer, and his insults became sharper.
But Cerys soon realized there was a method to his madness. He was shaping them, molding them like clay into a cohesive unit, forcing them to rely on each other, even if they didn't realize it yet. Each day was a test of endurance, strength, and willpower, and each night they collapsed into their bunks exhausted, only to wake up and do it all over again.
The obstacle course remained their daily ritual at least once, only slightly changed and made more daunting by slowly adding all their gear, one piece at a time. By day forty-five, each and every one of them was hauling fifty pounds worth of gear through the obstacle course. Two of the recruits dropped out, their spots filled up by stragglers who had to work twice as hard to catch up.
The Legion needed the manpower. News filtered slowly into the remote camp, but word had it the Free Worlds League was drawing together troops on the border for the first time in ages. Not local militia, but battalions of federal troops. Experienced mechs. With Illyria spiraling, so much potentially hostile firepower had everybody on edge. Hollywood was convinced Marik wouldn't act, not with the Lyrans and Capellans at their gates. Cerys, not exactly politically savvy, for once she was eager to believe him. Otherwise, her seven years would soon become a lot more interesting, in the ancient meaning of the word.
Also spurred by this, in training, she not only kept up, she became stronger, faster, more resilient even. And she got to feel something she never really experienced before: confidence. The muscles in her arms and legs had hardened, her endurance had increased, and the hesitation that had once lingered in her mind was gone. She could keep up, convinced that she could endure whatever the training threw at her. Her shooting had continued to improve as well. Every morning, they hit the range, and Cerys found herself consistently landing her shots with more accuracy. She wasn't the best, but she was solid, reliable, and she took pride in that. Mad Dog's rare nod of approval had become something she quietly sought, a small affirmation that she was on the right track.
Felix, despite his bulk, had gained the respect of both the recruits and Mad Dog. He had turned out to be a natural with heavy weapons, particularly the recoilless rifle. Every time Mad Dog set up a drill with the shoulder-fired beast of a weapon, the man from Pompey took to it like it was an extension of his own body, hitting targets that seemed almost impossible to track. His hand-eye coordination was unmatched, and despite the sergeant's usual contempt for anything short of perfection, even he couldn't deny Felix' uncanny skill.
"You might be built like a goddamn elephant," Mad Dog barked one day after another flawless performance from Felix on the range, "but I'll be damned if you don't shoot like a sniper. If you weren't so ugly, Pork Chops, I'd almost call you impressive."
It was the closest thing to a compliment anyone had ever heard from Mad Dog, and Felix took it with a shy, proud smile.
Cerys realized that if you got good at something, the hard-ass drill sergeant was quick to switch from yelling and denigration to constructive support. Even if it was coached in jet-engine loudness levels of profanity.
Noodles was a good example of that. The lanky woman with the long arms was a good shot, and to make the best of her long limbs, Mad Dog had seen to it that she began training with an 12mm anti-material rifle. It was an ugly piece of hardware, bolt-action, big and black, with a large muzzle brake and scope, weighing just as much as Felix's missile launcher. But she was good with it, managing its weight and bulk by bulking up herself.
Over the passing weeks, Elara turned a bit into a big sister figure for Cerys, just as Felix continued to support her. If there was more to his friendship, he never made it apparent to her. But the camaraderie that was growing among most of the recruits wasn't universal.
But while Cerys was growing as a soldier, the animosity between her and Hollywood continued to fester, especially after that day on the shooting range. Hollywood, despite his patrician background and privileged upbringing, struggled to keep pace with the rest. His pride kept him going, but it also made him reckless. Where others learned to work as a team, to trust in the strength of the group, Hollywood's arrogance isolated him. He wanted to be the star, the one who stood out, and it was starting to show in all the wrong ways.
For the first time in his life, despite his good looks, he found out how it was to be painfully average. Too proud, and convinced of himself, the distance between Ronan Valerius and the others widened with each passing week. He remained aloof from the plebeians, viewing his comrades with disdain, seeing them as beneath him — and especially Cerys. That the Slave Girl seemed to succeed where he struggled only made it worse.
Elara called him a petulant teenager, and there was some truth to that. Cerys' mom would have given her a slap or two had she dared act like Ronan did.
Cerys kept her cool. Ten laps and a hundred sit ups had been enough to convince her that him baiting her was not worth it. Ironically, twenty years as a slave had taught her just how to endure people like him.
The others tried to give him a wide berth. Legion or not, he came from nobility, and most simply wanted to avoid the kind of trouble a rich snobby man-child like Hollywood could cause. His frustration boiled over in small, passive-aggressive comments during drills and maneuvers. When they were on long marches, trudging through muddy terrain with their gear weighing them down, Hollywood would mutter under his breath about how this wasn't what he had signed up for, or how he deserved better than slogging through the muck with a bunch of 'peasants'. Which would at least have been understandable if he had had trouble to keep up. But he did not.
The other recruits ignored him. At first.
At the turn of the year, training escalated to a series of increasingly demanding live exercises. The Legion had no institutional experience with these things. But what it did have was more than fifteen hundred years of written military at their disposal, and a core of people experienced in the most underhanded tactics known to humankind. Figuring out something that challenged green recruits had been easier than thought.
Mad Dog had made that painfully clear during the briefing, his voice laced with a cold promise of consequences if they failed.
"This ain't no playground exercise," he had barked. "This is as close to the real thing as you're gonna get before you find yourself in the shit for real. You screw this up, you'll be eating dirt for the next week. This is about strategy, about following orders, and most importantly, about survival. You've drawn your straws, and Slave Girl's in command. You do what she says, or I'll personally make sure your next stop is cleaning latrines for the rest of your miserable lives. Got it?"
The recruits had nodded, tense and silent. Even Hollywood, with his usual arrogance, had kept his mouth shut.
The mission was simple enough in concept: their squad would infiltrate a simulated enemy base deep in the forest, take out the guards, and disable a communications tower. It was designed to mimic the one facet of the kind of operations they would face in the real world, tactical, and requiring teamwork. The targets were mock enemy soldiers, but everything else was real. Real terrain, real traps, and live-fire simulations with paintball rounds that would leave more than just bruises if they weren't careful.
Cerys had spent the previous night going over the terrain maps, memorizing the routes and planning their approach. She struggled with the briefing notes they'd been given on laminated cards, frustrated at the extra time she needed to fully grasp the words. Tomorrow, they'd be moving through thick underbrush, with limited visibility and uneven ground. Traps would be set, and any mistake could cost them the mission. Having the weight of leadership on her shoulders was one of the weirdest feelings she had ever encountered. Part burden, part motivation, and completely unknown to her.
Morning came, and after a cramped truck had carted them an hour away from Camp Avernus the terrain slowly changed from steppe to forest. The whole training quartex was there, each maniple with their own objective.
The forest swallowed them up quickly, the thick canopy overhead casting deep shadows over the rough terrain. The air was humid, clinging to their skin, and the ground was uneven, littered with roots and rocks that made every step a potential hazard. Cerys moved at the head of the squad, her rifle held close to her chest, eyes scanning the ground and the trees ahead for any signs of traps or ambushes.
Pork Chops was with her, carrying the heavy weapon on his back like it was just another piece of gear, his SMG locked and loaded. He moved with surprising quiet for a man his size, his eyes always focused on their surroundings, ready for anything. Elara covered a second approach with Slowpoke, who filled Felix's position with the grenade launcher attached to his service rifle's barrel. Despite the conditions, they worked together smoothly, communicating with precise hand signs they'd been learning, and short, sharp commands.
Hollywood was in the rear, sulking as usual. His movements were sluggish, his focus elsewhere. His frustration had boiled over that morning when Mad Dog had berated him for failing to follow orders during a drill, and now it showed in his performance. Cerys had given him a simple task: keep an eye on their six, make sure no one was trailing them. It should have been easy, but Hollywood wasn't happy about taking orders from her. His face was tight with anger, and every now and then, he muttered something under his breath, though Cerys ignored it. She just wondered how long the man's guardian angel would end up protecting him from the consequences of his own actions.
They moved in silence for nearly an hour, the only sounds the occasional rustle of leaves or the distant call of a bird. Cerys led them carefully, occasionally checking her primitive compass and her map – reading maps and using the small round piece was a lot more fun than she had feared – using hand signals to direct the group as they approached their first objective. She signaled for the squad to spread out, taking cover behind the trees and underbrush as they surveyed the area.
The lookout was simple: two guards posted on either side of a narrow path, their rifles slung over their shoulders, scanning the forest with bored expressions. They were standing in front of a small, camouflaged bunker. Deeper in the forest behind them would be a hut where the communication relay was housed. If the guards raised the alarm, the mission was over. They had to take them out quietly.
Cerys motioned for the team to wait, her mind already working through the next steps. They couldn't risk a firefight; it had to be quick and clean. She glanced at Felix, who was positioned a few meters to her right, his bulk barely hidden by the thick foliage.
She made a fist and pointed at the low sandbag bunker, and signaled to Elara with quick, precise hand movements: take the guard on the left. She'd handle the one on the right.
Felix nodded, his expression calm as he unslung the recoilless rifle, his hands moving with practiced ease despite its weight, and took aim. Cerys raised her rifle and took a deep breath, steadying herself. From a corner of her eyes she saw Elara do the same. They had to time this perfectly.
With a silent count to three, she fired.
Her shot was clean, a perfect strike to the target's chest. The mock enemy soldier went down in an instant, his body crumpling to the ground without a sound. At the same time, a burst from the Granny rang out, and the second guard dropped, the threat neutralized in less than five seconds. With a hiss a trained projectile slammed into the sandbag bunker's opening, red smoke erupting to simulate a direct hit.
"Go, go, go!"
Cerys motioned for the squad to move forward, and they rushed the bunker, making sure it was clear. The first part of the mission had gone smoothly, but she knew this was only the beginning. The next phase was where things would get more complicated.
They moved deeper into the forest, the path growing narrower and more treacherous. It softly sloped upwards. Cerys's senses were on high alert, every noise, every movement catching her attention. They had to reach the main objective – a larger outpost – without triggering any traps or raising the alarm.
She held up a fist, signaling the squad to stop. The next part of the way wound around a long cliff face. The comm relay lay just ahead, nestled between two large, moss-covered boulders. It looked deserted, but Cerys wasn't convinced. What would've been the point of this? There was something off about the way the area felt too quiet, too still. She squinted through the foliage, trying to spot any movement, but there was nothing.
Cerys motioned for Hollywood to cover the rear and keep watch, her gut telling her that they were walking into something.
But Hollywood, still bristling with resentment, scoffed under his breath. "Paranoid," he muttered, loud enough for her to hear. "We're wasting time. Let's just take it out."
Cerys turned to glare at him. "Stay in position, Hollywood. That's an order."
Hollywood's face darkened, his jaw clenched. "We've been sitting here too long. You're overthinking it."
"Pork Chops, can you take a direct shot at it? A good missile hit should send that ramshackle bunch of wooden boards to hell?"
Felix frowned. "Negative, SG. I've got no clear shot from here."
"Damn," Cerys muttered. The exact make-up of the surroundings hadn't been clear from the maps they had been provided. She'd have to make the plan up on the fly. "Alright. Granny, you're the smallest. See if you can rob along the left edge in the cover of those bushes. Slowpoke, I hope your climbing's gotten better because I need you to fall back and try to get up that hill to cover us from above." She turned to Felix. "Pork Chops, switch to your SMG. We'll wait until the others are in pos-"
"Ah, screw this shit," Hollywood yawned. Before Cerys could respond, he took a step forward, pushing past her and onto the last curve of the path before it fully opened into the clearing.
"Hollywood, stop!" she hissed, but he ignored her, stepping further into the open. The moment his foot hit the ground, there was a sharp metallic click, unmistakable to anyone with military experience – or even basic training.
Everyone froze. Time seemed to slow as Cerys's heart leapt into her throat.
"Hollywood, get back! NOW!" she shouted.
But it was too late.
The explosion ripped through the air with a deafening roar, a cloud of dirt and debris spraying upward as Hollywood was thrown backward like a rag doll. The mine wasn't lethal - it was part of the exercise, after all - but the shockwave was real, albeit reduced, and Hollywood hit the ground hard, groaning in pain.
Everything descended into chaos. The sound of the blast triggered the outpost's defenses, and the previously quiet area lit up with simulated gunfire. Enemy combatants—more targets—sprang up from concealed positions, firing at the squad with paintball rounds that stung with the force of a bee sting.
"Take cover!" Cerys shouted, diving behind a rocky outcrop as bullets whizzed past. She fired off a quick burst, her shots hitting one of the pop-up targets, but the enemy fire was relentless.
Felix went prone, emptying his SMG in one long burst of suppressive fire, felling a few of the new targets. The return fire briefly slackened as his shots landed, and Cerys realized this split second was all they were going to get.
Throwing the prior battle plan over board, she barked orders. "Go, go, go! Frontal assault!"
Granny and Slowpoke darted from cover, their guns blazing, and Cerys joined them, a glance backwards confirming that Pork Chops was getting up and ready to join in.
They pushed through the clearing, attacking the remaining targets with controlled bursts of fire. Slowpoke eliminated one fortified position with his grenade launcher. Granny took a bullet to the arm and, true to the rules, she continued one-handed. It was a hard-fought battle, but they managed to overwhelm the enemy.
As the last target fell, Cerys signaled for the squad to regroup. She glanced over to where Hollywood lay on the ground, dazed and groaning as he tried to push himself up. His uniform was torn and dirt-covered, his face pale with shock and humiliation.
She marched over to him, her heart still pounding with adrenaline. "You could have gotten us all killed, Hollywood," she said, her voice low but filled with fury. "You disobeyed a direct order."
Hollywood's face twisted in pain and anger. "I didn't—"
"You did," she cut him off. "And now we've compromised the mission because you couldn't follow orders." She angrily pointed at the blinking red light on top of the communications towers. It meant the enemy had been able to call for backup, their attack had been thwarted, the mission failed.
Hollywood looked away, his pride shattered but too stubborn to admit fault.
With the adrenaline rushing out of her and battle fatigue taking over, Cerys didn't have time or energy left to argue. She turned to the rest of the squad, discouraged, her shoulders slumped. "We need to call this in. You did good, people. Let's regroup and get back to base."
She took a deep breath and waved Slowpoke over. He carried the maniple's long-range radio on his back. "This is," she grimaced, "Private Slave Girl to Doghouse. We have a mission scrub. Private Hollywood triggered a mine."
She steeled herself for the expected response, but when it came, Mad Dog's voice was flat. Almost dangerously so.
"Roger that, Private. We have you on camera. Return to base ASAP."
As they trudged back through the forest, the weight of the failed mission hung heavy over the squad. The adrenaline had worn off, leaving only the cold reality of what had happened.
When they reached their starting point, Mad Dog was waiting, his face like a thundercloud. He stared at them in silence for a long moment before speaking.
"You failed," he said simply, his voice deadly quiet. He fixed his gaze on Hollywood, who was standing at the back, looking down at the ground. "Because of you."
Hollywood opened his mouth to protest, but the words died as Mad Dog stepped forward, his eyes blazing with fury.
"I don't care where you come from, who your daddy is, or how much money you think matters out here. You disobeyed an order. A direct order, Hollywood, and because of that, your squad failed. In real combat, they'd be dead right now, and it would be on your head. In real combat, a stunt like that, and you'd end up court martialed!" His face darkened with anger. "Pick up all your gear. You'll walk back to camp, and you'll be there, point 1800. In the meantime, I'll try to figure out just what to do with your witless waste of bones and meat. If brains were dynamite, you wouldn't have enough to blow your nose, gods damn it!"
Hollywood stood there, silent, his face pale and drawn.
"Move it, Hollywood!"
"Sir, yes, sir!" he gritted his teeth and got going.
Mad Dog turned to Cerys, his expression softening just slightly. "You kept it together, Slave Girl. You did your job. But a leader is only as strong as the weakest link in their squad, and right now, you've got some links that are about to snap."
He left them with those words, the failure of the mission hanging in the air like a bitter taste. As they got back on the truck, late afternoon welcoming them with a new bout of rain. Amazon stared out across the steppe and brushland, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. She'd felt alive today. Useful. In control of her destiny. Good at something. All things that had been denied to her back on her patrician master's estates. And then another Mars-fucking-damned patrician had to fuck it all up for her again.
Turning her head, she caught a last glimpse at Hollywood as his silhouette rapidly got smaller in the distance. Fine. Have it your way.
She would soon find out that, no, Ronan Valerius would not have it his way.
They'd returned back to base, had raided chow hall, and had showered liberally when the order came to muster.
The sun was dipping low when Hollywood finally trudged into Camp Avernus, his face a mask of exhaustion and barely restrained rage. His uniform was soaked through with sweat and streaked with dirt, his boots caked in mud from the miles-long march he'd been forced to endure. His legs felt like lead, his body ached from the effects of the explosion he had triggered, each step sending jolts of pain through his calves and thighs. For once, he no longer cared to maintain his facade of aloofness. Whatever punishment Mad Dog Mitchell had cooked up for him, he'd endure it. What more could they do? Make him run another fifty miles? Drag him through another mud pit? They'd break before he did, he vowed. And once he was in command...
Cerys stood stiffly in line, her stomach knotted with dread. The air was thick with anticipation and something darker – something that tasted like fear and old, bitter memories. The recruits murmured quietly, a ripple of unease passing through the ranks, but no one dared break formation. Even Felix, who usually had a quiet word of encouragement for those around him, kept his gaze straight ahead, his jaw clenched.
Mad Dog Mitchell stood off to the side, arms crossed over his chest, his expression a blank mask. He watched Hollywood stagger to a stop in front of the assembled recruits, his face twisted in a mix of exhaustion and defiance. The humiliation was plain in his eyes, but there was something else there too – something dangerous. A smoldering hatred that hadn't been doused by the long, punishing march.
"Fall in, Hollywood," Mad Dog ordered, his voice bereft of emotion, soft, like steel clad in silk.
Hollywood hesitated for a fraction of a second, his gaze sweeping over the other recruits – the silent, watchful eyes of his fellow soldiers. Then he straightened his spine, squaring his shoulders as he took his place in front of Mad Dog, his head held high.
Cerys watched him, her chest tight. Deep inside, she'd seen this coming. Everyone had. Everyone but the son of a Patrician family who had been sheltered from how Marian society worked, truly worked, all his life. Hollywood's pride, his arrogance, had finally pushed matters too far. But whatever she had expected, it wasn't this. Not a public reckoning.
Mad Dog took a step forward, his boots crunching on the gravel. He glanced around at the gathered recruits, his gaze hard and unyielding. "Listen up, all of you," he barked. "What you're about to witness is what happens to soldiers who think they're above the chain of command. Who think they can disregard orders and put their comrades at risk because of their own god-damn ego."
He turned his gaze to Hollywood, his eyes narrowing. "You disobeyed a direct order today, Hollywood. You left your squad exposed and compromised the mission. In a real combat situation, your insubordination would have cost lives, yours included."
Hollywood, still not having grasped the gravity of the situation, gritted his teeth. "Sir, it was a bullshit order, sir."
There was a murmur from the ranks behind him – a ripple of shock at his audacity.
Mad Dog's voice dropped, low and dangerous. "Hollywood, oh Hollywood," he shook his head. "You want to act like you're special, like the rules don't apply to you? Fine. You're going to learn the hard way that in this unit, every single one of you answers to me. And when you fuck up, you pay the price."
With a sharp motion, Mad Dog snapped his fingers, and two MPs stepped out of the shadows of the nearby barracks, grabbing Ronan by the arms, yanking him forward. He struggled for a moment, dumbfounded, a flash of panic crossing his face, but they held him fast, forcing him down onto his knees.
"Wait, what the hell is this?" he demanded, struggling against their grip. "You can't-"
"Silence!" Mad Dog barked. His voice was like a gunshot, freezing Hollywood in place. The sergeant's eyes narrowed. "You want to know what this is, Private? This is discipline. This is accountability."
Mad Dog took a step back, his gaze sweeping over the assembled recruits. "Bring the whip."
The words were like a punch to the gut. A murmur of shock rippled through the formation, the recruits exchanging stunned glances. Even Hollywood's bravado seemed to waver as one of the instructors pulled a long, braided leather whip from a pack, the coils gleaming in the fading light.
Cerys's heart pounded in her chest, a sick feeling twisting in her gut. She knew what was coming next. She had seen it before, in another life. A life of chains and commands that brooked no defiance. She had heard the crack of the whip, felt its bite on her own skin, and she'd watched as others were broken under its lash. Her breath caught in her throat. The sight of it, the sharp snap as the instructor unfurled it, sent a shiver of ice down her spine. Memories surged up, unbidden and unwanted. She saw herself standing in the fields, the overseer's voice ringing in her ears as the whip cracked. She remembered the sound of flesh splitting, the cries of pain that never seemed to end. She remembered being made to watch, helpless and seething with hatred, as the lash turned skin to ribbons.
Mad Dog stepped forward, his gaze sweeping across the gathered recruits. "I've warned you all before. There is no room for insubordination in this company. There is no room for weakness in the Legion."
The MPs forced Hollywood forward, dragging him toward a tall wooden post erected at the edge of the parade ground. He struggled harder, thrashing against their iron grips as the reality of the situation began to finally sink in, but they were unyielding. They yanked his arms above his head, securing his wrists to the post with thick leather straps, pinning him in place.
The recruits watched in stunned silence as Hollywood was bound, his body stretched taut, his uniform torn off his shoulders. His breath came in short, sharp gasps, anger, hate, and for the first time Cerys could remember, actually fear warring in his eyes as he glared at Mad Dog.
Felix, standing beside her, shifted uneasily. His gaze flicked to her, concern etched across his face, but he said nothing. No one said anything. They all just stood there, frozen.
"Ten lashes," Mad Dog announced, his voice carrying across the parade ground. "And let this be a lesson to all of you."
The whip cracked through the air, the sound like a gunshot in the stillness. Cerys flinched, every muscle in her body tensing as the lash bit into Hollywood's back, leaving a livid red welt across his skin. His scream tore through the silence, raw and guttural, his body convulsing against the restraints, muscles straining as he fought against the pain.
Cerys couldn't look away. She wanted to – gods, she wanted to – but something kept her rooted to the spot, her eyes locked on the scene unfolding before her. Each lash seemed to reverberate through her own body, her muscles twitching with remembered pain. She felt the phantom sting of the whip, the ghost of old scars long since healed.
She wasn't alone. The other recruits stood in stunned silence, their faces pale, their eyes wide. Some looked horrified, others angry, but none dared move. None dared speak. They were being taught a lesson. Just like Hollywood was.
Mad Dog didn't pause. The second lash followed immediately, and then the third, each strike precise and unrelenting. Hollywood's screams grew hoarse, his back a crisscross of bleeding welts and bruises.
Cerys' nails dug into her palms, her hands clenched into fists so tight they ached. She forced herself to breathe, to keep her expression neutral, but inside she was screaming. She could see herself in Hollywood's place, feel the bite of the whip, the shame and humiliation that came with it. The helpless rage. But she couldn't let it show. Not here.
The recruits watched in horrified silence. Mad Dog's eyes never left Hollywood's. He swung the whip with a cold, methodical rhythm, his face expressionless. By the time the tenth lash fell, Hollywood was slumped against the post, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He hung limply in the restraints, his body trembling, blood dripping.
Mad Dog stepped back, lowering the whip. He glanced at the assembled recruits, his gaze sweeping over each of them in turn.
"Remember this," he said quietly. "This is what happens when you disobey orders. When you betray your comrades. When you forget your place." He raised his voice. "There's no room for insubordination in the Legion! No room for egos or arrogance. You follow orders, or you pay the price!" He turned his head and stared down at Hollywood. "Cut him down, and get him to the medics."
The MPs moved forward, releasing Hollywood's wrists. He collapsed to the ground in a heap, his face twisted in agony as white-clad men with a stretcher rushed in.
"Remember the lesson you've been taught here today!" Mad Dog repeated, both to Hollywood and the recruits. "You're all dismissed!" He turned on his heels and walked away, leaving Hollywood crumpled on the ground.
The recruits broke formation slowly, hesitantly, like a herd of animals still unsure if the predator was truly done with them. No one spoke as they dispersed. Cerys turned away, her stomach churning, bile rising in her throat. She didn't look back at Hollywood, didn't want to see the blood, the broken flesh.
The image would haunt her sleep for a long time.
Here's a little catching up for Cerys and the gang while I'm plotting things and polishing the next (main story) chapter.
Also, I realized I've written Addhara wrong in all chapters so far as I've consistently left the second 'd' out.
Camp Avernus, Addhara
Marian Hegemony
Late January 3011 C.E.
"Fighting continues on Trondheimal and Trasjkis, having claimed its first prominent victim. Buccaneer commander Isabella 'Bones' Ramirez was killed when her battlemech stumbled into a patrol of Illyrian-backed mercenaries, leaving her 'Bonecutters' without a leader—"
"Sweet Venus have mercy, someone change that boring channel to something else!" Matteo 'Gnome' Webber begged.
Noodles, not even having to get up, reached up with her long arms and manually flipped the channel on the vidscreen, just in time to see the end credits of the popular children's movie 'Arena Heroes 3' finish. "That seems about right down your alley, Gnome."
"Now listen, you hairless ape woman, I-"
Cerys cancelled out their bickering, shaking her head with a smile, and concentrated back on her reading. It was a Capellan children's book. Luckily, it looked nothing like the sort, sparing her any sort of derisive comments. Felix had gotten it from the camp's tiny library, though how a children's book had even ended up there was a mystery in itself. She took her time to read consciously, and to her surprise, found it really enjoyable.
"Look at the young book worm," Elara grinned, stopping by.
Cerys blushed. "You know, we never had these when I was a kid," she smiled ruefully.
The older woman nodded sympathetically. "I can't really imagine that, SG. We were four kids, and my mom always read old fairy tales to us when we were little."
Feeling a sudden wave of sadness, Cerys looked down at the book in her hands. Not only had her parents never had the opportunity to treat her and her brother to such a small pleasure; neither of them knew how to read properly. Between her known living relatives, it was her who had the greatest literacy.
Elara took her hand with an encouraging smile. "Chin up, kiddo. One day you'll have a family of your own, and it'll be you who reads those stories to your little ones."
Cerys smiled back at her, grateful for the words, but before she could say anything, Mad Dog's head appeared in the barracks' door.
"Muster in five! Move it, maggots!" Before they could even acknowledge the command, the door slammed shut again.
The two women exchanged surprised looks.
"Now what fuck's that about again?" Elara frowned.
Cerys groaned, rising from her bunk again. "No time to speculate, we're about to find out, I guess."
Hurriedly, everybody got into their uniforms and grabbed their gear, trying their best to look presentable. Painful experience had taught them Mad Dog expected no less from them than spick and span, proper attire and personal fitted to a T.
Far too soon – it was always far too soon – the bone-shattering sound of the carynx blared across the camp, and all of them sped outside to muster in the central yard in neat squares of five by five soldiers. High on an eagle-topped standard the Marian banner softly waved in what was for once a quite agreeable breeze.
Cerys was surprised to see that it wasn't just them, but all four barracks of her training company that had spilled into the central yard for muster.
The presence of Legate Halley was an even greater surprise. Camp Avernus' commanding officer stood rigidly, arms crossed behind her back, a green cape softly fluttering in the wind while sunlight mirrored off her polished breastplate adorned by with an engraved eagle, its wings spread from one side to the other. Flanked by the horn blowers and two slaves in plain gray tunics, the middle-aged woman with the short-cropped blonde hair waited next to a plain military chest for the last square to form and stand at attention before she spoke.
"Recruits of the Marian legions!" her voice carried across the whole yard, unaided. "Today, the last of you will have passed the half-way point of your basic training. "Even though we are a young force, it is customary, and my pleasure at that, to acknowledge the efforts of those who have shown greater aptitude and potential, be it for leadership, for excellence in service, or both." She nodded to one of the slaves who unrolled a scroll for her to read from. "Those worthy of recognition shall be named, and step forward. I call Private Felix Collins!"
Cerys felt the heavy man stir in the row right behind her. He hesitated for a second, then crisply stepped out and marched over to the camp's commander, coming to attention with a salute.
"Private Collins, you are hereby raised to Contubernalis!" She took a small silver chevron from a casket held by the other slave, then fetched a sheathed gladius from the chest, drawing it and holding it to the sun. "Wear this with pride in all your duties, recruit!" she intoned, slamming it back into its sheath before she handed it to Pork Chops.
Felix stood even straighter than before, like a bean pole, albeit it rather wide one. "I serve the Hegemony!" he yelled as he saluted. Turning on his heel, there was a spring in his step that had not been there before when he reentered formation.
Cerys was happy for him. Of all the people deserving this, he for sure had been on top of her list. She was still wondering when the next name passed Halley's lips.
"I call Private Cerys…," there was a slight pause as the Legate frowned at the lack of a family name before understanding dawned.
Cerys felt as if she had been doused in cold water. She hesitated. Her? The slave girl? Pain shot through her ribs, and her eyes darted to Elara and the elbow that had hit her, the older woman's eyes imploring her to get moving.
So she did. Her back straight, and her hands suddenly sweaty, she practiced her best parade steps and came to attention opposite the Legate, feeling rather queasy.
Compared to Felix's composure her face must have been an open book. For a brief second an amused smile flashed over Halley's face, then the silver chevron was in her hands.
"Private Cerys, you are hereby raised to Contubernalis!"
Never in her life had she felt more vulnerable, more naked as in that moment, knowing that hundreds of eyes stared at her. And yet, never had she felt more proud. Things seemed to slow down around her. Her heart beating loudly in her chest, her cheeks feeling on fire, she ignored that her façade crumpled. With trembling hands she took the gladius Halley handed her, smiling like a little girl on Saturnalia. The grip was polished wood, dark, with a faintly rough texture so hands as slippery as hers right now would not loose traction. It was a classic stabbing weapon, the hilt fitted with an inlet rail that allowed for the blade to be used as a potent bayonet, too.
Cerys pressed the sheath against her beating chest and raised her arm in salute.
"I serve the Hegemony!" And for the first time in her life, she truly meant these words.
Later, back in the barracks, the mood among the recruits was festive, relaxed. Backs were patted, hugs were given, hands were shaken, and congratulations were spoken. All the while those that had been promoted made sure to let the others know that they, too, naturally would have deserved the same honors.
"I wonder which of you knuckleheads I'll get to order around," Felix chuckled as he carefully placed the sheathed sword on his bunk. "Damn," he shook his head. "Contubernalis. So, who wants to be the other lucky four in my maniple? I need someone to carry all those missiles for me!"
"Careful what you wish for," Slowpoke answered with a chuckle of his own. "It'll be no time until everybody figures out the closest cut from 'contubernalis' is 'cunt'."
"Oh crap," Felix laughed out loud. "Walked right into that one, did I?"
Cerys watched them verbally spar with a smile, feeling as content as she hadn't felt in years. She caressed the chevron on her collar with a thumb, feeling the weight of the gladius resting on her lap. Everybody of them had a combat knife in their equipment, but a sword was a different league, both weapon and symbol of recognition. All her life there had only been orders, work, the leash, and even the whip when the overseers or her master felt she did not meet their standards. Never ever had there been recognition of a task well finished. In truth, even her parents, themselves derived of that feeling, had been few and far between with praise. Love, yes. Concern, surely. But not praise. Not recognition. To receive it now, from the army of the state that had kept her family in slavery for all their lives, was a strange experience. In her chest, her heart had returned to its normal rhythm. But the cozy warm feeling remained, and she vowed to cherish the moment as long as she possibly could.
Hollywood, on the other hand, sat on his bunk with a scowl, his back twitching rom the itch of his healing wounds. First the humiliation. And now, he'd been snubbed of a promotion. He! The son of Thomas Valerius. Patrician. Senator! Only for it to go to a couple of plebs, to a slave bitch even! His resentment was like a bubbling cauldron. And eventually, it boiled over.
"I'm sick of this farce," he muttered, loud enough to break through the jovial clamor around him. "None of you deserve this. I'm a patrician! It is my birthright to lead," he spat.
Cerys felt the blissful void in her shatter, and her jaw tightened. She had heard Hollywood's rants before, but today, after everything, it really grated on her nerves. She wasn't alone. The other recruits exchanged glances, some shaking their heads, others rolling their eyes.
"Oh, fuck off, pretty boy," Gnome shouted from the other end of the barracks. "The fuck have you done to deserve a promotion so far, other than being an asshole?"
A murmur of approval ran through the room.
"What would a guttersnipe like you know about anything?" the tall blonde jumped up from his bunk.
Felix stepped forward, rubbing the back of his nose with a sigh. "You know, Hollywood," he said quietly, "for someone with private tutors you've been really damn good at missing the bloody point ever since your ass ended up on that bus to here. This isn't about who matters more. It's never been about that. It's about whether you can do your part. Everybody's learned that. Even someone as thick as Gnome back there. Everybody, except you. Which raises the question, are you suffering not just from neurohelmet incompability, but also from a learning disability? Because you just can't seem to learn that." He raised an eyebrow as soft laughter rolled through the room.
Hollywood's face twisted with anger, his voice rising. "Learn? From you? From her?" He gestured toward Cerys, his words dripping with disdain. "You're just a fat kid who got lucky with a gun, and she's - "
Cerys' patience snapped. Months of the rich kid's insults and mood swings had worn it thin. She stood up, carefully placing the sword in its sheath back on her bunk, and her eyes locked on Hollywood, her voice cold. "Say it, Hollywood. Go on. Say what you really think."
The room seemed to shrink as Ronan Valerius stepped forward, his eyes locked on Cerys's, his anger rolling off him like a storm.
"You're nothing," Hollywood spat, his voice low but venomous. "A slave bitch pretending to be a soldier. You don't belong here, and you never will."
Cerys's hands clenched into fists at her sides. She'd had enough. She was done letting Hollywood's words eat at her. Her voice was calm, but cold as ice. "And yet, here I am, promoted, while you sulk like the fucked-up little boy you still are behind all your swagger and pretty face. Fuck you, Hollywood."
Hollywood's face twisted with rage, his body tensing, shoulders squared off as he leaned in. "I really wonder for whom you had to spread your legs so they let you enlist in the first place."
The tension snapped.
Before she knew it, she had shoved him, hard. His balance wavered for a second, but Hollywood steadied himself quickly, his face now twisted with fury. He shoved her back. No one knew who threw the first punch, but in an instant, the room exploded into chaos.
There was no turning back now. The world shrunk to nothing around them.
Hollywood lunged, aiming a wild punch at her face. She ducked, her instincts kicking in as she sidestepped, but his fist glanced off her shoulder, sending a shock of pain down her arm. She retaliated, driving her elbow into his ribs with a solid thud. He grunted but didn't back down, grabbing her by the arm and yanking her off balance.
Cerys' fist connected with Hollywood's jaw, sending him staggering back a step, but he came back with a savage swing, aiming for her ribs. She twisted to avoid the blow, her instincts taking the wheel, but his fist still clipped her side, knocking the air from her lungs. The impact was sharp, but not enough to stop her.
For a split second, the room spun as they grappled, their training forgotten as raw emotion took over. Hollywood tried to pin her arm behind her back, but she twisted, breaking free and driving a knee into his gut. He gasped, stumbling back, but then he came at her again, faster this time.
They collided again, each trying to overpower the other. Cerys' boot slammed into his shin, a move meant to trip him, but he held his ground, snarling as he shoved her back. Her fist shot out, catching Hollywood square in the jaw, the impact vibrating through her knuckles. He staggered, but before she could press the advantage, he swung wildly, his arm clipping her temple with enough force to send her reeling backward. Stars exploded in her vision, and she barely ducked in time as his next punch sailed over her head.
She stumbled, but managed to turn her stumble into a roll, coming up fast and lunging back at him before he could fully recover. Her shoulder drove into his midsection, knocking the wind out of him as they both crashed into the bunks. Metal frames screeched and bodies tumbled.
Hollywood grabbed a fistful of her fatigues, pulling her in close, his teeth bared in a snarl. "You think you're tough, bitch? Let's see how tough."
Hollywood's elbow came up hard, catching her in the side of the head. Her vision blurred for a second, white spots exploding in her sight, but she powered through it, her military training taking over. She swung at him again, catching him square in the chest, but his fist followed, slamming into her stomach with brutal force. She gasped for breath, her vision swimming, but refused to back down.
Hollywood tackled her, and they went crashing to the floor, the sound of their bodies slamming into the ground echoing through the barracks. Her head smacked against the concrete, pain exploding behind her eyes. For a moment, everything went white, but she recovered quickly, her legs instinctively wrapping around Hollywood's torso as she rolled, trying to gain the upper hand.
They struggled on the ground, a mess of flailing limbs and gritted teeth, neither of them willing to give an inch. Cerys managed to twist free, rolling to her feet and lunging at Hollywood just as he was getting up. She slammed into him with full force, driving him back against the wall with a sickening thud.
Punches landed with sickening force, knuckles slamming into flesh, ribs, faces. Blood was everywhere – she wasn't sure if it was his or hers. The pain was a distant, muted thing, drowned out by the primal need to survive. Despite her barrage of punches, the patrician's hand found her throat, squeezing hard, cutting off her air. She gagged, her vision darkening around the edges as she clawed at his arm, trying to pry his hand away.
But beneath all his bluster, fueled by pure fury, lay the strength of a vise.
Desperate, she drove her knee up into Hollywood's groin with every ounce of strength she had left. He let out a strangled cry, his grip on her throat loosening enough to free herself.
In the next instant, Cerys saw the glint of steel. Hollywood's hand flashed, and suddenly there was a knife in his grip. Still gasping for air, her training kicked in instinctively. She deflected the first slash with her forearm, a streak of red appearing on her arm. The pain barely registered. Adrenaline surged through her, turning her movements sharp and precise. Around her the temperature of the room shifted as people realized the fight had just turned from long-expected blow-up into something nastier, deadlier.
She seized Hollywood's wrist with both hands, twisting hard, trying to force him to drop the knife. He growled in pain but fought back with vicious strength, his free hand swinging up to punch her in the face. Her head snapped to the side from the impact, and she tasted iron in her mouth.
She twisted the knife hand again, trying to wrench it free from his grasp, but Hollywood was too strong.
With a growl of desperation, she slammed her elbow into his face, feeling the satisfying crunch of bone. His head jerked back, blood spilling from his nose, but the knife stayed in his hand.
They separated, both of them gasping, bleeding, barely standing. The room was a blur of chaos and noise, but all she could see was Hollywood, his eyes wild, his face twisted with fury and pain.
"You're dead, slave bitch," he hissed, his face twisted with rage, his teeth gritted, veins bulging in his neck.
And then, in a flash, Hollywood lunged again.
Cerys didn't have time to react. The blade slashed through the air, and then -
Pain. Blinding, searing pain.
She looked down, dazed, seeing the knife buried in her side. Her knees buckled, and the world tilted violently as her body gave out.
Hollywood stood there, his bloody hand held up, his chest heaving as he stared at her, wide-eyed and breathing heavily. For a second, he seemed just as shocked as she was, puzzled, frozen, his expression flickering between rage and disbelief.
The sounds of the room faded, the edges of her vision darkening. The last thing she saw was Felix body slamming Ronan like a freight train, others rushing in to grab the knife.
Her body hit the floor with a dull thud.
And then, blackness.
Also, I realized I've written Addhara wrong in all chapters so far as I've consistently left the second 'd' out.
Chapter 4: Boiling Point
Camp Avernus, Addhara
Marian Hegemony
Late January 3011 C.E.
"Fighting continues on Trondheimal and Trasjkis, having claimed its first prominent victim. Buccaneer commander Isabella 'Bones' Ramirez was killed when her battlemech stumbled into a patrol of Illyrian-backed mercenaries, leaving her 'Bonecutters' without a leader—"
"Sweet Venus have mercy, someone change that boring channel to something else!" Matteo 'Gnome' Webber begged.
Noodles, not even having to get up, reached up with her long arms and manually flipped the channel on the vidscreen, just in time to see the end credits of the popular children's movie 'Arena Heroes 3' finish. "That seems about right down your alley, Gnome."
"Now listen, you hairless ape woman, I-"
Cerys cancelled out their bickering, shaking her head with a smile, and concentrated back on her reading. It was a Capellan children's book. Luckily, it looked nothing like the sort, sparing her any sort of derisive comments. Felix had gotten it from the camp's tiny library, though how a children's book had even ended up there was a mystery in itself. She took her time to read consciously, and to her surprise, found it really enjoyable.
"Look at the young book worm," Elara grinned, stopping by.
Cerys blushed. "You know, we never had these when I was a kid," she smiled ruefully.
The older woman nodded sympathetically. "I can't really imagine that, SG. We were four kids, and my mom always read old fairy tales to us when we were little."
Feeling a sudden wave of sadness, Cerys looked down at the book in her hands. Not only had her parents never had the opportunity to treat her and her brother to such a small pleasure; neither of them knew how to read properly. Between her known living relatives, it was her who had the greatest literacy.
Elara took her hand with an encouraging smile. "Chin up, kiddo. One day you'll have a family of your own, and it'll be you who reads those stories to your little ones."
Cerys smiled back at her, grateful for the words, but before she could say anything, Mad Dog's head appeared in the barracks' door.
"Muster in five! Move it, maggots!" Before they could even acknowledge the command, the door slammed shut again.
The two women exchanged surprised looks.
"Now what fuck's that about again?" Elara frowned.
Cerys groaned, rising from her bunk again. "No time to speculate, we're about to find out, I guess."
Hurriedly, everybody got into their uniforms and grabbed their gear, trying their best to look presentable. Painful experience had taught them Mad Dog expected no less from them than spick and span, proper attire and personal fitted to a T.
Far too soon – it was always far too soon – the bone-shattering sound of the carynx blared across the camp, and all of them sped outside to muster in the central yard in neat squares of five by five soldiers. High on an eagle-topped standard the Marian banner softly waved in what was for once a quite agreeable breeze.
Cerys was surprised to see that it wasn't just them, but all four barracks of her training company that had spilled into the central yard for muster.
The presence of Legate Halley was an even greater surprise. Camp Avernus' commanding officer stood rigidly, arms crossed behind her back, a green cape softly fluttering in the wind while sunlight mirrored off her polished breastplate adorned by with an engraved eagle, its wings spread from one side to the other. Flanked by the horn blowers and two slaves in plain gray tunics, the middle-aged woman with the short-cropped blonde hair waited next to a plain military chest for the last square to form and stand at attention before she spoke.
"Recruits of the Marian legions!" her voice carried across the whole yard, unaided. "Today, the last of you will have passed the half-way point of your basic training. "Even though we are a young force, it is customary, and my pleasure at that, to acknowledge the efforts of those who have shown greater aptitude and potential, be it for leadership, for excellence in service, or both." She nodded to one of the slaves who unrolled a scroll for her to read from. "Those worthy of recognition shall be named, and step forward. I call Private Felix Collins!"
Cerys felt the heavy man stir in the row right behind her. He hesitated for a second, then crisply stepped out and marched over to the camp's commander, coming to attention with a salute.
"Private Collins, you are hereby raised to Contubernalis!" She took a small silver chevron from a casket held by the other slave, then fetched a sheathed gladius from the chest, drawing it and holding it to the sun. "Wear this with pride in all your duties, recruit!" she intoned, slamming it back into its sheath before she handed it to Pork Chops.
Felix stood even straighter than before, like a bean pole, albeit it rather wide one. "I serve the Hegemony!" he yelled as he saluted. Turning on his heel, there was a spring in his step that had not been there before when he reentered formation.
Cerys was happy for him. Of all the people deserving this, he for sure had been on top of her list. She was still wondering when the next name passed Halley's lips.
"I call Private Cerys…," there was a slight pause as the Legate frowned at the lack of a family name before understanding dawned.
Cerys felt as if she had been doused in cold water. She hesitated. Her? The slave girl? Pain shot through her ribs, and her eyes darted to Elara and the elbow that had hit her, the older woman's eyes imploring her to get moving.
So she did. Her back straight, and her hands suddenly sweaty, she practiced her best parade steps and came to attention opposite the Legate, feeling rather queasy.
Compared to Felix's composure her face must have been an open book. For a brief second an amused smile flashed over Halley's face, then the silver chevron was in her hands.
"Private Cerys, you are hereby raised to Contubernalis!"
Never in her life had she felt more vulnerable, more naked as in that moment, knowing that hundreds of eyes stared at her. And yet, never had she felt more proud. Things seemed to slow down around her. Her heart beating loudly in her chest, her cheeks feeling on fire, she ignored that her façade crumpled. With trembling hands she took the gladius Halley handed her, smiling like a little girl on Saturnalia. The grip was polished wood, dark, with a faintly rough texture so hands as slippery as hers right now would not loose traction. It was a classic stabbing weapon, the hilt fitted with an inlet rail that allowed for the blade to be used as a potent bayonet, too.
Cerys pressed the sheath against her beating chest and raised her arm in salute.
"I serve the Hegemony!" And for the first time in her life, she truly meant these words.
Later, back in the barracks, the mood among the recruits was festive, relaxed. Backs were patted, hugs were given, hands were shaken, and congratulations were spoken. All the while those that had been promoted made sure to let the others know that they, too, naturally would have deserved the same honors.
"I wonder which of you knuckleheads I'll get to order around," Felix chuckled as he carefully placed the sheathed sword on his bunk. "Damn," he shook his head. "Contubernalis. So, who wants to be the other lucky four in my maniple? I need someone to carry all those missiles for me!"
"Careful what you wish for," Slowpoke answered with a chuckle of his own. "It'll be no time until everybody figures out the closest cut from 'contubernalis' is 'cunt'."
"Oh crap," Felix laughed out loud. "Walked right into that one, did I?"
Cerys watched them verbally spar with a smile, feeling as content as she hadn't felt in years. She caressed the chevron on her collar with a thumb, feeling the weight of the gladius resting on her lap. Everybody of them had a combat knife in their equipment, but a sword was a different league, both weapon and symbol of recognition. All her life there had only been orders, work, the leash, and even the whip when the overseers or her master felt she did not meet their standards. Never ever had there been recognition of a task well finished. In truth, even her parents, themselves derived of that feeling, had been few and far between with praise. Love, yes. Concern, surely. But not praise. Not recognition. To receive it now, from the army of the state that had kept her family in slavery for all their lives, was a strange experience. In her chest, her heart had returned to its normal rhythm. But the cozy warm feeling remained, and she vowed to cherish the moment as long as she possibly could.
Hollywood, on the other hand, sat on his bunk with a scowl, his back twitching rom the itch of his healing wounds. First the humiliation. And now, he'd been snubbed of a promotion. He! The son of Thomas Valerius. Patrician. Senator! Only for it to go to a couple of plebs, to a slave bitch even! His resentment was like a bubbling cauldron. And eventually, it boiled over.
"I'm sick of this farce," he muttered, loud enough to break through the jovial clamor around him. "None of you deserve this. I'm a patrician! It is my birthright to lead," he spat.
Cerys felt the blissful void in her shatter, and her jaw tightened. She had heard Hollywood's rants before, but today, after everything, it really grated on her nerves. She wasn't alone. The other recruits exchanged glances, some shaking their heads, others rolling their eyes.
"Oh, fuck off, pretty boy," Gnome shouted from the other end of the barracks. "The fuck have you done to deserve a promotion so far, other than being an asshole?"
A murmur of approval ran through the room.
"What would a guttersnipe like you know about anything?" the tall blonde jumped up from his bunk.
Felix stepped forward, rubbing the back of his nose with a sigh. "You know, Hollywood," he said quietly, "for someone with private tutors you've been really damn good at missing the bloody point ever since your ass ended up on that bus to here. This isn't about who matters more. It's never been about that. It's about whether you can do your part. Everybody's learned that. Even someone as thick as Gnome back there. Everybody, except you. Which raises the question, are you suffering not just from neurohelmet incompability, but also from a learning disability? Because you just can't seem to learn that." He raised an eyebrow as soft laughter rolled through the room.
Hollywood's face twisted with anger, his voice rising. "Learn? From you? From her?" He gestured toward Cerys, his words dripping with disdain. "You're just a fat kid who got lucky with a gun, and she's - "
Cerys' patience snapped. Months of the rich kid's insults and mood swings had worn it thin. She stood up, carefully placing the sword in its sheath back on her bunk, and her eyes locked on Hollywood, her voice cold. "Say it, Hollywood. Go on. Say what you really think."
The room seemed to shrink as Ronan Valerius stepped forward, his eyes locked on Cerys's, his anger rolling off him like a storm.
"You're nothing," Hollywood spat, his voice low but venomous. "A slave bitch pretending to be a soldier. You don't belong here, and you never will."
Cerys's hands clenched into fists at her sides. She'd had enough. She was done letting Hollywood's words eat at her. Her voice was calm, but cold as ice. "And yet, here I am, promoted, while you sulk like the fucked-up little boy you still are behind all your swagger and pretty face. Fuck you, Hollywood."
Hollywood's face twisted with rage, his body tensing, shoulders squared off as he leaned in. "I really wonder for whom you had to spread your legs so they let you enlist in the first place."
The tension snapped.
Before she knew it, she had shoved him, hard. His balance wavered for a second, but Hollywood steadied himself quickly, his face now twisted with fury. He shoved her back. No one knew who threw the first punch, but in an instant, the room exploded into chaos.
There was no turning back now. The world shrunk to nothing around them.
Hollywood lunged, aiming a wild punch at her face. She ducked, her instincts kicking in as she sidestepped, but his fist glanced off her shoulder, sending a shock of pain down her arm. She retaliated, driving her elbow into his ribs with a solid thud. He grunted but didn't back down, grabbing her by the arm and yanking her off balance.
Cerys' fist connected with Hollywood's jaw, sending him staggering back a step, but he came back with a savage swing, aiming for her ribs. She twisted to avoid the blow, her instincts taking the wheel, but his fist still clipped her side, knocking the air from her lungs. The impact was sharp, but not enough to stop her.
For a split second, the room spun as they grappled, their training forgotten as raw emotion took over. Hollywood tried to pin her arm behind her back, but she twisted, breaking free and driving a knee into his gut. He gasped, stumbling back, but then he came at her again, faster this time.
They collided again, each trying to overpower the other. Cerys' boot slammed into his shin, a move meant to trip him, but he held his ground, snarling as he shoved her back. Her fist shot out, catching Hollywood square in the jaw, the impact vibrating through her knuckles. He staggered, but before she could press the advantage, he swung wildly, his arm clipping her temple with enough force to send her reeling backward. Stars exploded in her vision, and she barely ducked in time as his next punch sailed over her head.
She stumbled, but managed to turn her stumble into a roll, coming up fast and lunging back at him before he could fully recover. Her shoulder drove into his midsection, knocking the wind out of him as they both crashed into the bunks. Metal frames screeched and bodies tumbled.
Hollywood grabbed a fistful of her fatigues, pulling her in close, his teeth bared in a snarl. "You think you're tough, bitch? Let's see how tough."
Hollywood's elbow came up hard, catching her in the side of the head. Her vision blurred for a second, white spots exploding in her sight, but she powered through it, her military training taking over. She swung at him again, catching him square in the chest, but his fist followed, slamming into her stomach with brutal force. She gasped for breath, her vision swimming, but refused to back down.
Hollywood tackled her, and they went crashing to the floor, the sound of their bodies slamming into the ground echoing through the barracks. Her head smacked against the concrete, pain exploding behind her eyes. For a moment, everything went white, but she recovered quickly, her legs instinctively wrapping around Hollywood's torso as she rolled, trying to gain the upper hand.
They struggled on the ground, a mess of flailing limbs and gritted teeth, neither of them willing to give an inch. Cerys managed to twist free, rolling to her feet and lunging at Hollywood just as he was getting up. She slammed into him with full force, driving him back against the wall with a sickening thud.
Punches landed with sickening force, knuckles slamming into flesh, ribs, faces. Blood was everywhere – she wasn't sure if it was his or hers. The pain was a distant, muted thing, drowned out by the primal need to survive. Despite her barrage of punches, the patrician's hand found her throat, squeezing hard, cutting off her air. She gagged, her vision darkening around the edges as she clawed at his arm, trying to pry his hand away.
But beneath all his bluster, fueled by pure fury, lay the strength of a vise.
Desperate, she drove her knee up into Hollywood's groin with every ounce of strength she had left. He let out a strangled cry, his grip on her throat loosening enough to free herself.
In the next instant, Cerys saw the glint of steel. Hollywood's hand flashed, and suddenly there was a knife in his grip. Still gasping for air, her training kicked in instinctively. She deflected the first slash with her forearm, a streak of red appearing on her arm. The pain barely registered. Adrenaline surged through her, turning her movements sharp and precise. Around her the temperature of the room shifted as people realized the fight had just turned from long-expected blow-up into something nastier, deadlier.
She seized Hollywood's wrist with both hands, twisting hard, trying to force him to drop the knife. He growled in pain but fought back with vicious strength, his free hand swinging up to punch her in the face. Her head snapped to the side from the impact, and she tasted iron in her mouth.
She twisted the knife hand again, trying to wrench it free from his grasp, but Hollywood was too strong.
With a growl of desperation, she slammed her elbow into his face, feeling the satisfying crunch of bone. His head jerked back, blood spilling from his nose, but the knife stayed in his hand.
They separated, both of them gasping, bleeding, barely standing. The room was a blur of chaos and noise, but all she could see was Hollywood, his eyes wild, his face twisted with fury and pain.
"You're dead, slave bitch," he hissed, his face twisted with rage, his teeth gritted, veins bulging in his neck.
And then, in a flash, Hollywood lunged again.
Cerys didn't have time to react. The blade slashed through the air, and then -
Pain. Blinding, searing pain.
She looked down, dazed, seeing the knife buried in her side. Her knees buckled, and the world tilted violently as her body gave out.
Hollywood stood there, his bloody hand held up, his chest heaving as he stared at her, wide-eyed and breathing heavily. For a second, he seemed just as shocked as she was, puzzled, frozen, his expression flickering between rage and disbelief.
The sounds of the room faded, the edges of her vision darkening. The last thing she saw was Felix body slamming Ronan like a freight train, others rushing in to grab the knife.
Her body hit the floor with a dull thud.
And then, blackness.
Alright, back to our girl on Addhara.
Can't say for sure when I have the next main story update, but we'll use it to jump into 3012.
Chapter 5: Survivor
Camp Avernus, Addhara
Marian Hegemony
Early February 3011 C.E.
A dull, persistent beeping pierced the fog of unconsciousness. Cerys's eyelids felt like they were weighed down by lead, but eventually, with effort, she managed to flutter them open. The world came into focus slowly: whitewashed ceilings, the antiseptic, stale smell of a hospital. The soft hum of machines. She was in the camp's hospital barracks.
Her body felt heavy, a deep ache radiating from her side. She tried to push herself up, but a sharp pain stopped her, forcing a gasp from her lips.
"Easy there," a gravelly voice said from beside her.
She turned her head slowly to see Mad Dog Mitchell sitting in a creaky metal chair next to her bed. His usually stern face was etched with a mixture of relief and concern – and an amused smile.
"About time you wake up, Private," his voice was a low, soft rumble.
Cerys blinked, her mind struggling to piece together what had happened. Flashes of the barracks, Hollywood's twisted expression, the cold glint of a knife, and then... nothing.
"How long..." Her voice was barely above a whisper, her throat dry and scratchy.
Mad Dog leaned forward, pouring water from a pitcher into a plastic cup. He held it to her lips, letting her sip slowly. "You've been out for four and a half days," he informed her. "Lost a fair amount of blood, so they kept you sedated. But the docs patched you up nicely." He gave her along, weighing look. "You were lucky."
She swallowed carefully, the cool water soothing her parched throat. "Sir, what happened… to Hollywood, … sir?"
Mad Dog's jaw tightened, a flicker of anger crossing his features. "Private Valerius is currently sitting in the bunker, in solitary, with the doc making sure the bones in his face return roughly to their original location, and his broken ribs don't puncture his lungs. Pork Chops and Granny held him until the MPs arrived. Some… remodeling of his facial structure may have occurred in the meantime, but that's just speculation. None of that's your concern right now. Focus on healing."
Cerys wasn't satisfied with that answer, but she lacked the strength to press further. She studied Mad Dog's face, noting the lines of fatigue. "You stayed here, sir?" she asked.
He blinked, then barked a laughter that sounded a lot more like the drill sergeant she had come to know. "I'm not your mom, Private. I've checked in on you a couple of times, as responsible NCOs do. Had to make sure one of my better recruits pulls through. Can't have you slacking off now, can we?"
A faint smile touched her lips. "Sir, wouldn't dream of it, sir."
"You gave us quite a scare, Private," he sighed. "And, Jupiter be damned, your little fight has caused me no end of grief – and paperwork. Luckily, I don't have to add a death certificate to that particular growing stack," he rolled his eyes. "You're tougher than you look. Or just plain lucky. Maybe both."
Silence settled between them for a moment, the beeping of the machines the only sound. Cerys took the opportunity to observe him. Without the constant scowl and barking orders, Mad Dog seemed almost... human. There was a depth to his eyes, a weight that suggested he'd seen more than his fair share of ugly scenes.
"Sir," she began hesitantly, "about what happened, I..."
He held up a hand. "The MPs and me, we questioned your whole barracks, Private. Now, every single one of them has their own little spin," he shot her a lopsided grin, "but what they all magically can agree on is that Hollywood stirred up crap, again, and that he was the one to escalate it to a fight. Now, additionally to all the paperwork on my desk and all the hassle this incident has created for the Legate, I have to punish you little maggots for standing by like deer in the headlights once that blade entered the fight."
"Sir, it happened really fast, sir," she mumbled, still feeling drowsy, pain slowly making its way into the mix.
Mad Dog shook his head with an all too human sigh. "It reflects well on you that you're trying to keep them out of trouble, kid. But it doesn't matter if it was two seconds or twenty. This time it was a knife. What happens if next time it's some Illyrian rebel's grenade? That kind of hesitation gets people killed," he portentously stared into her eyes. "Seems training isn't over quite yet."
She nodded slowly, her mind still foggy but starting to clear. "Thank you, for... for being here, sir."
He put the cup to her lips once more. "Don't sweat it, Private. The doc will be with you soon. Listen to her, and get back on your feet ASAP. That's an order." Mad Dog uncomfortably shifted in his seat. "Just FYI, I'm not doing bedside visits for every recruit who gets into a scuffle, Private. You know, you have potential," he said thoughtfully. "Real potential. You'll be a damn fine soldier, and if you stick to it, maybe even an officer."
Cerys shook her head, immediately regretting it as the sudden movement gave her a sense of vertigo. "Sir, with all due respect, all I really want to achieve is to make it through my seven years, and leave as a free woman, sir."
He nodded firmly. "And that's a good goal to have, Private. But, you have instincts that can't be taught. You know when to move, when to hold back. The way you handle yourself on the course, in drills, back in field exercises? It's smarts, kid. The others see it too, even if they don't say it. Besides, it won't hurt to end your seven years on an officer's stipend, now will it?"
Cerys felt a warmth spread in her chest that had nothing to do with the painkillers. Probably. Coming from Mad Dog, that was high praise indeed. "Sir, I don't know what to say, sir."
"Well, most of the time that's exactly what will be expected of you," he replied gruffly, but with the tiniest hint of a smile. "Just keep doing what you're doing. But maybe without getting stabbed next time, 'kay? You're not invincible."
She allowed herself a small laugh, which quickly turned into a wince as pain shot through her side.
"Could've fooled me, sir," she quipped weakly.
"That little blowup between Hollywood and you has made things tougher for all of us. I've given your squad to Pork Chops, which means he's got to manage twice the recruits now. Herding cats has nothing on that, kid."
Cerys smiled genuinely at that. "Good choice, sir. He's solid. Smart. Reliable."
Mad Dog grunted, but did not object. "Already talking like an officer."
She blushed.
Mad Dog reached down beside his chair and pulled out a worn, crinkled booklet. He placed it gently on the bedside table. "Thought you might want something to keep you occupied while you're stuck here. Besides, can't have you lying around here idle. Mind needs exercise as much as the body."
She eyed the book skeptically. "De Bello Gallico'?" she read the unfamiliar title slowly.
"Julius Caesar's commentaries on the Gallic Wars," Mad Dog explained. "Ancient Terran history, but it's one of those where you can say 'the more things change, the more they stay the same'. Timeless strategic insights."
She hesitated, running her fingers over the sun-bleached cover. ""I'm... not the best reader," she admitted quietly.
He met her gaze steadily. "I'm fully aware of that. That's why I'm arranging for Pork Chops to come by and help you out on his off hours. He's a good teacher, from what I hear."
Her cheeks warmed slightly. "Sir, you're going through a lot of trouble for me, sir."
"Don't let it get to your head," he guffawed, rolling his eyes. "You've created a lot of trouble for me."
She opened the thin booklet tentatively, flipping through pages filled with dense text. It was intimidating, but there was also a strange allure to it. "Thank you, sir."
He stood up, adjusting his uniform. "Get some rest. Pork Chops will be by later. I expect you to be out of medical by the end of the week, and we'll get you back on light duty." With that, he gave her a curt nod and exited the room, leaving her alone with her thoughts and the weight of his words.
Weakly, she fumbled with the plastic cup, silently cursing he utter lack of strength as she pushed it to her mouth, both hands trembling. When she was done, she felt as exhausted as after a full day on the training course. She settled back against the pillows, the book resting on her lap. The pain in her side was still present, a dull throb that served as a reminder of how close she'd come. Tired, she briefly closed her eyes.
When she opened them again, Pork Chops occupied the metal chair Mad Dog had sat on earlier, his large frame almost burying it.
"Hey," she said softly, a drowsy smile creeping on her face. "Have I been asleep?"
A genuine smile spread across his freckled, sun-tanned face. "Hey yourself. A bit. Doc Forrester told me to let you rest, but Mad Dog said it was okay to visit. Had to pick my poison," he shrugged. "How are you feeling?"
"Sore. Tired. Confused." She glanced at the book on her lap. "Mad Dog brought me some light reading."
Felix raised an eyebrow. "De Bello Gallico? Ambitious."
"Yeah, you tell me. And in Latin, too!" she moaned. "Last thing I remember is reading Capellan children's stories!" she protested. "He mentioned you might help me with it."
Large hands picked up the small booklet and flipped through out. "Half of all correspondence in the Hegemony is in Latin, SG, and you already speak the language. So, it's just different sequences of letters. You'll manage," he nodded enthusiastically. "Besides, it's actually a fascinating read, once you get into it."
She sighed, weakly taking the booklet back from him. "I don't know, Felix. I can barely get through ordinary kids' books without stumbling."
He leaned forward, his expression earnest. "Don't worry, that's okay. We'll take it slow. One page at a time. And by the end of it, you'll be quoting Caesar like it's your second nature."
"Somehow, I doubt that," she grimaced.
He shrugged. "Stranger things have happened."
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment before she spoke again. "Mad Dog said you've taken on my shares of recruits?"
Pork Chops rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "Yeah. Just until you're back on your feet. Which can't come soon enough, to be honest. Never dawned on me that responsibility also meant everybody comes and bothers you with the most mundane shit you can imagine!" he rolled his eyes. "That stuff seems to come to you more naturally."
"I don't know about that," she mumbled.
"I do," he insisted. "People have started to look up to you, 'cause they figured you know what you're doing. You might not see it, but they do. Even Mumbles was asking about you."
She laughed softly, immediately regretting that with a wince. "Mumbles talks?"
"Occasionally," he joked.
She slowly shook her head in disbelief. "I don't get it. I'm just trying to get through this like everyone else. I'm a friggin' slave, Felix!"
"That's exactly why they respect you," he pointed out, chuckling. "You work hard. You don't complain. You help others when they need it. Those are qualities people admire. Probably also why Mad Dog is looking out for you, in his own way."
She looked down, a hint of color rising in her cheeks. "It's not like I have a choice."
"Maybe not," he conceded. "But you could've handled things differently. You could have been bitter, or kept to yourself. Instead, you've become someone the others rely on."
She sighed, leaning back against the pillows. "Same could be said about you, you know?"
"Never said I was a smart man," he replied with a grin.
They shared a quiet laugh before she grew serious again. "Mad Dog mentioned a bit of what happened after... you know?"
Felix leaned back in the small chair, causing the metal to protest. His expression darkened slightly. "We fucked up. I should've gotten between you and Hollywood after the first few punches, but I didn't. We all should've stepped in when metal came into play, but we didn't. Everybody's ashamed, and Mad Dog's making sure we suffer for it. Extra drills, extra marching, extra PT. He's running us ragged for sixteen hours straight. Man's pissed."
She winced, and not just because of the sting from her wound. "I didn't think it would go that far. The Sarge mentioned something about Hollywood getting beaten up?"
The Pompey-born soldier gave her a long, considering look. "I'm a big guy, SG. And Granny's got a temper. Let's juts say we made sure Hollywood was on the ground, and no longer a danger to anybody. Motherfucker made his choices," Felix said firmly. "You didn't do anything wrong."
"I keep thinking I could have diffused it, handled it better," she replied meekly.
"Cerys," he said gently, using her first name, and leaned forward again, "you can't control how others act. It always takes two. You stood up for yourself. There's no shame in that."
She met his eyes, finding some comfort in his steady gaze. "Thanks,… big guy."
He gestured to the book. "So, let's get started?"
She chuckled. "You're not wasting any time, are you?"
"Mad Dog did say no idleness," he reminded her playfully. "Besides, I've got eight other headless chicken to manage back in the barracks!"
She rolled her eyes but opened the book. "Alright. Let's see what this Caesar guy has to say."
Three Weeks Later
Gritting her teeth, Cerys got up from her desk and scraped the hard, wooden chair over the uneven floor of the barracks. Every once in a while, the scar – and the healing tissue beneath it – randomly chose to remind her of their existence. Mad Dog had been true to his word: light duty it was. And fuck, how she cursed the man for that every waking minute. Occasional light marches without full field kits, and limited stints on the shooting range were the highlights. But, since her wounds were still healing, Mitchell had found what he surely thought was the perfect occupation for her: clerical work, helping the quartermaster and the armory with base logistics. No better way to train your reading and writing than to be forced to do it every fucking day! Plus, her more 'intellectual' lessons with Felix.
With her legs feeling stiff and numb, she hobbled out, into the sunshine. Gods, she needed some coffee!
Luckily, she knew just the place to get some. They only served food at Chow Hall at fixed times, but they had one of those dulled stainless steel, industrial-sized coffee machines brewing the black juice of life until it had the smell and consistency of tar. Right what she needed.
Halfway to her destination, a large, four-engine civilian VTOL arrived above the camp and landed on the parade grounds, its jet engines drowning out all other sounds and blasting billowing clouds of dust halfway across Camp Avernus. No sooner had the sounds died down than a tall, square-jawed man with full gray hair - and in full senatorial regalia - stepped out of the aircraft, his face set in stone, accompanied by a small crowed of men and women and suits – some obviously bodyguards – and purposefully began to march across the open space.
Racing towards them from the opposite direction was Legate Halley, aides in tow.
Cerys heard the sound of boots on gravel next to her and saw Elara coming to a halt.
"The fuck's all this about, Granny?"
The older woman squinted her eyes against the sun and the dust. "Beats me. But if I had to make a bet, I'd say that's Hollywood's old man, and my family aren't miners if those guys don't look like lawyers."
Cerys felt a sting in her guts. She carefully steadied herself on her cane.
The camp's commander had met them by now, gesturing wildly, her posture switching between annoyance and obedience. Relenting, Halley pointed to an offside part of the camp and motioned the newcomers to follow her. Feeling dread and apprehension, Cerys watched them go while NCOs hurried to order the rest of the passers-by to get back to their tasks again. Out of necessity, Cerys fell in line. The paperwork didn't do itself.
Barely half an hour later, the VTOL left again. Looking from a window, Cerys found Halley looking after the slowly shrinking aircraft on the horizon, the commander shaking her head before she straightened her uniform and marched back to the command barracks with rigid steps.
Whatever had happened, nobody seemed to have walked away from it happy.
Can't say for sure when I have the next main story update, but we'll use it to jump into 3012.
Chapter 5: Survivor
Camp Avernus, Addhara
Marian Hegemony
Early February 3011 C.E.
A dull, persistent beeping pierced the fog of unconsciousness. Cerys's eyelids felt like they were weighed down by lead, but eventually, with effort, she managed to flutter them open. The world came into focus slowly: whitewashed ceilings, the antiseptic, stale smell of a hospital. The soft hum of machines. She was in the camp's hospital barracks.
Her body felt heavy, a deep ache radiating from her side. She tried to push herself up, but a sharp pain stopped her, forcing a gasp from her lips.
"Easy there," a gravelly voice said from beside her.
She turned her head slowly to see Mad Dog Mitchell sitting in a creaky metal chair next to her bed. His usually stern face was etched with a mixture of relief and concern – and an amused smile.
"About time you wake up, Private," his voice was a low, soft rumble.
Cerys blinked, her mind struggling to piece together what had happened. Flashes of the barracks, Hollywood's twisted expression, the cold glint of a knife, and then... nothing.
"How long..." Her voice was barely above a whisper, her throat dry and scratchy.
Mad Dog leaned forward, pouring water from a pitcher into a plastic cup. He held it to her lips, letting her sip slowly. "You've been out for four and a half days," he informed her. "Lost a fair amount of blood, so they kept you sedated. But the docs patched you up nicely." He gave her along, weighing look. "You were lucky."
She swallowed carefully, the cool water soothing her parched throat. "Sir, what happened… to Hollywood, … sir?"
Mad Dog's jaw tightened, a flicker of anger crossing his features. "Private Valerius is currently sitting in the bunker, in solitary, with the doc making sure the bones in his face return roughly to their original location, and his broken ribs don't puncture his lungs. Pork Chops and Granny held him until the MPs arrived. Some… remodeling of his facial structure may have occurred in the meantime, but that's just speculation. None of that's your concern right now. Focus on healing."
Cerys wasn't satisfied with that answer, but she lacked the strength to press further. She studied Mad Dog's face, noting the lines of fatigue. "You stayed here, sir?" she asked.
He blinked, then barked a laughter that sounded a lot more like the drill sergeant she had come to know. "I'm not your mom, Private. I've checked in on you a couple of times, as responsible NCOs do. Had to make sure one of my better recruits pulls through. Can't have you slacking off now, can we?"
A faint smile touched her lips. "Sir, wouldn't dream of it, sir."
"You gave us quite a scare, Private," he sighed. "And, Jupiter be damned, your little fight has caused me no end of grief – and paperwork. Luckily, I don't have to add a death certificate to that particular growing stack," he rolled his eyes. "You're tougher than you look. Or just plain lucky. Maybe both."
Silence settled between them for a moment, the beeping of the machines the only sound. Cerys took the opportunity to observe him. Without the constant scowl and barking orders, Mad Dog seemed almost... human. There was a depth to his eyes, a weight that suggested he'd seen more than his fair share of ugly scenes.
"Sir," she began hesitantly, "about what happened, I..."
He held up a hand. "The MPs and me, we questioned your whole barracks, Private. Now, every single one of them has their own little spin," he shot her a lopsided grin, "but what they all magically can agree on is that Hollywood stirred up crap, again, and that he was the one to escalate it to a fight. Now, additionally to all the paperwork on my desk and all the hassle this incident has created for the Legate, I have to punish you little maggots for standing by like deer in the headlights once that blade entered the fight."
"Sir, it happened really fast, sir," she mumbled, still feeling drowsy, pain slowly making its way into the mix.
Mad Dog shook his head with an all too human sigh. "It reflects well on you that you're trying to keep them out of trouble, kid. But it doesn't matter if it was two seconds or twenty. This time it was a knife. What happens if next time it's some Illyrian rebel's grenade? That kind of hesitation gets people killed," he portentously stared into her eyes. "Seems training isn't over quite yet."
She nodded slowly, her mind still foggy but starting to clear. "Thank you, for... for being here, sir."
He put the cup to her lips once more. "Don't sweat it, Private. The doc will be with you soon. Listen to her, and get back on your feet ASAP. That's an order." Mad Dog uncomfortably shifted in his seat. "Just FYI, I'm not doing bedside visits for every recruit who gets into a scuffle, Private. You know, you have potential," he said thoughtfully. "Real potential. You'll be a damn fine soldier, and if you stick to it, maybe even an officer."
Cerys shook her head, immediately regretting it as the sudden movement gave her a sense of vertigo. "Sir, with all due respect, all I really want to achieve is to make it through my seven years, and leave as a free woman, sir."
He nodded firmly. "And that's a good goal to have, Private. But, you have instincts that can't be taught. You know when to move, when to hold back. The way you handle yourself on the course, in drills, back in field exercises? It's smarts, kid. The others see it too, even if they don't say it. Besides, it won't hurt to end your seven years on an officer's stipend, now will it?"
Cerys felt a warmth spread in her chest that had nothing to do with the painkillers. Probably. Coming from Mad Dog, that was high praise indeed. "Sir, I don't know what to say, sir."
"Well, most of the time that's exactly what will be expected of you," he replied gruffly, but with the tiniest hint of a smile. "Just keep doing what you're doing. But maybe without getting stabbed next time, 'kay? You're not invincible."
She allowed herself a small laugh, which quickly turned into a wince as pain shot through her side.
"Could've fooled me, sir," she quipped weakly.
"That little blowup between Hollywood and you has made things tougher for all of us. I've given your squad to Pork Chops, which means he's got to manage twice the recruits now. Herding cats has nothing on that, kid."
Cerys smiled genuinely at that. "Good choice, sir. He's solid. Smart. Reliable."
Mad Dog grunted, but did not object. "Already talking like an officer."
She blushed.
Mad Dog reached down beside his chair and pulled out a worn, crinkled booklet. He placed it gently on the bedside table. "Thought you might want something to keep you occupied while you're stuck here. Besides, can't have you lying around here idle. Mind needs exercise as much as the body."
She eyed the book skeptically. "De Bello Gallico'?" she read the unfamiliar title slowly.
"Julius Caesar's commentaries on the Gallic Wars," Mad Dog explained. "Ancient Terran history, but it's one of those where you can say 'the more things change, the more they stay the same'. Timeless strategic insights."
She hesitated, running her fingers over the sun-bleached cover. ""I'm... not the best reader," she admitted quietly.
He met her gaze steadily. "I'm fully aware of that. That's why I'm arranging for Pork Chops to come by and help you out on his off hours. He's a good teacher, from what I hear."
Her cheeks warmed slightly. "Sir, you're going through a lot of trouble for me, sir."
"Don't let it get to your head," he guffawed, rolling his eyes. "You've created a lot of trouble for me."
She opened the thin booklet tentatively, flipping through pages filled with dense text. It was intimidating, but there was also a strange allure to it. "Thank you, sir."
He stood up, adjusting his uniform. "Get some rest. Pork Chops will be by later. I expect you to be out of medical by the end of the week, and we'll get you back on light duty." With that, he gave her a curt nod and exited the room, leaving her alone with her thoughts and the weight of his words.
Weakly, she fumbled with the plastic cup, silently cursing he utter lack of strength as she pushed it to her mouth, both hands trembling. When she was done, she felt as exhausted as after a full day on the training course. She settled back against the pillows, the book resting on her lap. The pain in her side was still present, a dull throb that served as a reminder of how close she'd come. Tired, she briefly closed her eyes.
When she opened them again, Pork Chops occupied the metal chair Mad Dog had sat on earlier, his large frame almost burying it.
"Hey," she said softly, a drowsy smile creeping on her face. "Have I been asleep?"
A genuine smile spread across his freckled, sun-tanned face. "Hey yourself. A bit. Doc Forrester told me to let you rest, but Mad Dog said it was okay to visit. Had to pick my poison," he shrugged. "How are you feeling?"
"Sore. Tired. Confused." She glanced at the book on her lap. "Mad Dog brought me some light reading."
Felix raised an eyebrow. "De Bello Gallico? Ambitious."
"Yeah, you tell me. And in Latin, too!" she moaned. "Last thing I remember is reading Capellan children's stories!" she protested. "He mentioned you might help me with it."
Large hands picked up the small booklet and flipped through out. "Half of all correspondence in the Hegemony is in Latin, SG, and you already speak the language. So, it's just different sequences of letters. You'll manage," he nodded enthusiastically. "Besides, it's actually a fascinating read, once you get into it."
She sighed, weakly taking the booklet back from him. "I don't know, Felix. I can barely get through ordinary kids' books without stumbling."
He leaned forward, his expression earnest. "Don't worry, that's okay. We'll take it slow. One page at a time. And by the end of it, you'll be quoting Caesar like it's your second nature."
"Somehow, I doubt that," she grimaced.
He shrugged. "Stranger things have happened."
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment before she spoke again. "Mad Dog said you've taken on my shares of recruits?"
Pork Chops rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "Yeah. Just until you're back on your feet. Which can't come soon enough, to be honest. Never dawned on me that responsibility also meant everybody comes and bothers you with the most mundane shit you can imagine!" he rolled his eyes. "That stuff seems to come to you more naturally."
"I don't know about that," she mumbled.
"I do," he insisted. "People have started to look up to you, 'cause they figured you know what you're doing. You might not see it, but they do. Even Mumbles was asking about you."
She laughed softly, immediately regretting that with a wince. "Mumbles talks?"
"Occasionally," he joked.
She slowly shook her head in disbelief. "I don't get it. I'm just trying to get through this like everyone else. I'm a friggin' slave, Felix!"
"That's exactly why they respect you," he pointed out, chuckling. "You work hard. You don't complain. You help others when they need it. Those are qualities people admire. Probably also why Mad Dog is looking out for you, in his own way."
She looked down, a hint of color rising in her cheeks. "It's not like I have a choice."
"Maybe not," he conceded. "But you could've handled things differently. You could have been bitter, or kept to yourself. Instead, you've become someone the others rely on."
She sighed, leaning back against the pillows. "Same could be said about you, you know?"
"Never said I was a smart man," he replied with a grin.
They shared a quiet laugh before she grew serious again. "Mad Dog mentioned a bit of what happened after... you know?"
Felix leaned back in the small chair, causing the metal to protest. His expression darkened slightly. "We fucked up. I should've gotten between you and Hollywood after the first few punches, but I didn't. We all should've stepped in when metal came into play, but we didn't. Everybody's ashamed, and Mad Dog's making sure we suffer for it. Extra drills, extra marching, extra PT. He's running us ragged for sixteen hours straight. Man's pissed."
She winced, and not just because of the sting from her wound. "I didn't think it would go that far. The Sarge mentioned something about Hollywood getting beaten up?"
The Pompey-born soldier gave her a long, considering look. "I'm a big guy, SG. And Granny's got a temper. Let's juts say we made sure Hollywood was on the ground, and no longer a danger to anybody. Motherfucker made his choices," Felix said firmly. "You didn't do anything wrong."
"I keep thinking I could have diffused it, handled it better," she replied meekly.
"Cerys," he said gently, using her first name, and leaned forward again, "you can't control how others act. It always takes two. You stood up for yourself. There's no shame in that."
She met his eyes, finding some comfort in his steady gaze. "Thanks,… big guy."
He gestured to the book. "So, let's get started?"
She chuckled. "You're not wasting any time, are you?"
"Mad Dog did say no idleness," he reminded her playfully. "Besides, I've got eight other headless chicken to manage back in the barracks!"
She rolled her eyes but opened the book. "Alright. Let's see what this Caesar guy has to say."
Three Weeks Later
Gritting her teeth, Cerys got up from her desk and scraped the hard, wooden chair over the uneven floor of the barracks. Every once in a while, the scar – and the healing tissue beneath it – randomly chose to remind her of their existence. Mad Dog had been true to his word: light duty it was. And fuck, how she cursed the man for that every waking minute. Occasional light marches without full field kits, and limited stints on the shooting range were the highlights. But, since her wounds were still healing, Mitchell had found what he surely thought was the perfect occupation for her: clerical work, helping the quartermaster and the armory with base logistics. No better way to train your reading and writing than to be forced to do it every fucking day! Plus, her more 'intellectual' lessons with Felix.
With her legs feeling stiff and numb, she hobbled out, into the sunshine. Gods, she needed some coffee!
Luckily, she knew just the place to get some. They only served food at Chow Hall at fixed times, but they had one of those dulled stainless steel, industrial-sized coffee machines brewing the black juice of life until it had the smell and consistency of tar. Right what she needed.
Halfway to her destination, a large, four-engine civilian VTOL arrived above the camp and landed on the parade grounds, its jet engines drowning out all other sounds and blasting billowing clouds of dust halfway across Camp Avernus. No sooner had the sounds died down than a tall, square-jawed man with full gray hair - and in full senatorial regalia - stepped out of the aircraft, his face set in stone, accompanied by a small crowed of men and women and suits – some obviously bodyguards – and purposefully began to march across the open space.
Racing towards them from the opposite direction was Legate Halley, aides in tow.
Cerys heard the sound of boots on gravel next to her and saw Elara coming to a halt.
"The fuck's all this about, Granny?"
The older woman squinted her eyes against the sun and the dust. "Beats me. But if I had to make a bet, I'd say that's Hollywood's old man, and my family aren't miners if those guys don't look like lawyers."
Cerys felt a sting in her guts. She carefully steadied herself on her cane.
The camp's commander had met them by now, gesturing wildly, her posture switching between annoyance and obedience. Relenting, Halley pointed to an offside part of the camp and motioned the newcomers to follow her. Feeling dread and apprehension, Cerys watched them go while NCOs hurried to order the rest of the passers-by to get back to their tasks again. Out of necessity, Cerys fell in line. The paperwork didn't do itself.
Barely half an hour later, the VTOL left again. Looking from a window, Cerys found Halley looking after the slowly shrinking aircraft on the horizon, the commander shaking her head before she straightened her uniform and marched back to the command barracks with rigid steps.
Whatever had happened, nobody seemed to have walked away from it happy.
We're coming to the end of Part 1 of Cerys' little side story. Got three commissions to work on, so don't expect any serious updates for the main story before December, probably.
Chapter 6: Before the Storm
Camp Avernus, Addhara
Marian Hegemony
Mid-April 3011 C.E.
Time flies. Especially when your days were packed full with tasks.
Somebody had taken a picture of the folks in her barracks the day they had settled in. It stuck on a pinboard next to the exit. A few faces were no longer with them, but those that stuck around still looked so vastly different from the innocent and insecure young men and women that had started basic last autumn. The harsh regimen of basic training had forged them into something resembling soldiers, soft faces and bodies turned into chiseled physiques and observant eyes.
The oppressive heat of the training grounds had given way to a cooler season, but the intensity of their drills had not lessened. Marches and field drills still were their daily bread and butter, but a few weeks ago, not long after she'd started light duty again with Doc Forrester's blessings, their APCs had finally arrived.
Big, boxy, tracked lumps of armor, topped with a flat turret holding either a pair of machine guns or a light autocannon, riding in them should have come as a relief after months of hauling mountains of gear around. But, with the whole quartex cramped into the infantry compartment on rock-hard seats, it was far from being a luxurious ride.
'Twenty-five dudes on a high protein diet stuck in a metal can? …yeah, great.'
Let's just say they all were lucky that smoking was prohibited.
But the APCs added another tactical level to their training and operations. Training to orderly embark and rapidly disembark, under fire; operating in cooperation with the armored vehicles; and lastly, training together with an armored cohort, VTOLs and artillery in a big exercise. All that had made the weeks pass like in quick motion.
Then there had been the anti-mech training. Days and days and even more days of it.
"This is the supreme discipline of the infantry soldier!" mad Dog had yelled as he paced back and forth. "Anti battlemech tactics! Nothing I do will prepare you for the first moment you encounter mechs in the field. Nothing! No training, no conditioning, no well-meaning pussy words will help you get over the existential feeling of dread that'll make you shit your pants. Listen, maggots! A mech is a three stories high building that walks at the pace of car on the highway while weighing as much as a train engine!" he had explained, his words clipped and precise, making it obvious every single one was meant to be heard. "I cannot train you how to not shit your pants on this. But I can train you how to survive the encounter, and how to beat the enemy. When we're done, any quartex will be able to face a mech!"
Cerys, now at the end of their training, still had her doubts on that, especially after she had seen a training maniple of mechs in action during their last exercise. But getting drilled to deal with mechs still beat stumbling into action blindly.
"There are four key elements to not only survive, but win a confrontation with a battlemech. These four elements are: Cover. Precision. Dispersal. Surprise." Mad Dog had taken his time teaching them.
"A battlemech, even a light one, is a mighty machine of war. Any amount of cover you can find, either to shield you from being detected, or by putting solid objects between you and it, will astronomically increase your chances of survival."
He raised two fingers.
"Precision. Against a mech, every shot must count. There are stories out there about men and women killing one of those beasts with a single, well-placed SRM to the cockpit. Don't assume you'll be that lucky son of a bitch! Aim steady, and make sure you place your shot where you know it'll hit. Your comrades' lives will depend on it!"
Another finger.
"Don't all be in one place, idiots! Disperse. Ideally, there are twenty-five of you, so position yourselves in fireteams of no more than two soldiers. Five men are a target! One man is a waste of ammunition. Many targets mean a mech pilot will have to divide their attention between all of you, which gives you plenty of time to fry their ass from all directions – especially those were they are lightly armored!"
He had stopped, clasping his hands behind his back
"Last, but not least, surprise. Hit them when they least expect it. A surprised enemy is a clumsy enemy, a sluggish enemy, a stupid enemy. Those first rounds will count!"
So far, so good. They had tried to put those mantras to good use in training. Still, Cerys hoped she never had to face hostile 'mechs in the field. She was confident she could handle another human with a gun. A ten meter high murderbot running at ninety kph? Not so much.
Summer on Addhara was finally giving way to the slightly cooler months of its climactic autumn, with faint morning rains and refreshing afternoon winds. That made most of their remaining training regimen almost agreeable, compared to the prior months full of heat and humidity. Almost.
Cerys stood in front of 'her' barracks, her posture straight and confident, arms behind her back, her eyes alert. The rest of her unit sat around her, on the compressed dirt and gravel ground, and cleaned their weapons. Cleaning them in a nice, clean barracks was one thing, but she understood they also needed to do it in less than ideal conditions. Besides, every movement trained to the point of becoming instinctual saved time, and would potentially save lives. In her left hand, a stop watch was mercilessly ticking down.
Her days filled with her duty and training – she was, despite her rank of Contubernalis, still a recruit, after all – left her little time or reason to think of Hollywood, or what the future might have in tow for her. Only when the weather made her scar itch did the memories return.
"Fifteen seconds, folks!" she called out, slowly walking between her seated comrades. Her uniform tunic was immaculate, with the rank chevron prominently fastened to her collar, and the wooden sheath of her gladius polished to a shine, and eyes held a strange kind of quiet determination that commanded respect.
Sometime she caught herself feeling off. Her having authority over others, as little as it was, just felt deeply unnatural, like she was walking besides herself. In those moments she found herself playing with the iron bracelet around her left wrist. It still held the name of her master. It… grounded her, reminded her that her journey from a life of servitude to one of leadership, of freedom, had only just begun.
"Buckle up, folks, five seconds left! Four…Three…"
A distant thunderclap broke through the normal bustle of the garrison, and as one, the birds all around Camp Avernus leapt into the air and fled, crying in protest and fear. The usual sounds of the camp, the shouted orders, the rhythmic thud of boots on the ground, the distant crack of rifle fire, were suddenly drowned out by a deep, resonant roar. The very air seemed to vibrate with the sound, a low-frequency hum that settled in the chest and rattled the bones. From beyond the perimeter fence, a massive spheroid shape descended through the clouds on a white-hot jet of flames, its metallic hull gleaming dully in the muted sunlight. Cerys recognized the model – a Mule – from her own transport to Addhara. The ground trembled as it touched down, landing struts sinking slightly into the softened earth, and a wave of hot air washed over Camp Avernus like a mini hurricane.
"We're damn lucky it's been raining on and off," Felix muttered, stepping next to her. "Imagine the dust back from summer."
She'd rather not, she thought, squinting her eyes against the fiery wind. "We'd never get those rifles cleaned again, ever," she nodded.
"What you think is about, SG?" he crossed his arms in front of his chest, as thick as her thighs.
Cerys looked up at the enormous metal ball sitting outside the camp. Another sonic boom washed over the buildings, and then another one, as two further dropships descended in unison to land next to their already settled companion.
It was hard to convey the right kind of appreciation for the sheer size of such a landed beast. The Mule was, first and foremost, a freight hauler. The way it stood there, hull still steaming, more than a hundred and fifty meters in diameter, one of them had the volume of probably half the camp, Cerys reckoned.
Around them the doors to the other barracks flew open, and the recruits gathered outside, a mix of awe and apprehension on their faces. Much of the camp originally came from Addhara and had never left the planet, so for many, this was the first time seeing such a vessel up close.
"I guess we're about to find out," she nudged Felix, pointing to their right.
Mad Dog Mitchell emerged from the main building, his stride purposeful as he approached the assembled soldiers. The ever-present scowl was etched on his face, but there was a hint of something else in his eyes. Apprehension, maybe?
Cerys straightened. "Quartex, form up!" she yelled, registering with a sting of pride that everybody indeed scrambled to follow her command. The drill sergeant arrived in front of them right when they formed a neat five by five square, and Cerys saluted.
"Listen up!" the tall, sinewy drill sergeant's voice cut through the background noise. Mad Dog paced slowly before them, hands clasped behind his back. "You've all come a long way since the sorry excuses for soldiers that first stumbled onto my training ground," he began, his tone gruff but lacking the usual bite. "You've been tested, both physically and mentally, and in ways you didn't even know you could be tested. And you've proven that you're not completely worthless. Some of you even may have the potential for more."
A faint ripple of amusement passed through the ranks, quickly subdued as Mad Dog continued.
"I suppose none of you are blind and deaf?! These three fat ladies behind me are your ticket off this rock. In the next few days, you'll be shipping out to Illyria. Some of you might be thinking this is the start of some grand adventure. Some of you will also believe every piece of propaganda the news channels have fed you. So, let me set you straight! Illyria is a powder keg, and you're the ones being sent to keep it from blowing sky-high."
He stopped pacing, turning to face them fully. "The Emperor has decided that, to show our commitment to peace, stability, and humanitarian values, you'll be acting as peacekeepers. Each and every one of you will be representing the interests and ideals of the Marian Hegemony. That means you're not just soldiers! You're diplomats with rifles. You'll be dealing with locals who don't give a damn about you or your mission. Some will want you gone; many will want you dead. Your job is to pacify the former, and neutralize the latter."
Mad Dog's gaze swept over them, lingering momentarily on Cerys. "I expect each and every one of you to conduct yourselves with the discipline and professionalism that has been drilled into you. You represent more than just yourselves now. You represent the Legion, the Hegemony, and everything we've worked for here." He took a deep breath, his stern façade cracking ever so slightly. "With these marching orders, you've earned the right to be called soldiers, legionaries. Don't make me regret it. Start packing your gear, legionaries. You're getting deployed. Dismiss!"
The drill sergeant turned on his heels and marched back to where he had come from, leaving behind uncertain faces. Sensing the anxiety, Cerys clapped her hands to get the quartex' attention.
"No slacking, folks! I want to see those guns, clean and polished. We all heard the news, but we've still got a job to do here. So, get on with it!"
When they were done, and she was satisfied, Cerys remained behind, her eyes fixed on the dropships looming in the vicinity. Things there had settled enough for birds to land on the almost perfectly round metal bodies, traipsing around between the many antennas and dishes right on top.
Felix, having finished 'herding cats' – he had readily taken over that label from Mad Dog - approached her side, and took up position next to her. "So, this is it?" he remarked softly.
She nodded. "Makes it all feel real. We've been training for this, but now..." She trailed off, searching for the right words. Truth was, she felt no less anxious than the rest of her comrades. But, there was also an element of anticipation, of thirst for adventure in there. Once they boarded those ships, they would no longer be recruits, but soldiers of the Marian Hegemony. Strangely enough, the thought filled her with pride.
"Now it's actually happening," Felix finished for her, crossing his arms. Cerys was tall, for a woman, and still only reached up to his chin. "You ready for this, SG?"
Cerys turned to look at him, a lopsided smile playing on her lips. "As ready as I'll ever be, I s'ppose. We've come a long way." She nudged him in the ribs.
Pork Chops chuckled. "That we have. Never thought I'd make it this far."
She raised an eyebrow. "Why's that?"
He shrugged, a hint of self-deprecation in his expression. "Come on, you know how I was. Fat. Not exactly the picture of a perfect soldier when we started."
Cerys smiled genuinely this time. "Couldn't have done it without you, Pork Chops. You're always better than you think. Besides, look at me: all that yelling Mad Dog did to us seems to have had some effect after all, eh?"
They stood in comfortable silence for a moment, both smiling, before a gaggle of recruits filed out of their barracks again.
"So, Illyria," Elara 'Granny' huffed, trying to sound casual but unable to mask the hint of nerves in her voice. "Anyone know what we're actually walking into, contubs?"
Cerys shrugged and looked up at her fellow NCO. "Politics is more of your field, big man. Enlighten us."
Felix shook his head. "Not much beyond what Mad Dog told us. I mean, I could give you my own coffee grounds reading, but the gist is that the planet's not really fully secure, and we'll play good cop to Fletcher's bad cops, I guess? While looking good for the cameras?" he sighed. "Fact is, people won't exactly like us, and they'll try to get rid of us as much as they'll try to shove Fletcher and his pirates off planet."
Cerys considered this. "Which means we'll be in the thick of it. We'll need to stay sharp, watch each other's backs."
Elara looked over her shoulder, meeting determined faces. "Well, we've got your backs. All of us."
A shiver ran down her spine, and she felt heat rising to her head. "Thanks guys," she said meekly. Then, remembering who she was now and what her duties were, she added: "We'll get through this together, as a unit. Remember what the Gunny taught us. Use your heads. Trust your instincts." She straightened and gave Felix a nod. "We're legionaries of the Hegemony. There is no call we do not answer, there is no fight we cannot win! Huah!"
Two dozen voices answered her call, standing straighter, prouder, throwing the Marian salute.
In that moment, she felt as if they could take on the whole world and win. "Let's get packing, folks. Illyria awaits."
48 Hours Later
The morning sun cast long shadows across the parade grounds as the 10th Cohort stood at attention, their packs heavy on their backs, weapons slung over their shoulders. Flanking them, the tanks, APCs and support vehicles idled in preplanned holding grids. Further outside the parade grounds, trucks already had begun to unceremoniously transport supplies one of the landed Mules.
Waiting on a small platform, Legate Halley, the other officers, as well as Mad Dog Mitchell and the other drill sergeants stood in a rigid line, their faces stern but their eyes betraying a mix of pride and concern.
Like clockwork, each block of twenty-five soldiers marched forward and past the stand.
Camp Avernus' commander and her subordinates snapped crisp salutes, a final gesture of respect and acknowledgment of the soldiers their recruits had become. The 10th Cohort was ready to serve, and ready to fight.
Quartex after quartex, neat blocks of five by five soldiers in full gear, led by their barracks 'elder', marched past the stand, centuria by centuria. When it was their time, Cerys led her platoon with a steady stride, her gaze fixed ahead. Felix marched behind her, and behind him the next contubernalis, and so on, each with four soldiers to their right. The squad followed her in perfect formation, crisply saluting Halley and Mad Dog as the ground thundered with the sound of a thousand feet. As they ascended the ramp into the belly of the dropship, Cerys couldn't help but feel a swell of emotion - excitement, anxiety, determination - all swirling within and around her. Also, there was a sense of finality as she stepped out from Addhara's sun, first into the long, cold shadow the Mule drew across the camp, then into the artificial glare of its internal lighting.
Outside, the engines of dozens of vehicles roared to life, repeating the procession of the infantry and driving past Halley, and into the second of the three dropships.
Inside, officers of the crew took over, allotting quarters to the 'dirtyfeet' in the refurbished cargo hauler.
Cerys was standing in line, trying to keep an eye on 'her' soldiers – the term 'herding cats' once again found a way into her thoughts - just as the last of the platoons boarded and the ramp began to rise, and a commotion erupted at the edge of the parade grounds. A solitary figure sprinted across the tarmac, gear clattering with each hurried step.
He was far away, but Cerys instinctively knew it was Hollywood. She felt a deep pit form in her stomach.
The officers on the stand stood silent and rigid when Private Ronan Valerius slowed down to march past them, his arm raised in salute. Somehow, Cerys could imagine how Mad Dog stood there, his gaze locked onto Hollywood as he approached, his expression hard, his jaw tight.
Neither he nor Halley nor any of the others made any move to acknowledge Hollywood's presence. No salutes, not even a nod. The command and training staff of Camp Avernus made it a point to ignore the last of the 10th Cohort's recruits to leave.
Once past the stand, he sped up again, and others now saw him, too, the boarding hangar abuzz with murmuring voices. Cerys now truly saw him, too.
Despite the anger and anxiety roiling through her she was taken aback at what she saw running up the ramp. Her attacker was barely recognizable anymore. Hollywood's once immaculate appearance was gone, his sun-bathed face pallid and gaunt. Fading bruises discolored his cheeks, framing scars where the base' medics had patched up the broken bones in his face. His – literally – Patrician nose had been broken and fixed in more than one spot. His usually blazing green eyes were hollow, fixed solely on the dropship's ramp.
He slipped inside just as the ramp sealed shut behind him.
Inside the dropship, the atmosphere was tense and quiet. The soldiers regarded the straggler with a mix of curiosity, distrust and open hostility. Whispers rippled through the ranks, but no one dared speak to him.
One of the ship's officers broke the spell, unaware of their background, and hurried them all to follow the crew's instructions. Hollywood moved mechanically, and Cerys lost sight of him in the moving crowd.
Cerys only realized she had held her breath and been frozen in place when Felix gently, but firmly, took her by the arm and motioned her forward, deeper into their temporary home. Elara and Matteo and the rest of her close circle shielded her.
"We've got your back, SG," Pork Chops murmured. "Besides, we've got bigger things ahead."
With a start she nodded, taking a deep breath to steady herself.
Whatever had brought Hollywood back, it was a complication she couldn't afford to dwell on. Her responsibility was to her platoon, to lead them through whatever awaited on Illyria.
She didn't know how long it took them to settle in – the ship was a labyrinth, and each cramped compartment got a talking-down about the do's and don't's aboard – but she felt drained when they finally got the order via the ship's intercom to strap in.
The dropship's engines roared to life, a deep thrumming that vibrated through the entire vessel. Getting past Addhara's atmosphere was the ugly part of the journey. Multiple standard gravities pressed each and every one of them into their seats, hard. Only after they had broken free of the strong grip of the planet's immediate gravity well and returned to a leisurely 1G thrust did the boredom set in.
Over the next four and a half weeks, time seemed to blur – or to stall, depending on who you asked. The monotony of space travel was punctuated only by the jarring disorientation of three hyperspace jumps. Each transition left many of the soldiers nauseated and disoriented, their bodies struggling to adjust to the sudden shifts in physics that hyperspace travel inflicted.
During the journey, Cerys focused on keeping her platoon sharp. She and the other 'contubs' organized daily drills, weapons maintenance sessions, and tactical discussions, and they all scrounged up whatever data on Illyria they could get their hands.
Unsure of what to make of Ronan's return, Felix and Elara made sure she was never alone on the ship. But Hollywood remained isolated. He participated in mandatory activities but kept to himself, speaking only when absolutely necessary. The bruise on his face faded, but the shadows in his eyes did not. The others gave him a wide berth, unsure of how to approach him - or if they even wanted to. Still, Cerys did not stop looking over her shoulder.
Only in the fifth week of their long journey did her focus change again. The dropship's interior lighting switched to red, and a command ordered them to strap in again, and prep for atmospheric entry. Half an hour later, with cramped muscles and an incoming headache, they all emerged from their compartments, breathing the fresh air that streamed into the ship through the opened hangars. Only now did they realize the smell they had all taken on, how bad the air onboard had been, with CO2-scrubbers and onboard hygiene of the makeshift troop transport unable to cope with the needs of almost eight hundred people.
Outside, a vast expanse of evergreen forests, snow-capped mountains, and winding rivers glistening under a pale sun stretched as far as they could see. Illyria.
End Part 1
Chapter 6: Before the Storm
Camp Avernus, Addhara
Marian Hegemony
Mid-April 3011 C.E.
Time flies. Especially when your days were packed full with tasks.
Somebody had taken a picture of the folks in her barracks the day they had settled in. It stuck on a pinboard next to the exit. A few faces were no longer with them, but those that stuck around still looked so vastly different from the innocent and insecure young men and women that had started basic last autumn. The harsh regimen of basic training had forged them into something resembling soldiers, soft faces and bodies turned into chiseled physiques and observant eyes.
The oppressive heat of the training grounds had given way to a cooler season, but the intensity of their drills had not lessened. Marches and field drills still were their daily bread and butter, but a few weeks ago, not long after she'd started light duty again with Doc Forrester's blessings, their APCs had finally arrived.
Big, boxy, tracked lumps of armor, topped with a flat turret holding either a pair of machine guns or a light autocannon, riding in them should have come as a relief after months of hauling mountains of gear around. But, with the whole quartex cramped into the infantry compartment on rock-hard seats, it was far from being a luxurious ride.
'Twenty-five dudes on a high protein diet stuck in a metal can? …yeah, great.'
Let's just say they all were lucky that smoking was prohibited.
But the APCs added another tactical level to their training and operations. Training to orderly embark and rapidly disembark, under fire; operating in cooperation with the armored vehicles; and lastly, training together with an armored cohort, VTOLs and artillery in a big exercise. All that had made the weeks pass like in quick motion.
Then there had been the anti-mech training. Days and days and even more days of it.
"This is the supreme discipline of the infantry soldier!" mad Dog had yelled as he paced back and forth. "Anti battlemech tactics! Nothing I do will prepare you for the first moment you encounter mechs in the field. Nothing! No training, no conditioning, no well-meaning pussy words will help you get over the existential feeling of dread that'll make you shit your pants. Listen, maggots! A mech is a three stories high building that walks at the pace of car on the highway while weighing as much as a train engine!" he had explained, his words clipped and precise, making it obvious every single one was meant to be heard. "I cannot train you how to not shit your pants on this. But I can train you how to survive the encounter, and how to beat the enemy. When we're done, any quartex will be able to face a mech!"
Cerys, now at the end of their training, still had her doubts on that, especially after she had seen a training maniple of mechs in action during their last exercise. But getting drilled to deal with mechs still beat stumbling into action blindly.
"There are four key elements to not only survive, but win a confrontation with a battlemech. These four elements are: Cover. Precision. Dispersal. Surprise." Mad Dog had taken his time teaching them.
"A battlemech, even a light one, is a mighty machine of war. Any amount of cover you can find, either to shield you from being detected, or by putting solid objects between you and it, will astronomically increase your chances of survival."
He raised two fingers.
"Precision. Against a mech, every shot must count. There are stories out there about men and women killing one of those beasts with a single, well-placed SRM to the cockpit. Don't assume you'll be that lucky son of a bitch! Aim steady, and make sure you place your shot where you know it'll hit. Your comrades' lives will depend on it!"
Another finger.
"Don't all be in one place, idiots! Disperse. Ideally, there are twenty-five of you, so position yourselves in fireteams of no more than two soldiers. Five men are a target! One man is a waste of ammunition. Many targets mean a mech pilot will have to divide their attention between all of you, which gives you plenty of time to fry their ass from all directions – especially those were they are lightly armored!"
He had stopped, clasping his hands behind his back
"Last, but not least, surprise. Hit them when they least expect it. A surprised enemy is a clumsy enemy, a sluggish enemy, a stupid enemy. Those first rounds will count!"
So far, so good. They had tried to put those mantras to good use in training. Still, Cerys hoped she never had to face hostile 'mechs in the field. She was confident she could handle another human with a gun. A ten meter high murderbot running at ninety kph? Not so much.
Summer on Addhara was finally giving way to the slightly cooler months of its climactic autumn, with faint morning rains and refreshing afternoon winds. That made most of their remaining training regimen almost agreeable, compared to the prior months full of heat and humidity. Almost.
Cerys stood in front of 'her' barracks, her posture straight and confident, arms behind her back, her eyes alert. The rest of her unit sat around her, on the compressed dirt and gravel ground, and cleaned their weapons. Cleaning them in a nice, clean barracks was one thing, but she understood they also needed to do it in less than ideal conditions. Besides, every movement trained to the point of becoming instinctual saved time, and would potentially save lives. In her left hand, a stop watch was mercilessly ticking down.
Her days filled with her duty and training – she was, despite her rank of Contubernalis, still a recruit, after all – left her little time or reason to think of Hollywood, or what the future might have in tow for her. Only when the weather made her scar itch did the memories return.
"Fifteen seconds, folks!" she called out, slowly walking between her seated comrades. Her uniform tunic was immaculate, with the rank chevron prominently fastened to her collar, and the wooden sheath of her gladius polished to a shine, and eyes held a strange kind of quiet determination that commanded respect.
Sometime she caught herself feeling off. Her having authority over others, as little as it was, just felt deeply unnatural, like she was walking besides herself. In those moments she found herself playing with the iron bracelet around her left wrist. It still held the name of her master. It… grounded her, reminded her that her journey from a life of servitude to one of leadership, of freedom, had only just begun.
"Buckle up, folks, five seconds left! Four…Three…"
A distant thunderclap broke through the normal bustle of the garrison, and as one, the birds all around Camp Avernus leapt into the air and fled, crying in protest and fear. The usual sounds of the camp, the shouted orders, the rhythmic thud of boots on the ground, the distant crack of rifle fire, were suddenly drowned out by a deep, resonant roar. The very air seemed to vibrate with the sound, a low-frequency hum that settled in the chest and rattled the bones. From beyond the perimeter fence, a massive spheroid shape descended through the clouds on a white-hot jet of flames, its metallic hull gleaming dully in the muted sunlight. Cerys recognized the model – a Mule – from her own transport to Addhara. The ground trembled as it touched down, landing struts sinking slightly into the softened earth, and a wave of hot air washed over Camp Avernus like a mini hurricane.
"We're damn lucky it's been raining on and off," Felix muttered, stepping next to her. "Imagine the dust back from summer."
She'd rather not, she thought, squinting her eyes against the fiery wind. "We'd never get those rifles cleaned again, ever," she nodded.
"What you think is about, SG?" he crossed his arms in front of his chest, as thick as her thighs.
Cerys looked up at the enormous metal ball sitting outside the camp. Another sonic boom washed over the buildings, and then another one, as two further dropships descended in unison to land next to their already settled companion.
It was hard to convey the right kind of appreciation for the sheer size of such a landed beast. The Mule was, first and foremost, a freight hauler. The way it stood there, hull still steaming, more than a hundred and fifty meters in diameter, one of them had the volume of probably half the camp, Cerys reckoned.
Around them the doors to the other barracks flew open, and the recruits gathered outside, a mix of awe and apprehension on their faces. Much of the camp originally came from Addhara and had never left the planet, so for many, this was the first time seeing such a vessel up close.
"I guess we're about to find out," she nudged Felix, pointing to their right.
Mad Dog Mitchell emerged from the main building, his stride purposeful as he approached the assembled soldiers. The ever-present scowl was etched on his face, but there was a hint of something else in his eyes. Apprehension, maybe?
Cerys straightened. "Quartex, form up!" she yelled, registering with a sting of pride that everybody indeed scrambled to follow her command. The drill sergeant arrived in front of them right when they formed a neat five by five square, and Cerys saluted.
"Listen up!" the tall, sinewy drill sergeant's voice cut through the background noise. Mad Dog paced slowly before them, hands clasped behind his back. "You've all come a long way since the sorry excuses for soldiers that first stumbled onto my training ground," he began, his tone gruff but lacking the usual bite. "You've been tested, both physically and mentally, and in ways you didn't even know you could be tested. And you've proven that you're not completely worthless. Some of you even may have the potential for more."
A faint ripple of amusement passed through the ranks, quickly subdued as Mad Dog continued.
"I suppose none of you are blind and deaf?! These three fat ladies behind me are your ticket off this rock. In the next few days, you'll be shipping out to Illyria. Some of you might be thinking this is the start of some grand adventure. Some of you will also believe every piece of propaganda the news channels have fed you. So, let me set you straight! Illyria is a powder keg, and you're the ones being sent to keep it from blowing sky-high."
He stopped pacing, turning to face them fully. "The Emperor has decided that, to show our commitment to peace, stability, and humanitarian values, you'll be acting as peacekeepers. Each and every one of you will be representing the interests and ideals of the Marian Hegemony. That means you're not just soldiers! You're diplomats with rifles. You'll be dealing with locals who don't give a damn about you or your mission. Some will want you gone; many will want you dead. Your job is to pacify the former, and neutralize the latter."
Mad Dog's gaze swept over them, lingering momentarily on Cerys. "I expect each and every one of you to conduct yourselves with the discipline and professionalism that has been drilled into you. You represent more than just yourselves now. You represent the Legion, the Hegemony, and everything we've worked for here." He took a deep breath, his stern façade cracking ever so slightly. "With these marching orders, you've earned the right to be called soldiers, legionaries. Don't make me regret it. Start packing your gear, legionaries. You're getting deployed. Dismiss!"
The drill sergeant turned on his heels and marched back to where he had come from, leaving behind uncertain faces. Sensing the anxiety, Cerys clapped her hands to get the quartex' attention.
"No slacking, folks! I want to see those guns, clean and polished. We all heard the news, but we've still got a job to do here. So, get on with it!"
When they were done, and she was satisfied, Cerys remained behind, her eyes fixed on the dropships looming in the vicinity. Things there had settled enough for birds to land on the almost perfectly round metal bodies, traipsing around between the many antennas and dishes right on top.
Felix, having finished 'herding cats' – he had readily taken over that label from Mad Dog - approached her side, and took up position next to her. "So, this is it?" he remarked softly.
She nodded. "Makes it all feel real. We've been training for this, but now..." She trailed off, searching for the right words. Truth was, she felt no less anxious than the rest of her comrades. But, there was also an element of anticipation, of thirst for adventure in there. Once they boarded those ships, they would no longer be recruits, but soldiers of the Marian Hegemony. Strangely enough, the thought filled her with pride.
"Now it's actually happening," Felix finished for her, crossing his arms. Cerys was tall, for a woman, and still only reached up to his chin. "You ready for this, SG?"
Cerys turned to look at him, a lopsided smile playing on her lips. "As ready as I'll ever be, I s'ppose. We've come a long way." She nudged him in the ribs.
Pork Chops chuckled. "That we have. Never thought I'd make it this far."
She raised an eyebrow. "Why's that?"
He shrugged, a hint of self-deprecation in his expression. "Come on, you know how I was. Fat. Not exactly the picture of a perfect soldier when we started."
Cerys smiled genuinely this time. "Couldn't have done it without you, Pork Chops. You're always better than you think. Besides, look at me: all that yelling Mad Dog did to us seems to have had some effect after all, eh?"
They stood in comfortable silence for a moment, both smiling, before a gaggle of recruits filed out of their barracks again.
"So, Illyria," Elara 'Granny' huffed, trying to sound casual but unable to mask the hint of nerves in her voice. "Anyone know what we're actually walking into, contubs?"
Cerys shrugged and looked up at her fellow NCO. "Politics is more of your field, big man. Enlighten us."
Felix shook his head. "Not much beyond what Mad Dog told us. I mean, I could give you my own coffee grounds reading, but the gist is that the planet's not really fully secure, and we'll play good cop to Fletcher's bad cops, I guess? While looking good for the cameras?" he sighed. "Fact is, people won't exactly like us, and they'll try to get rid of us as much as they'll try to shove Fletcher and his pirates off planet."
Cerys considered this. "Which means we'll be in the thick of it. We'll need to stay sharp, watch each other's backs."
Elara looked over her shoulder, meeting determined faces. "Well, we've got your backs. All of us."
A shiver ran down her spine, and she felt heat rising to her head. "Thanks guys," she said meekly. Then, remembering who she was now and what her duties were, she added: "We'll get through this together, as a unit. Remember what the Gunny taught us. Use your heads. Trust your instincts." She straightened and gave Felix a nod. "We're legionaries of the Hegemony. There is no call we do not answer, there is no fight we cannot win! Huah!"
Two dozen voices answered her call, standing straighter, prouder, throwing the Marian salute.
In that moment, she felt as if they could take on the whole world and win. "Let's get packing, folks. Illyria awaits."
48 Hours Later
The morning sun cast long shadows across the parade grounds as the 10th Cohort stood at attention, their packs heavy on their backs, weapons slung over their shoulders. Flanking them, the tanks, APCs and support vehicles idled in preplanned holding grids. Further outside the parade grounds, trucks already had begun to unceremoniously transport supplies one of the landed Mules.
Waiting on a small platform, Legate Halley, the other officers, as well as Mad Dog Mitchell and the other drill sergeants stood in a rigid line, their faces stern but their eyes betraying a mix of pride and concern.
Like clockwork, each block of twenty-five soldiers marched forward and past the stand.
Camp Avernus' commander and her subordinates snapped crisp salutes, a final gesture of respect and acknowledgment of the soldiers their recruits had become. The 10th Cohort was ready to serve, and ready to fight.
Quartex after quartex, neat blocks of five by five soldiers in full gear, led by their barracks 'elder', marched past the stand, centuria by centuria. When it was their time, Cerys led her platoon with a steady stride, her gaze fixed ahead. Felix marched behind her, and behind him the next contubernalis, and so on, each with four soldiers to their right. The squad followed her in perfect formation, crisply saluting Halley and Mad Dog as the ground thundered with the sound of a thousand feet. As they ascended the ramp into the belly of the dropship, Cerys couldn't help but feel a swell of emotion - excitement, anxiety, determination - all swirling within and around her. Also, there was a sense of finality as she stepped out from Addhara's sun, first into the long, cold shadow the Mule drew across the camp, then into the artificial glare of its internal lighting.
Outside, the engines of dozens of vehicles roared to life, repeating the procession of the infantry and driving past Halley, and into the second of the three dropships.
Inside, officers of the crew took over, allotting quarters to the 'dirtyfeet' in the refurbished cargo hauler.
Cerys was standing in line, trying to keep an eye on 'her' soldiers – the term 'herding cats' once again found a way into her thoughts - just as the last of the platoons boarded and the ramp began to rise, and a commotion erupted at the edge of the parade grounds. A solitary figure sprinted across the tarmac, gear clattering with each hurried step.
He was far away, but Cerys instinctively knew it was Hollywood. She felt a deep pit form in her stomach.
The officers on the stand stood silent and rigid when Private Ronan Valerius slowed down to march past them, his arm raised in salute. Somehow, Cerys could imagine how Mad Dog stood there, his gaze locked onto Hollywood as he approached, his expression hard, his jaw tight.
Neither he nor Halley nor any of the others made any move to acknowledge Hollywood's presence. No salutes, not even a nod. The command and training staff of Camp Avernus made it a point to ignore the last of the 10th Cohort's recruits to leave.
Once past the stand, he sped up again, and others now saw him, too, the boarding hangar abuzz with murmuring voices. Cerys now truly saw him, too.
Despite the anger and anxiety roiling through her she was taken aback at what she saw running up the ramp. Her attacker was barely recognizable anymore. Hollywood's once immaculate appearance was gone, his sun-bathed face pallid and gaunt. Fading bruises discolored his cheeks, framing scars where the base' medics had patched up the broken bones in his face. His – literally – Patrician nose had been broken and fixed in more than one spot. His usually blazing green eyes were hollow, fixed solely on the dropship's ramp.
He slipped inside just as the ramp sealed shut behind him.
Inside the dropship, the atmosphere was tense and quiet. The soldiers regarded the straggler with a mix of curiosity, distrust and open hostility. Whispers rippled through the ranks, but no one dared speak to him.
One of the ship's officers broke the spell, unaware of their background, and hurried them all to follow the crew's instructions. Hollywood moved mechanically, and Cerys lost sight of him in the moving crowd.
Cerys only realized she had held her breath and been frozen in place when Felix gently, but firmly, took her by the arm and motioned her forward, deeper into their temporary home. Elara and Matteo and the rest of her close circle shielded her.
"We've got your back, SG," Pork Chops murmured. "Besides, we've got bigger things ahead."
With a start she nodded, taking a deep breath to steady herself.
Whatever had brought Hollywood back, it was a complication she couldn't afford to dwell on. Her responsibility was to her platoon, to lead them through whatever awaited on Illyria.
She didn't know how long it took them to settle in – the ship was a labyrinth, and each cramped compartment got a talking-down about the do's and don't's aboard – but she felt drained when they finally got the order via the ship's intercom to strap in.
The dropship's engines roared to life, a deep thrumming that vibrated through the entire vessel. Getting past Addhara's atmosphere was the ugly part of the journey. Multiple standard gravities pressed each and every one of them into their seats, hard. Only after they had broken free of the strong grip of the planet's immediate gravity well and returned to a leisurely 1G thrust did the boredom set in.
Over the next four and a half weeks, time seemed to blur – or to stall, depending on who you asked. The monotony of space travel was punctuated only by the jarring disorientation of three hyperspace jumps. Each transition left many of the soldiers nauseated and disoriented, their bodies struggling to adjust to the sudden shifts in physics that hyperspace travel inflicted.
During the journey, Cerys focused on keeping her platoon sharp. She and the other 'contubs' organized daily drills, weapons maintenance sessions, and tactical discussions, and they all scrounged up whatever data on Illyria they could get their hands.
Unsure of what to make of Ronan's return, Felix and Elara made sure she was never alone on the ship. But Hollywood remained isolated. He participated in mandatory activities but kept to himself, speaking only when absolutely necessary. The bruise on his face faded, but the shadows in his eyes did not. The others gave him a wide berth, unsure of how to approach him - or if they even wanted to. Still, Cerys did not stop looking over her shoulder.
Only in the fifth week of their long journey did her focus change again. The dropship's interior lighting switched to red, and a command ordered them to strap in again, and prep for atmospheric entry. Half an hour later, with cramped muscles and an incoming headache, they all emerged from their compartments, breathing the fresh air that streamed into the ship through the opened hangars. Only now did they realize the smell they had all taken on, how bad the air onboard had been, with CO2-scrubbers and onboard hygiene of the makeshift troop transport unable to cope with the needs of almost eight hundred people.
Outside, a vast expanse of evergreen forests, snow-capped mountains, and winding rivers glistening under a pale sun stretched as far as they could see. Illyria.
End Part 1
So, quick sketch I threw together today. That's roughly how you can imagine a custodia to look like at an early stage. Realistically, the landing pads would be further away, but I wanted to get this all in one picture. You've got the fortified 'watchtower', landing pads for small craft and dropship, and a few small sheds and hangars of merchants who have set up shop.
Happy New Year, folks! We're back at it, with Cerys and crew arriving and settling in on Illyria.
Part II: Insurgency
1. Ice Box
Camp Tiber
Occupied Illyria, fmr. Illyrian Palatinate
May 3011
Cerys drew in a lungful of biting, frigid air the moment the hatch clanged open. It slithered across her exposed cheeks and stole the breath from her lips, so alien and raw compared to the dry heat she'd grown used to on Addhara. She blinked as her eyes watered in the cold, forcing herself to hold her composure.
Behind her, the ramp of the Mule-class dropship lowered with a teeth-rattling groan. The deck beneath her boots vibrated as a hollow clang resonated up the metal plates. Far down below, the sun reflected off wide, rolling tundra dotted with low vegetation and pockets of forest. This was Illyria, its sun pale in the sky, the horizon washed out with muted colors that seemed drained of life. A breath of wind lashed across the open bay, swirling up the smell of engine oil, industrial lubricants, and the tang of burnt atmosphere from reentry. Somewhere deeper in the hold, the thrumming engines of the Mule settled into idle.
It was far colder than the scorching landscapes of Addhara. A wave of gooseflesh rippled up her arms, her thin Legion tunic offering almost no protection. Her breath emerged as a faint fog, swirling away in the midmorning Illyrian sun.
She glanced around, blinking the dryness of space travel from her eyes. Camp Tiber sprawled across a natural plateau, its perimeter ringed by hastily-erected walls of pre-fab concrete, barbed wire, and watch towers. Nearby, squat gray barracks sprouted like mushrooms after a rainfall. On the far side of the encampment, tall prefab hangars and motor pools bristled with activity. Trucks rumbled across wide gravel lanes, loaded down with crates and gear. A flight of low-slung atmospheric craft soared overhead, rattling the air with a dull roar.
Felix - Pork Chops - stood at her side, puffing out little clouds of vapor with each breath. His broad shoulders and heavily muscled arms tested the seams of his uniform. He gave a noticeable shiver. "Gods, that's cold," he muttered. "Might as well not wear a tunic at all. This does nothing." He hefted his kit bag on one shoulder, the broad strap digging into his well-worn uniform, then folded his arms, stepping gingerly onto the ramp as if expecting it to give way beneath him.
"Understatement of the year," Cerys muttered, crossing her arms for warmth. She tried to appear nonchalant, ignoring the swirl of her own breath in the frigid morning. Her mind echoed with a half-amused, half-wary thought: We're wearing sandals and breezy tunics. We might actually freeze if the nights are worse.
A line of recruits —no, legionaries now, she corrected herself – waited behind them, gear piled high on their backs. As Contubernalis, she and Felix were meant to lead them out, keep their unity. Cerys swallowed against the dryness in her throat.
"Quartex, on me," she shouted over the hiss of hydraulics. Around them, the bustle of deckhands and departing cohorts was barely controlled chaos. Other ramps lowered from the Mule's side, letting vehicles and more soldiers exit in a roar of engines and shouted orders. "Eyes forward, watch your step," she added. "There's bound to be ice."
Granny followed a short distance behind, scanning for hazards. A practical woman, Elara still carried the stocky build of a miner. Her wide shoulders gave her a steadiness to match the ground beneath her feet. Each step she took landed with methodical weight, as if she were gauging whether the deck was real stone or metal.
Cerys caught Felix's eye and gave a curt nod. Together, they descended the ramp onto the tarmac. Cold hammered at every exposed piece of skin; she stifled a gasp. The planet's thin sunlight didn't do a thing to warm them. Waves of shouts and engine noise assaulted her ears. The Legion's boots hammered the landing area in a steady drumbeat.
Camp Tiber. Their new home. For how long, no one had told them. It was a place as gray and harsh as the wind around them.
"Lovely," Pork Chops growled, the wind tugging at his legionary cloak. "Never thought there'd be a place where I miss Camp Avernus, but what do you know!? Here I am, already."
A voice came echoing over loudspeaker: "All newcomers, form up by unit and await further instructions!"
Cerys recognized the lines on the ground, a wide clearing with battered rectangles of white paint. "All right, folks," she said, voice pitched to be heard over the engines and the flapping canvas tents. "You heard the man. Form up on the chalk lines. Let's keep it crisp, like Mad Dog always drilled us."
A ripple of murmured acknowledgments answered her. They sorted themselves into five columns, each led by a contubernalis. Cerys headed up the front row with her gladius at her belt and her iron bracelet on her left wrist, the name of her former master etched into the metal.
A slender man in a plumed officer helmet and a thicker, light blue cloak strode across the tarmac, holding nothing but a swagger stick. He had the proud bearing of a patrician: shoulders squared, chin lifted, eyes scanning the lines with a brisk severity that reminded Cerys of a less violent, less overtly unhinged version of Hollywood. For a heartbeat, Cerys's scarred side twinged at the memory of 'pretty patrician boys', but she forced herself to exhale the tension. Focus. This one wasn't brandishing a blade.
The newcomer stood at a lean six feet. His build suggested agility more than sheer brawn, his complexion was pale, with high cheekbones that lent him a distinctly patrician bearing. Straight black hair was cropped close to frame a narrow brow and a firm jawline.
"Attention!" he barked as he approached, and soon half the recruits on the tarmac snapped into formation, or tried to. The roar of vehicles and the swirl of chilled wind made everything frenetic.
Felix and Cerys hurriedly steered their quartex to line up. Mudflat, Noodles, Gnome, and the others followed, packs jostling, breath visible in front of their faces. By the time they reached an orderly row, the slender patrician had closed the distance.
He came to a precise stop and performed a crisp salute. With quite some jealousy Cerys noticed the high boots, and pants.
"Welcome to Illyria," he said in a clear, refined voice that carried over the wind. "I am Optio Flavius Jolan. You are part of Tenth Cohort, from Camp Avernus, yes? Good. I will be your…shall we say, immediate commanding officer. It's my privilege to lead this unit. The Legate expects much from us. For that reason, we'll skip any elaborate welcoming ceremony. You can see your breath. I'm sure that's all the fanfare you need."
His attempt at humor fell mostly flat. Many of the legionaries seemed too stiff with cold or exhaustion to respond. But Cerys found a grudging sort of warmth in his expression. He was trying, anyway. An awkward hush settled, replaced quickly by a swirl of commentary behind Cerys. She coughed lightly and gave a subtle shake of her head, hoping no one broke discipline.
Jolan exhaled, then straightened. "Well, if you haven't guessed, I'm new. But I have my orders, and so do you. We'll keep this short. You'll find your unit's posted near the southwestern block of Camp Tiber, in Barracks G16. My best advice is to…uh…get settled in. You'll get local bedding, some warmer fatigues if supply is up to date, and hopefully some of the climate-control units actually function." That last line drew a subdued chuckle from the ranks. "The local time is fourteen hundred hours. Be in your designated barracks, squared away, gear stowed, by sixteen hundred. I'll brief all NCOs at eighteen hundred, in Admin Building L2. Understood?"
A chorus of "Yes, sir!" and "Sir, understood!" rose in uneven volume.
Cerys saluted, as did Felix and the other contubernales. It might have been an echo of old training discipline, or maybe a reflex hammered in by Mad Dog Mitchell.
Without further ado, Optio Jolan snapped around. "Excellent. Let's get you out of this wind." He turned to stride away, cloak flaring behind him.
As the lines broke, Cerys exhaled a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. He seemed…well, green. But not malicious or incompetent—merely anxious. She recognized that look: the same look she had felt in her own reflection more than once.
Camp Tiber sprawled out in a half-oval shape along the base of a low mountain range. Prefab hangars, rows of squat administration blocks, motor pools, and barracks ringed an inner courtyard. Dustings of snow lay in corners or melted to slush near building vents. Soldiers bustled everywhere, forging footpaths in the half-frozen mud. The wind never ceased: always a cold, insistent push on the body, reminding them they were no longer in Addhara's scorching climate.
It took some time to maneuver through the throng. Cerys and Felix marched with measured steps, leading Quartex A. They followed a local NCO with a rugged noteputer who guided them to their corner: three single-story prefab structures with narrow metal doors, each building apparently able to hold about a quartex or two.
Noodles let out a soft groan when the NCO pointed them to a building whose roof was crowned with a fringe of icicles at the eaves. "We're going to freeze," she muttered.
"We've survived worse," Cerys said, though in truth, the biting wind was a shock to her system. She'd come from vineyards baked under a hot sun most of her life. She remembered the punishing dryness of Addhara's desert. This was the opposite extreme - wet, chilling, insidious cold. "We'll manage," she repeated.
Inside, the barracks were… functional. Bunk beds lined each side of a central aisle, footlockers at the end of each. A single ancient heating unit rumbled in the far corner, pulsing a meager warmth that didn't reach the door. The overhead lights buzzed with a faint flicker. The smell of stale air and disinfectant greeted her, reminiscent of the spartan bunkhouses on Addhara when they had first entered them, but with an added tang of chemical dryness. Metal bunks lined the walls, each with a single thin mattress and a scratchy blanket folded at the foot.
A jarring sense of deja vu hit her. She remembered first stepping onto Addhara's bus—frightened and uncertain. That was nine months ago. She wasn't that same slave girl, cowering and shy. She was a soldier now, an NCO with real responsibilities.
"All right," Cerys said, raising her voice. "Find a bunk, stow your gear. We'll sort out who sleeps where in a minute. Let's keep things civil, folks."
Mudflat sank onto a bunk near the center, shaking out his heavy coat. "At least no one's yelling at us for the time being," he muttered.
"Give them an hour," Gnome teased, dropping his pack with a thud.
Felix cleared his throat. "All right, folks, we've got until sixteen hundred to stow our gear and get acquainted with these bunks. Let's do it in half that time, so we can scrounge up a sense of…order. Or maybe hot water if we're lucky." He tried a grin, but tension lingered in his eyes.
Cerys said nothing at first, simply moving to a bunk near the exit—somewhere she could watch the corridor, keep track of comings and goings. Old reflexes, maybe, from her time at Camp Avernus. She set down her kit bag, feeling twinges in her side where a faint scar beneath her tunic served as a reminder of how quickly things could turn violent.
A swirl of cold air preceded the arrival of Hollywood into the barracks. The hush that fell was almost tangible, as if someone had turned a dial. He stepped in with a closed-off expression, giving no greetings. Patches of pinkish, healed skin marred what had once been the perfect lines of his face. He was thinner. His eyes, once mocking or blazing with condescension, were unreadable. One hand clutched a folded blanket that, curiously, looked half a size too short. Without meeting anyone's gaze, he claimed a bunk in the far corner, turned his back, and began methodically sorting his gear. No words. No challenge. Just a silent acceptance of the tension.
Pork Chops snorted. "Go figure, he shows up at the last second at Camp Avernus, then trails us here. Next time, maybe he'll just fall from the sky."
Cerys shot Felix a pointed look, but the big man merely shrugged in a What'd I say? manner. It didn't take a mind reader to sense the emotions of the rest of the unit's soldiers. Some were curious, others openly scornful. Yet nobody approached Hollywood.
She caught a flicker of anger in Matteo's eyes, the hostility in Felix's stance, but no one said anything. Hollywood's presence remained an unavoidable wedge, unspoken but heavy.
Cerys inhaled slowly, releasing the breath in a silent exhalation. Right now, she had far more pressing concerns to worry about than trying to mediate. They all had a job to do. Though she vowed to never turn her back on Hollywood.
"All right!" she said, turning back to the group. "I need a volunteer or two to see if we can find the heater controls. Noodles, see if those lumps in the corner are actually space heaters or just lumps. Matteo, check if there's some kind of closet with extra blankets. And for Jupiter's sake, check if the doors and windows are decently sealed, 'kay?"
The chatter resumed. As assigned, the legionaries explored the corners of the building. Meanwhile, Elara wandered near the battered windows, checking that each sealed properly. Whoever had assembled these prefabs had done the shoddiest job one could imagine. A light flickered overhead. The floor squeaked with each step, half-frozen from the cold.
By the time everybody had stored their gear and taken an inventory – three times, just to be sure – and explored their new temporary home sixteen hundred was fast approaching. Someone had even found the time to put a sign on the barracks: Quartex A, 2nd Centuria, 10th Cohort, Marian Expeditionary Corps.
Cerys caught Felix's eye. "Ready to meet our new best friend, the Optio?"
He sighed, half-smiling. "If we're lucky, maybe he'll be incompetent but nice, like a puppy."
Cerys arched a brow. "How about competent and nice? I'd prefer that."
"That'd be a dream," he replied sardonically. "Given he's a Patrician, I'll prepare myself for incompetent and asshole."
They left the barracks in the hands of Noodles, who would keep the rest occupied with bunk assignments and housekeeping. Mudflap and Gnome moaned about collecting rations, but she told them to do so anyway. If only to keep busy and warm. Elara and the two remaining contubs of the units accompanied them to the meeting.
Outside, the wind had picked up. Cerys braced herself against a frigid gust that whipped her short braid against her neck. Overhead, the sky was a dull gray, threatening snow. The path to Admin Building L2, an unremarkable metal structure sporting the Hegemony's crest, was marked by scuffed footprints and slush.
Half a dozen other contubernales marched with them, forming a ragged line. Cerys recognized a few from the 10th Cohort's other quartexes: men and women who had shared the punishing obstacle courses back on Addhara. Some offered small nods of greeting. Others stared ahead, faces set.
"Seems we're not the only ones getting their introductory '101 course for shitty ice box planets'," Felix remarked quietly.
Its interior smelled of thick coffee, worn metal, and the faint tang of new paint. An orderly led her upstairs to a briefing room. Inside, a battered rectangular table dominated the space. The walls were covered by large topographical maps pinned to boards. Harsh overhead lights cast stark shadows. A battered electric heater in the corner hummed, barely fending off the cold seeping through the walls.
They tapped mud or slush from their sandals, then followed a corridor to a cramped briefing room where chairs had been arranged in neat rows.
Optio Flavius Jolan waited at the front, a steaming cup of coffee tightly gripped in one hand, a stylus loosely in the other. He'd switched the uniform tunic with an olive-green winter. It didn't look as if it was standard issue, or army property to begin with. The perks of being a Patrician, Cerys thought, managing to hide her scowl.
A war table projected a faintly glowing topographical map of Illyria's southern continent in front of him. His expression, while still serious, flickered with relief when they filed in.
"Ah, good," he murmured, clearing his throat. "All right. Please, everyone, have a seat. We'll keep this short, as I'm sure you want to rest – though hopefully you can manage your own time."
Cerys chose a seat in the middle, where she could see him clearly. Felix sat at her right, a silent pillar of support. Three others from Quartex A's leadership flanked them.
Optio Jolan drew in a breath. "We have…some complicated tasks ahead of us. The majority of 7th, 8th, and 10th Cohort – our unit, effectively – will be posted to the planet's southern continent, Galas."
A snippet of reaction flickered through the group. Cerys exchanged a quick glance with Felix. Galas, she thought, storing that.
"If you haven't heard, the local situation is tense. There's a large civilian population spread across farmland, small towns, logging outposts. Small mining pits. Until recently, it was under the thumb of one Leo Mercer, who commanded the 'Bonecutters.' Lovely folks, as you can probably take from the name." He paused, letting the name hang in the air, as if expecting them to gasp or show recognition. Some, like Felix, frowned in distaste. Pirates hadn't exactly the highest reputation with the Hegemony's common man, regardless of their romanticization in popular media. "Leo Mercer," Jolan cleared his throat and continued, "was apparently… a particularly vicious specimen. A murderer, rapist, slaver, you name it. He terrorized the local populace, extorting and raiding them, presumably with the blessing of Jackson Fletcher, who until recently was his direct patron among the pirate lords of the Crimson Chalice. But it seems Mercer grew too blatant, too…inefficient for Fletcher's agenda." The Optio tapped a control on the table with his stylus, pulling up a cluster of red markers on the displayed map. "Fletcher disposed of him, seized command of the Bonecutters, and pledged his loyalty to the Marian Hegemony." A faint edge crept into his voice on that last sentence.
Cerys exchanged a look with Felix. The mention of 'pledged loyalty' rang hollow. She remembered that the Hegemony's official line was 'we're stepping in to help', but everyone guessed there were deeper, uglier deals in the shadows.
Jolan's eyes fell to the table. "Unfortunately for us, Fletcher taking out Mercer and ending his reign of terror has proven to be too little too late. Now, the people of Galas have had enough. Some of them joined the local resistance. Most probably simply want all outsiders gone. That includes us, sadly. Still, the Emperor sees an opportunity to present the Hegemony as the civilized power that can restore order. So, we will be patrolling the countryside, distributing humanitarian aid in coordination with ComStar organizations – medicine, food, blankets, that sort of thing – and, if necessary, eliminating armed groups that threaten stability. Obviously, these groups see us as just another occupying force. The difference is, we want to maintain discipline, minimize atrocities, and secure the region for Marian benefit."
A murmur stirred through the contubernales. The words 'minimize atrocities' struck a chord, as if they knew that what the Bonecutters had done was beyond vile.
"Which leads me to support," Jolan said, lifting his gaze to meet them. "From Fletcher's side? Don't expect much. Possibly the bare minimum. The man's embroiled in a war with other pirates, with resistance cells, and, last but not least, the Illyrian rump. There's an… agreement that the Emperor is using to wedge Fletcher into line. He fights the war the Hegemony'd rather not fight. But that means we get to fight the war he doesn't want to fight because he's a pirate, and pacifying a planet is tedious work. And pirates and work ethic go together like fire and water." He smiled thinly. "Meanwhile, we get to do the real work to keep this planet stable, keeping his back safe. Some might call it a test of our mettle. Some might call it a political theater. The truth's probably somewhere right in between, ladies and gentlemen." He paused, took a sip from his mug, and let his eyes wander across the five soldiers that from now on would be his link to the the maniples under his command. "Whatever your personal opinions, the chain of command is clear: We're here to keep peace, to do real good for these people, and to protect Marian interests. Are we clear?"
A small chorus of "Yes, sir," rose in the cramped room.
Cerys found her thoughts racing. Great, they'd be getting dropped right in the middle of chaos then. Juggling humanitarian aid and fighting what sounded an enraged insurgency, all at the same time. With the local population hating them? That she had no illusions about.
"That's the gist of what we'll be wading into," Optio Jolan nodded. "Command wants us to move quickly, so the plan is that within twenty-four hours each Quartex gets an APC from the motor pool, plus light escorts. They'll be holding back support elements to be distributed as needed. We'll patrol designated sectors, coordinate with the rest of 10th Cohort, and try to keep each other alive." He set mug aside. "Questions?"
Felix tapped the table softly. "We'll be relying on local knowledge, then? Possible lines of supply from Camp Tiber?"
Jolan ran a hand through his hair. "Correct. For now, all supplies will come through Tiber. The official word is something about efficiency, but in truth it's about keeping the current chaos in check. The Legion's moved almost ten thousand people, plus gear, plus vehicles, and the quartermasters are already running solely on caffeine, drugs, and pure hatred for their fellow men," he chuckled mirthlessly. "As you've probably already realized, appropriate equipment seems to have gone into hiding, too. They'll be adding forward supply bases to coordinate operations soon, or so Command says, but for now everything runs through here. On the plus side, we've deployed a few forward bases scattered across Galas already. Makeshift outposts, really. Each assigned to a company and its support elements, so expect enough space for a small cluster of APCs, ATVs and a hundred and something legionaries." He fiddled with the projector's controls. "Ah, there, right." A blue chevron appeared in the middle of some wooded highlands. "This is ours. Outpost Gemina. We'll garrison there, run patrols, deliver supplies, and hopefully keep the peace. But do note that 'peacekeeping' might turn to open firefights if you meet insurgents."
A wave of uneasy acceptance rippled around the table. The concept was simpler than the reality would be.
He paused, letting that sink in. Then he exhaled. "I'll do my best to share updates as new intel arrives. For now, the official orders are clear: protect civilians, distribute aid, and neutralize any threat to Marian interests. Try not to infuriate the local population. If it can be solved diplomatically, we'll do so." He rubbed his eyes. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is the first hot deployment for each and every one of us, so we'll be in this volatile icicle together. Do your best, and I'll try to shield you from as much shit flowing downhill as I can. Can I count on you?"
The five NCOs exchanged quick glances, then answered "Yes, sir!" as one. A few uneasy chuckles followed.
Felix leaned over and muttered in Cerys's ear, "So he's basically in the same boat we are. Less experience, more rank."
She gave a tiny shrug. "I'll give him the benefit of the doubt. We're basically working for a patrician kid who's never set foot in a real war zone. He's a rung higher on the ladder. He's honest enough about it, though."
"Very well," the Optio concluded. "If there are no more urgent questions, we're done here. Meeting over. Dismissed."
They all rose, saluting, chairs scraping the floor. Cerys noticed the tension in Jolan's posture as he watched them file out, as though he was bracing for the next trial. She spared him a small, respectful dip of her head on her way past. He returned a tight-lipped nod.
Once outside, Cerys stuck with Felix, who huddled deeper into his cloak. They turned a corner where a small generator coughed out a cloud of exhaust, warming the area ever so slightly. Three or four passing legionaries were sipping from steaming cups, their voices subdued.
After a while, Felix spoke up. "You know, about Jolan? Honesty might be a good start. I just hope the man doesn't fold if we see real fighting."
Cerys's gaze dropped, and an echo of pain flickered in her side. "If he does, it might cost lives - ours included." She inhaled, and steadied herself. "We have to hold it together. We can't rely on Fletcher's men, and the local population pretty certainly hates us. And we're woefully new at this. But if we watch each other's backs and keep discipline, maybe we can do some genuine good."
Felix grunted in agreement. "We'll make do. We always have."
Cerys looped around the building, forcibly exhaling a warm breath into her cupped hands. "The key is we adapt, keep ourselves alive. The rest is noise."
"Spoken like a true leader, SG," Felix chuckled, and she rolled her eyes.
"Just regurgitating the phrases Mad Dog drilled into us," she waved him off, but couldn't hide her smile. It felt good to be recognized.
They arrived back at the barracks as the final sliver of sun sank below the horizon, casting the camp in a soft, dusky gloom. The overhead lights snapped on, humming as they bathed the yard in stark white. A handful of other newly arrived cohorts trudged by, carrying crates of gear or large duffel bags.
Inside, the temperature had dropped further, making it obvious that the building's single rattling heater was woefully inadequate. People had crouched closer to the heater vents, or just closer to one another. Matteo 'Gnome' was rummaging through his duffel bag searching for additional uniform pieces, cursing under his breath that none of them were thick enough for sub-freezing temperatures. Cerys tried not to let her teeth chatter. At least inside the wind didn't bother them, and nominally temperatures within the prefab were above zero. Not that it felt that way. Most of them had spent their lives on planets hotter and drier than the Terran average. A lot of them probably had never seen snow before. And the past weeks had been spent in the stuffy but comfortably warm innards of a dropship.
She clapped her hands together. "All right, folks, listen up. We had our briefing with the Optio. He's new, but we're the last people with a right to complain about that. Orders are in. We'll be patrolling the southern continent of Galas, distributing aid, and dealing with local insurgents. The planetary, uhm, 'authorities' won't be providing real help, so it's on us and the boys and girls of Tenth Cohort. We ship ASAP, meaning as soon as all the gear is ready. Could be as soon as tomorrow."
A subdued stir of reaction rippled through them. A few looked anxious, others stoic.
One of the other NCOs, Gallo, sighed. "We also have to handle the distribution of humanitarian aid. That means we'll carry crates of food, medical supplies. We need guys to guard them too. Shit's going to makes us bigger targets."
"It also might help us connect with the locals," said Noodles. "If we handle it kindly, they might point just us away from insurgent ambushes."
Cerys nodded, though she wasn't really convinced. Loyalties weren't so easily swayed. She answered with a non-committal "I suppose only time will tell."
Granny stepped forward, crossing her arms. "And we're stuck with these tunics and sandals? Feels like we might lose toes if we don't figure something out."
That drew nods and murmurs from the crowd. Indeed, the standard Marian sandals were open to the elements, with only a cloth wrappings for the calves. Felix cleared his throat. "We'll request cold-weather gear from the quartermaster, obviously."
"Ha," Gnome retorted. "I tried talking to some supply trooper half an hour ago. They said they had limited supply of heavier boots. They'd 'look into it' if they got the right forms from higher up."
Noodles exhaled, thin arms hugging her body. "We'll freeze if we have to wait on official channels."
Sighing, Cerys rubbed her brow. She looked around. "We can't do a whole lot tonight. I'll push the paperwork first thing in the morning. Meanwhile, do what you must to keep warm, within reason. Let's not dismantle the building. If you see a gap or draft, stuff it with extra cloth. We'll figure out a better solution tomorrow." Just how, she wasn't exactly sure. This was a big step up from keeping things together in the controlled environment of Camp Avernus. And she wasn't exactly experienced.
It wasn't until later that evening, after a halfhearted dinner in the camp's mess hall, slightly warmer, but still uncomfortably chilly, when Cerys noticed movement in the corner. She was about to rummage for the extra scarf she'd stashed when she heard a faint ripping sound from across the room.
A subtle hush fell. She looked up to see Hollywood, stooped over a bunk, carefully slicing at his single-issue blanket with a utility knife. He'd cut off a strip about a foot wide. Another. Another. The ripping of fabric seemed inordinately loud in the hush.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" demanded Matteo. He advanced with righteous indignation etched onto his face, as if the mere sight of that knife conjured memories best left buried. "Is that some kind of sabotage?"
Pork Chops, passing by with a mug of something steaming, halted mid-stride. "What the…are you wrecking your standard-issue blanket?"
Hollywood didn't answer at first. He continued cutting, eyes a blank slate.
Felix's face scrunched, showing a mix of anger, annoyance and… curiosity? "Those are official property, you know."
Hollywood resumed cutting, ignoring Felix's glower. "You can freeze your toes off if you like. I've decided I won't."
"Talk sense, you absolute fuckwit!" Matteo barked, trying to tower above him. It would've looked comical – he hadn't gotten the moniker 'Gnome' for nothing – if the situation had been different.
Finally, the man looked up, the lamplight casting shadows across the sharpened angles of his face. "We're in sub-zero temperatures," he said flatly. "Tunics and sandals will lead to frostbite." He held up a wide strip of the blanket with cool indifference. "I'm making pants."
A hush fell over that side of the barracks. The rest of the quartex drew closer now, curiosity piqued.
"Leave it," Cerys said sharply, stepping in. She gestured for Matteo and Felix to stand down. Then she looked to Hollywood. "Explain." Her pulse quickened as she walked over, her breath not quite yet fogging in the cold. "You can't just cut up your gear. That blanket is the only insulation we get for nighttime. And you'll need it."
Hollywood's voice was monotone, as though narrating a drab fact. "Better to freeze at night than lose my toes by day. I've seen it happen."
Felix folded his arms. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Hollywood's gaze flicked across them, settling on the half-finished blanket in his lap without stopping his work. "My father made a habit of taking his family skiing in the Helena Mountains back on Pompey. You know those, don't you? You're from Pompey." He didn't wait for Pork Chops' answer. "Some of our slaves – stable hands, domestic staff, you know – had to come along and carry gear. They weren't given proper boots. We watched the overseers drag one poor girl away when her feet blackened from frostbite. They amputated them later, along with half her fingers. Another man lost both half his toes, and an ear." His tone never changed, as though reciting a ledger.
A wave of uncomfortable silence swept through the recruits. Shock, disgust, anger. Maybe a swirl of all three. Cerys felt a raw frustration. She hated that a patrician family would force such cruelty. But Hollywood's voice was so emotionless, it unsettled her.
Hollywood continued, "I intend to turn these strips into leg wraps. And maybe a face covering. Because apparently, the quartermaster never had the sense to issue winter kits for an icebox planet."
Felix bristled, fists tightening. "You could have asked. Maybe we'll get more gear in a day or two. You don't have to—"
"I do," Hollywood interrupted, eyes flicking up. "In case you haven't noticed, none of you are eager to share anything with me. And I have no illusions about how the Hegemony's supply lines run—especially for me." He shrugged, returning to cutting. "We all fend for ourselves, right?"
Felix looked ready to protest, but Cerys raised a finger. "No fighting. Not now."
Pork Chops stared, his face unreadable. A half-dozen silent beats passed before he wheeled around and marched off to the far side of the barracks, muttering curses under his breath. She managed to grab him by the arm as he passed, and they locked eyes for an instant. His face mellowed and he gave her a curt nod before he stomped off.
Hollywood resumed slicing neat strips with that same dispassionate calm.
Cerys's chest tightened. She had a dozen retorts perched on her tongue, but something about his bleak tone made her hold them in. Cerys stood there, uncertain how to handle this. A part of her, a not-so-small part, wanted to call Hollywood out for insubordination or sabotage. Anything just to get back at him. Another part found itself weirdly… sympathetic. He might be right: They had no immediate solution to the cold, and at least the man was doing something about it. He wasn't complaining; he was just…resigned.
She felt the iron bracelet around her wrist slide.
Cerys studied him. His voice had no emotional heat. No anger, no fear, no resentment. Just emptiness. She nodded slowly. "Fine. Do your… sewing. Just make sure you keep a corner of blanket for sleeping."
Hollywood didn't respond, except for a brief nod of acknowledgment. With that, she walked away, ignoring Matteo's hissed curses under his breath. Hollywood remained, continuing to slice his blanket with unwavering hands. This is going to be an interesting deployment, she thought, rubbing the iron bracelet around her wrist. The chill gnawed at her toes.
Cerys withdrew to her bunk, uncomfortably unsettled. She found herself pressing a hand to her side, to the spot where his knife had entered. Her scar twinged, but the sharper pang was from the swirl of conflicting emotions in her chest, and her recognition of the need to subdue them to her responsibility as an NCO in a war zone. It was the weirdest of feelings.
Cerys eventually removed her sandals, rubbing her cold feet, wishing for better footwear. She made a mental note: tomorrow, after breakfast, she'd charge to the quartermaster's office and try again for official cold-weather gear.
Felix drifted over after a while, arms hugging himself. "We'll freeze tonight. Joy."
"I'll see about doubling up guard in the hallway," she said, half-laughing at the absurdity. "If we can't sleep, might as well keep watch."
The big man from Pompey sighed. "Then we'll be too exshausted to run a patrol, but hey, maybe our illushions of warmth will keep us company." He fell back into the Pompeyan dialect he usually so carefully hid, and studied her expression. "You all right? The Hollywood thing…?"
She flicked her eyes to the corner. Hollywood was quietly finishing his sewing, trying on the patchwork pants, looking more haggard than she remembered him. It looked ridiculous but functional, covering his calves and ankles. "I'm…conflicted," she admitted in a low tone. "He's still… well, he is who he is. That doesn't go away because he's, I guess, broken now? And I'm glad you guys have my back with him. But I also have to keep the platoon in mind, Felix," she whispered. "He's here, and somehow that's gotta work. Jolan's going to call the shots with him, but he's going to be in the field with us, with live ammo. I can't trust him, but I can't just let him die, either, right?"
Felix patted her shoulder gently, a gesture of solidarity. "You're a better person than him. And I'm pretty sure there'll always be at least one very angry body between you and him. Maybe that's enough for now."
She nodded, mustering a faint grin. "Thanks for the pep talk, big man."
He turned away, letting her sink into her own thoughts. She remembered how life had changed so drastically. From vineyard slave to legionary NCO, soon to ride an APC into a rebellious countryside. Maybe to put some people into slavery, too. The irony tasted bitter, yet also gave her a flicker of strength. She'd come too far to let uncertainty break her.
Night in that cold barracks was an exercise in misery. The single rattling heater provided minimal relief, and few had enough blankets to truly stay warm. Cerys dozed fitfully, stirring whenever the wind gusted outside or when her feet grazed a cold metal bedframe. Some time near midnight, she jerked awake to see an older recruit—Slowpoke, ironically—cramming wadded cloth in the cracks around the window. She murmured thanks and drifted off again.
Dawn arrived with a subdued glow that barely permeated the heavy cloud cover. A trumpet call or something akin to the camp's carynx horns signaled the official start of the day. Cerys felt a dull ache in her muscles, stiff from the cold. She peeled away the meager blanket. A wave of goosebumps erupted on her arms.
As folks stirred, curses and groans lit the air. Gnome's teeth chattered so violently that a spattering of laughter broke out. A few teased him about turning into an icicle.
Cerys sprang off her bunk as best she could, her breath fogging in the beams of early morning light that crept through the cracks. She rubbed her arms vigorously. "Rise and shine, Quartex," she called, forcing herself to sound bright. "We've got tasks to handle. Breakfast, then a queue at supply."
In the corner, Hollywood was already up, wearing the patchwork pants. She glimpsed the haggard cast of his face, faint shadows under the eyes, but he made no comment.
"Anyone want to volunteer to stand in line with me at supply?" she asked.
Felix raised a hand. "I'll go. We might need more than just boots; maybe cloaks, gloves, anything."
"I'd already settle for an extra blanket!" Gnome growled, drawing some muttered support.
Elara placed a calming hand on Cerys's shoulder. "Let me handle it. I learned a trick or two in Ballalaba mines about… persuasive bartering. Gnome can help haul."
"Be my guest."
The cold never relented. By midday, the camp's hustle had grown frantic. Officers barked new instructions about reorganizing the Tenth Cohort. The rumor mill said they might depart sooner. Rumors also said a local militia might have sabotaged a pirate depot, spooking Fletcher. Cerys gleaned that from overhearing two passing decurios.
Eventually, Elara returned with a triumphant grin, a small cart loaded with mismatched winter kit, some heavier fatigues, gloves, a few sturdy boots in random sizes. Not enough for everyone, but enough to help the worst off.
"Where'd you find all that?" Cerys gawked at the hodge-podge of clothes.
Elara winked. "A charming quartermaster with a taste for gambling and a lot of bad luck at cards. Let's say he's not too keen on being found out. And now He's also not too keen on seeing me again, so…"
Cerys let out a laugh and shook her head. "You're lucky you didn't get caught. But whatever, Granny. Cleverly done, and appreciated."
Slowpoke, seeing the new gear, cracked his knuckles. "Anyone else want to help me sew these gloves to the edges of my tunic? Because I'm about done losing feeling in my wrists."
"Call yer mum!" someone shouted, and everybody broke into laughter.
Cerys enjoyed the moment of levity before getting back to business. "Alright, get that stuff back in the barracks. See that everybody gets at least something." She quickly gauged what was on the cart. "It won't be enough, but it's better than nothing."
Back at G16, they divided their find as best as possible. The hours passed quickly. More trucks arrived at Camp Tiber, more crates of humanitarian aid, more people. The thundering engines of starting and landing shuttles and dropships never ceased to truly ebb. In the afternoon, they were assigned their APC, a lumbering tracked box with a low, stubby turret on top. Two machineguns stuck out of it, almost comically small compared to the wide-tracked vehicle that offered enough space to carry the whole of their quartex and combat gear. The vehicle crew seemed to be an okay outfit, from what little Cerys could tell. Everything else only time would tell. At least they wouldn't freeze in there. The engine and closeness would keep them warm. The smell of twenty-five physically active soldiers on a high-protein diet was price she was willing to pay in that case.
At least familiarizing themselves with their new ride gave the platoon something to do. Everything was better than sitting around in the barracks.
Before the call for dinner went out, Cerys, Felix and a few of the others put their stubbornness to test and went for a tussle with the quartermaster again. Some got gloves, others managed heavier boots, but not everyone's size was available. Looking at the empty racks in the prefab storage, Cerys at least didn't get the impression they were being kept intentionally short-stacked. Winter equipment simply was not there.
Cerys had secured a pair of worn boots that were one size too large, so she stuffed the toes with cloth. Felix likewise found something in the quartermaster's labyrinth. And they took what they could, which ironically lead to most of the platoon mimicking Hollywood's improvised approach. They used scraps of cloth or old tarps to wrap their legs, layering them under the uniform, wearing double shirts. In a twisted sense, Hollywood's solution spread through the ranks. Some asked him for tips on sewing. Cerys had no idea how or why he actually knew anything about that in the first place, and had no intention to ask. He responded by matter-of-factly showing them how to measure, cut, and do a basic backstitch. His face remained unreadable all the while.
Cerys oversaw these improvised measures, half exasperated, half resigned. She got glimpses of what might have been the genuine resourcefulness of that patrician boy, of the Not-so-pretty-Cunt, as Pork Chops had started to call him outside earshot: cunning, if not quite compassionate. But at least no one was losing toes, yet.
Lights-out came, but Cerys found herself sitting on her bunk, wide awake, hugging her knees for warmth. She stared across the aisle at Hollywood's sleeping form. The bunk's lamp was out, but the faint corridor light illuminated the irregular shapes of those patchwork. She wondered if he was truly asleep or if he lay there, mind turning.
Letting out a breath, she briefly touched the iron bracelet at her wrist. She remembered the day she first decided to enlist, the desperation, the thirst for something more than a life as property. The memory felt both raw and empowering. She was free, or at least on the path to freedom. He was the patrician, but these days, he seemed hollow. He tried to kill me, she reminded herself. The scar in her side pulsed with phantom pain. She'd be a fool to pity him too much, or at all. Eventually, she lay back, letting the cold lull her into shallow, uncomfortable sleep.
They received the order to move out the next day.
Part II: Insurgency
1. Ice Box
Camp Tiber
Occupied Illyria, fmr. Illyrian Palatinate
May 3011
Cerys drew in a lungful of biting, frigid air the moment the hatch clanged open. It slithered across her exposed cheeks and stole the breath from her lips, so alien and raw compared to the dry heat she'd grown used to on Addhara. She blinked as her eyes watered in the cold, forcing herself to hold her composure.
Behind her, the ramp of the Mule-class dropship lowered with a teeth-rattling groan. The deck beneath her boots vibrated as a hollow clang resonated up the metal plates. Far down below, the sun reflected off wide, rolling tundra dotted with low vegetation and pockets of forest. This was Illyria, its sun pale in the sky, the horizon washed out with muted colors that seemed drained of life. A breath of wind lashed across the open bay, swirling up the smell of engine oil, industrial lubricants, and the tang of burnt atmosphere from reentry. Somewhere deeper in the hold, the thrumming engines of the Mule settled into idle.
It was far colder than the scorching landscapes of Addhara. A wave of gooseflesh rippled up her arms, her thin Legion tunic offering almost no protection. Her breath emerged as a faint fog, swirling away in the midmorning Illyrian sun.
She glanced around, blinking the dryness of space travel from her eyes. Camp Tiber sprawled across a natural plateau, its perimeter ringed by hastily-erected walls of pre-fab concrete, barbed wire, and watch towers. Nearby, squat gray barracks sprouted like mushrooms after a rainfall. On the far side of the encampment, tall prefab hangars and motor pools bristled with activity. Trucks rumbled across wide gravel lanes, loaded down with crates and gear. A flight of low-slung atmospheric craft soared overhead, rattling the air with a dull roar.
Felix - Pork Chops - stood at her side, puffing out little clouds of vapor with each breath. His broad shoulders and heavily muscled arms tested the seams of his uniform. He gave a noticeable shiver. "Gods, that's cold," he muttered. "Might as well not wear a tunic at all. This does nothing." He hefted his kit bag on one shoulder, the broad strap digging into his well-worn uniform, then folded his arms, stepping gingerly onto the ramp as if expecting it to give way beneath him.
"Understatement of the year," Cerys muttered, crossing her arms for warmth. She tried to appear nonchalant, ignoring the swirl of her own breath in the frigid morning. Her mind echoed with a half-amused, half-wary thought: We're wearing sandals and breezy tunics. We might actually freeze if the nights are worse.
A line of recruits —no, legionaries now, she corrected herself – waited behind them, gear piled high on their backs. As Contubernalis, she and Felix were meant to lead them out, keep their unity. Cerys swallowed against the dryness in her throat.
"Quartex, on me," she shouted over the hiss of hydraulics. Around them, the bustle of deckhands and departing cohorts was barely controlled chaos. Other ramps lowered from the Mule's side, letting vehicles and more soldiers exit in a roar of engines and shouted orders. "Eyes forward, watch your step," she added. "There's bound to be ice."
Granny followed a short distance behind, scanning for hazards. A practical woman, Elara still carried the stocky build of a miner. Her wide shoulders gave her a steadiness to match the ground beneath her feet. Each step she took landed with methodical weight, as if she were gauging whether the deck was real stone or metal.
Cerys caught Felix's eye and gave a curt nod. Together, they descended the ramp onto the tarmac. Cold hammered at every exposed piece of skin; she stifled a gasp. The planet's thin sunlight didn't do a thing to warm them. Waves of shouts and engine noise assaulted her ears. The Legion's boots hammered the landing area in a steady drumbeat.
Camp Tiber. Their new home. For how long, no one had told them. It was a place as gray and harsh as the wind around them.
"Lovely," Pork Chops growled, the wind tugging at his legionary cloak. "Never thought there'd be a place where I miss Camp Avernus, but what do you know!? Here I am, already."
A voice came echoing over loudspeaker: "All newcomers, form up by unit and await further instructions!"
Cerys recognized the lines on the ground, a wide clearing with battered rectangles of white paint. "All right, folks," she said, voice pitched to be heard over the engines and the flapping canvas tents. "You heard the man. Form up on the chalk lines. Let's keep it crisp, like Mad Dog always drilled us."
A ripple of murmured acknowledgments answered her. They sorted themselves into five columns, each led by a contubernalis. Cerys headed up the front row with her gladius at her belt and her iron bracelet on her left wrist, the name of her former master etched into the metal.
A slender man in a plumed officer helmet and a thicker, light blue cloak strode across the tarmac, holding nothing but a swagger stick. He had the proud bearing of a patrician: shoulders squared, chin lifted, eyes scanning the lines with a brisk severity that reminded Cerys of a less violent, less overtly unhinged version of Hollywood. For a heartbeat, Cerys's scarred side twinged at the memory of 'pretty patrician boys', but she forced herself to exhale the tension. Focus. This one wasn't brandishing a blade.
The newcomer stood at a lean six feet. His build suggested agility more than sheer brawn, his complexion was pale, with high cheekbones that lent him a distinctly patrician bearing. Straight black hair was cropped close to frame a narrow brow and a firm jawline.
"Attention!" he barked as he approached, and soon half the recruits on the tarmac snapped into formation, or tried to. The roar of vehicles and the swirl of chilled wind made everything frenetic.
Felix and Cerys hurriedly steered their quartex to line up. Mudflat, Noodles, Gnome, and the others followed, packs jostling, breath visible in front of their faces. By the time they reached an orderly row, the slender patrician had closed the distance.
He came to a precise stop and performed a crisp salute. With quite some jealousy Cerys noticed the high boots, and pants.
"Welcome to Illyria," he said in a clear, refined voice that carried over the wind. "I am Optio Flavius Jolan. You are part of Tenth Cohort, from Camp Avernus, yes? Good. I will be your…shall we say, immediate commanding officer. It's my privilege to lead this unit. The Legate expects much from us. For that reason, we'll skip any elaborate welcoming ceremony. You can see your breath. I'm sure that's all the fanfare you need."
His attempt at humor fell mostly flat. Many of the legionaries seemed too stiff with cold or exhaustion to respond. But Cerys found a grudging sort of warmth in his expression. He was trying, anyway. An awkward hush settled, replaced quickly by a swirl of commentary behind Cerys. She coughed lightly and gave a subtle shake of her head, hoping no one broke discipline.
Jolan exhaled, then straightened. "Well, if you haven't guessed, I'm new. But I have my orders, and so do you. We'll keep this short. You'll find your unit's posted near the southwestern block of Camp Tiber, in Barracks G16. My best advice is to…uh…get settled in. You'll get local bedding, some warmer fatigues if supply is up to date, and hopefully some of the climate-control units actually function." That last line drew a subdued chuckle from the ranks. "The local time is fourteen hundred hours. Be in your designated barracks, squared away, gear stowed, by sixteen hundred. I'll brief all NCOs at eighteen hundred, in Admin Building L2. Understood?"
A chorus of "Yes, sir!" and "Sir, understood!" rose in uneven volume.
Cerys saluted, as did Felix and the other contubernales. It might have been an echo of old training discipline, or maybe a reflex hammered in by Mad Dog Mitchell.
Without further ado, Optio Jolan snapped around. "Excellent. Let's get you out of this wind." He turned to stride away, cloak flaring behind him.
As the lines broke, Cerys exhaled a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. He seemed…well, green. But not malicious or incompetent—merely anxious. She recognized that look: the same look she had felt in her own reflection more than once.
Camp Tiber sprawled out in a half-oval shape along the base of a low mountain range. Prefab hangars, rows of squat administration blocks, motor pools, and barracks ringed an inner courtyard. Dustings of snow lay in corners or melted to slush near building vents. Soldiers bustled everywhere, forging footpaths in the half-frozen mud. The wind never ceased: always a cold, insistent push on the body, reminding them they were no longer in Addhara's scorching climate.
It took some time to maneuver through the throng. Cerys and Felix marched with measured steps, leading Quartex A. They followed a local NCO with a rugged noteputer who guided them to their corner: three single-story prefab structures with narrow metal doors, each building apparently able to hold about a quartex or two.
Noodles let out a soft groan when the NCO pointed them to a building whose roof was crowned with a fringe of icicles at the eaves. "We're going to freeze," she muttered.
"We've survived worse," Cerys said, though in truth, the biting wind was a shock to her system. She'd come from vineyards baked under a hot sun most of her life. She remembered the punishing dryness of Addhara's desert. This was the opposite extreme - wet, chilling, insidious cold. "We'll manage," she repeated.
Inside, the barracks were… functional. Bunk beds lined each side of a central aisle, footlockers at the end of each. A single ancient heating unit rumbled in the far corner, pulsing a meager warmth that didn't reach the door. The overhead lights buzzed with a faint flicker. The smell of stale air and disinfectant greeted her, reminiscent of the spartan bunkhouses on Addhara when they had first entered them, but with an added tang of chemical dryness. Metal bunks lined the walls, each with a single thin mattress and a scratchy blanket folded at the foot.
A jarring sense of deja vu hit her. She remembered first stepping onto Addhara's bus—frightened and uncertain. That was nine months ago. She wasn't that same slave girl, cowering and shy. She was a soldier now, an NCO with real responsibilities.
"All right," Cerys said, raising her voice. "Find a bunk, stow your gear. We'll sort out who sleeps where in a minute. Let's keep things civil, folks."
Mudflat sank onto a bunk near the center, shaking out his heavy coat. "At least no one's yelling at us for the time being," he muttered.
"Give them an hour," Gnome teased, dropping his pack with a thud.
Felix cleared his throat. "All right, folks, we've got until sixteen hundred to stow our gear and get acquainted with these bunks. Let's do it in half that time, so we can scrounge up a sense of…order. Or maybe hot water if we're lucky." He tried a grin, but tension lingered in his eyes.
Cerys said nothing at first, simply moving to a bunk near the exit—somewhere she could watch the corridor, keep track of comings and goings. Old reflexes, maybe, from her time at Camp Avernus. She set down her kit bag, feeling twinges in her side where a faint scar beneath her tunic served as a reminder of how quickly things could turn violent.
A swirl of cold air preceded the arrival of Hollywood into the barracks. The hush that fell was almost tangible, as if someone had turned a dial. He stepped in with a closed-off expression, giving no greetings. Patches of pinkish, healed skin marred what had once been the perfect lines of his face. He was thinner. His eyes, once mocking or blazing with condescension, were unreadable. One hand clutched a folded blanket that, curiously, looked half a size too short. Without meeting anyone's gaze, he claimed a bunk in the far corner, turned his back, and began methodically sorting his gear. No words. No challenge. Just a silent acceptance of the tension.
Pork Chops snorted. "Go figure, he shows up at the last second at Camp Avernus, then trails us here. Next time, maybe he'll just fall from the sky."
Cerys shot Felix a pointed look, but the big man merely shrugged in a What'd I say? manner. It didn't take a mind reader to sense the emotions of the rest of the unit's soldiers. Some were curious, others openly scornful. Yet nobody approached Hollywood.
She caught a flicker of anger in Matteo's eyes, the hostility in Felix's stance, but no one said anything. Hollywood's presence remained an unavoidable wedge, unspoken but heavy.
Cerys inhaled slowly, releasing the breath in a silent exhalation. Right now, she had far more pressing concerns to worry about than trying to mediate. They all had a job to do. Though she vowed to never turn her back on Hollywood.
"All right!" she said, turning back to the group. "I need a volunteer or two to see if we can find the heater controls. Noodles, see if those lumps in the corner are actually space heaters or just lumps. Matteo, check if there's some kind of closet with extra blankets. And for Jupiter's sake, check if the doors and windows are decently sealed, 'kay?"
The chatter resumed. As assigned, the legionaries explored the corners of the building. Meanwhile, Elara wandered near the battered windows, checking that each sealed properly. Whoever had assembled these prefabs had done the shoddiest job one could imagine. A light flickered overhead. The floor squeaked with each step, half-frozen from the cold.
By the time everybody had stored their gear and taken an inventory – three times, just to be sure – and explored their new temporary home sixteen hundred was fast approaching. Someone had even found the time to put a sign on the barracks: Quartex A, 2nd Centuria, 10th Cohort, Marian Expeditionary Corps.
Cerys caught Felix's eye. "Ready to meet our new best friend, the Optio?"
He sighed, half-smiling. "If we're lucky, maybe he'll be incompetent but nice, like a puppy."
Cerys arched a brow. "How about competent and nice? I'd prefer that."
"That'd be a dream," he replied sardonically. "Given he's a Patrician, I'll prepare myself for incompetent and asshole."
They left the barracks in the hands of Noodles, who would keep the rest occupied with bunk assignments and housekeeping. Mudflap and Gnome moaned about collecting rations, but she told them to do so anyway. If only to keep busy and warm. Elara and the two remaining contubs of the units accompanied them to the meeting.
Outside, the wind had picked up. Cerys braced herself against a frigid gust that whipped her short braid against her neck. Overhead, the sky was a dull gray, threatening snow. The path to Admin Building L2, an unremarkable metal structure sporting the Hegemony's crest, was marked by scuffed footprints and slush.
Half a dozen other contubernales marched with them, forming a ragged line. Cerys recognized a few from the 10th Cohort's other quartexes: men and women who had shared the punishing obstacle courses back on Addhara. Some offered small nods of greeting. Others stared ahead, faces set.
"Seems we're not the only ones getting their introductory '101 course for shitty ice box planets'," Felix remarked quietly.
Its interior smelled of thick coffee, worn metal, and the faint tang of new paint. An orderly led her upstairs to a briefing room. Inside, a battered rectangular table dominated the space. The walls were covered by large topographical maps pinned to boards. Harsh overhead lights cast stark shadows. A battered electric heater in the corner hummed, barely fending off the cold seeping through the walls.
They tapped mud or slush from their sandals, then followed a corridor to a cramped briefing room where chairs had been arranged in neat rows.
Optio Flavius Jolan waited at the front, a steaming cup of coffee tightly gripped in one hand, a stylus loosely in the other. He'd switched the uniform tunic with an olive-green winter. It didn't look as if it was standard issue, or army property to begin with. The perks of being a Patrician, Cerys thought, managing to hide her scowl.
A war table projected a faintly glowing topographical map of Illyria's southern continent in front of him. His expression, while still serious, flickered with relief when they filed in.
"Ah, good," he murmured, clearing his throat. "All right. Please, everyone, have a seat. We'll keep this short, as I'm sure you want to rest – though hopefully you can manage your own time."
Cerys chose a seat in the middle, where she could see him clearly. Felix sat at her right, a silent pillar of support. Three others from Quartex A's leadership flanked them.
Optio Jolan drew in a breath. "We have…some complicated tasks ahead of us. The majority of 7th, 8th, and 10th Cohort – our unit, effectively – will be posted to the planet's southern continent, Galas."
A snippet of reaction flickered through the group. Cerys exchanged a quick glance with Felix. Galas, she thought, storing that.
"If you haven't heard, the local situation is tense. There's a large civilian population spread across farmland, small towns, logging outposts. Small mining pits. Until recently, it was under the thumb of one Leo Mercer, who commanded the 'Bonecutters.' Lovely folks, as you can probably take from the name." He paused, letting the name hang in the air, as if expecting them to gasp or show recognition. Some, like Felix, frowned in distaste. Pirates hadn't exactly the highest reputation with the Hegemony's common man, regardless of their romanticization in popular media. "Leo Mercer," Jolan cleared his throat and continued, "was apparently… a particularly vicious specimen. A murderer, rapist, slaver, you name it. He terrorized the local populace, extorting and raiding them, presumably with the blessing of Jackson Fletcher, who until recently was his direct patron among the pirate lords of the Crimson Chalice. But it seems Mercer grew too blatant, too…inefficient for Fletcher's agenda." The Optio tapped a control on the table with his stylus, pulling up a cluster of red markers on the displayed map. "Fletcher disposed of him, seized command of the Bonecutters, and pledged his loyalty to the Marian Hegemony." A faint edge crept into his voice on that last sentence.
Cerys exchanged a look with Felix. The mention of 'pledged loyalty' rang hollow. She remembered that the Hegemony's official line was 'we're stepping in to help', but everyone guessed there were deeper, uglier deals in the shadows.
Jolan's eyes fell to the table. "Unfortunately for us, Fletcher taking out Mercer and ending his reign of terror has proven to be too little too late. Now, the people of Galas have had enough. Some of them joined the local resistance. Most probably simply want all outsiders gone. That includes us, sadly. Still, the Emperor sees an opportunity to present the Hegemony as the civilized power that can restore order. So, we will be patrolling the countryside, distributing humanitarian aid in coordination with ComStar organizations – medicine, food, blankets, that sort of thing – and, if necessary, eliminating armed groups that threaten stability. Obviously, these groups see us as just another occupying force. The difference is, we want to maintain discipline, minimize atrocities, and secure the region for Marian benefit."
A murmur stirred through the contubernales. The words 'minimize atrocities' struck a chord, as if they knew that what the Bonecutters had done was beyond vile.
"Which leads me to support," Jolan said, lifting his gaze to meet them. "From Fletcher's side? Don't expect much. Possibly the bare minimum. The man's embroiled in a war with other pirates, with resistance cells, and, last but not least, the Illyrian rump. There's an… agreement that the Emperor is using to wedge Fletcher into line. He fights the war the Hegemony'd rather not fight. But that means we get to fight the war he doesn't want to fight because he's a pirate, and pacifying a planet is tedious work. And pirates and work ethic go together like fire and water." He smiled thinly. "Meanwhile, we get to do the real work to keep this planet stable, keeping his back safe. Some might call it a test of our mettle. Some might call it a political theater. The truth's probably somewhere right in between, ladies and gentlemen." He paused, took a sip from his mug, and let his eyes wander across the five soldiers that from now on would be his link to the the maniples under his command. "Whatever your personal opinions, the chain of command is clear: We're here to keep peace, to do real good for these people, and to protect Marian interests. Are we clear?"
A small chorus of "Yes, sir," rose in the cramped room.
Cerys found her thoughts racing. Great, they'd be getting dropped right in the middle of chaos then. Juggling humanitarian aid and fighting what sounded an enraged insurgency, all at the same time. With the local population hating them? That she had no illusions about.
"That's the gist of what we'll be wading into," Optio Jolan nodded. "Command wants us to move quickly, so the plan is that within twenty-four hours each Quartex gets an APC from the motor pool, plus light escorts. They'll be holding back support elements to be distributed as needed. We'll patrol designated sectors, coordinate with the rest of 10th Cohort, and try to keep each other alive." He set mug aside. "Questions?"
Felix tapped the table softly. "We'll be relying on local knowledge, then? Possible lines of supply from Camp Tiber?"
Jolan ran a hand through his hair. "Correct. For now, all supplies will come through Tiber. The official word is something about efficiency, but in truth it's about keeping the current chaos in check. The Legion's moved almost ten thousand people, plus gear, plus vehicles, and the quartermasters are already running solely on caffeine, drugs, and pure hatred for their fellow men," he chuckled mirthlessly. "As you've probably already realized, appropriate equipment seems to have gone into hiding, too. They'll be adding forward supply bases to coordinate operations soon, or so Command says, but for now everything runs through here. On the plus side, we've deployed a few forward bases scattered across Galas already. Makeshift outposts, really. Each assigned to a company and its support elements, so expect enough space for a small cluster of APCs, ATVs and a hundred and something legionaries." He fiddled with the projector's controls. "Ah, there, right." A blue chevron appeared in the middle of some wooded highlands. "This is ours. Outpost Gemina. We'll garrison there, run patrols, deliver supplies, and hopefully keep the peace. But do note that 'peacekeeping' might turn to open firefights if you meet insurgents."
A wave of uneasy acceptance rippled around the table. The concept was simpler than the reality would be.
He paused, letting that sink in. Then he exhaled. "I'll do my best to share updates as new intel arrives. For now, the official orders are clear: protect civilians, distribute aid, and neutralize any threat to Marian interests. Try not to infuriate the local population. If it can be solved diplomatically, we'll do so." He rubbed his eyes. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is the first hot deployment for each and every one of us, so we'll be in this volatile icicle together. Do your best, and I'll try to shield you from as much shit flowing downhill as I can. Can I count on you?"
The five NCOs exchanged quick glances, then answered "Yes, sir!" as one. A few uneasy chuckles followed.
Felix leaned over and muttered in Cerys's ear, "So he's basically in the same boat we are. Less experience, more rank."
She gave a tiny shrug. "I'll give him the benefit of the doubt. We're basically working for a patrician kid who's never set foot in a real war zone. He's a rung higher on the ladder. He's honest enough about it, though."
"Very well," the Optio concluded. "If there are no more urgent questions, we're done here. Meeting over. Dismissed."
They all rose, saluting, chairs scraping the floor. Cerys noticed the tension in Jolan's posture as he watched them file out, as though he was bracing for the next trial. She spared him a small, respectful dip of her head on her way past. He returned a tight-lipped nod.
Once outside, Cerys stuck with Felix, who huddled deeper into his cloak. They turned a corner where a small generator coughed out a cloud of exhaust, warming the area ever so slightly. Three or four passing legionaries were sipping from steaming cups, their voices subdued.
After a while, Felix spoke up. "You know, about Jolan? Honesty might be a good start. I just hope the man doesn't fold if we see real fighting."
Cerys's gaze dropped, and an echo of pain flickered in her side. "If he does, it might cost lives - ours included." She inhaled, and steadied herself. "We have to hold it together. We can't rely on Fletcher's men, and the local population pretty certainly hates us. And we're woefully new at this. But if we watch each other's backs and keep discipline, maybe we can do some genuine good."
Felix grunted in agreement. "We'll make do. We always have."
Cerys looped around the building, forcibly exhaling a warm breath into her cupped hands. "The key is we adapt, keep ourselves alive. The rest is noise."
"Spoken like a true leader, SG," Felix chuckled, and she rolled her eyes.
"Just regurgitating the phrases Mad Dog drilled into us," she waved him off, but couldn't hide her smile. It felt good to be recognized.
They arrived back at the barracks as the final sliver of sun sank below the horizon, casting the camp in a soft, dusky gloom. The overhead lights snapped on, humming as they bathed the yard in stark white. A handful of other newly arrived cohorts trudged by, carrying crates of gear or large duffel bags.
Inside, the temperature had dropped further, making it obvious that the building's single rattling heater was woefully inadequate. People had crouched closer to the heater vents, or just closer to one another. Matteo 'Gnome' was rummaging through his duffel bag searching for additional uniform pieces, cursing under his breath that none of them were thick enough for sub-freezing temperatures. Cerys tried not to let her teeth chatter. At least inside the wind didn't bother them, and nominally temperatures within the prefab were above zero. Not that it felt that way. Most of them had spent their lives on planets hotter and drier than the Terran average. A lot of them probably had never seen snow before. And the past weeks had been spent in the stuffy but comfortably warm innards of a dropship.
She clapped her hands together. "All right, folks, listen up. We had our briefing with the Optio. He's new, but we're the last people with a right to complain about that. Orders are in. We'll be patrolling the southern continent of Galas, distributing aid, and dealing with local insurgents. The planetary, uhm, 'authorities' won't be providing real help, so it's on us and the boys and girls of Tenth Cohort. We ship ASAP, meaning as soon as all the gear is ready. Could be as soon as tomorrow."
A subdued stir of reaction rippled through them. A few looked anxious, others stoic.
One of the other NCOs, Gallo, sighed. "We also have to handle the distribution of humanitarian aid. That means we'll carry crates of food, medical supplies. We need guys to guard them too. Shit's going to makes us bigger targets."
"It also might help us connect with the locals," said Noodles. "If we handle it kindly, they might point just us away from insurgent ambushes."
Cerys nodded, though she wasn't really convinced. Loyalties weren't so easily swayed. She answered with a non-committal "I suppose only time will tell."
Granny stepped forward, crossing her arms. "And we're stuck with these tunics and sandals? Feels like we might lose toes if we don't figure something out."
That drew nods and murmurs from the crowd. Indeed, the standard Marian sandals were open to the elements, with only a cloth wrappings for the calves. Felix cleared his throat. "We'll request cold-weather gear from the quartermaster, obviously."
"Ha," Gnome retorted. "I tried talking to some supply trooper half an hour ago. They said they had limited supply of heavier boots. They'd 'look into it' if they got the right forms from higher up."
Noodles exhaled, thin arms hugging her body. "We'll freeze if we have to wait on official channels."
Sighing, Cerys rubbed her brow. She looked around. "We can't do a whole lot tonight. I'll push the paperwork first thing in the morning. Meanwhile, do what you must to keep warm, within reason. Let's not dismantle the building. If you see a gap or draft, stuff it with extra cloth. We'll figure out a better solution tomorrow." Just how, she wasn't exactly sure. This was a big step up from keeping things together in the controlled environment of Camp Avernus. And she wasn't exactly experienced.
It wasn't until later that evening, after a halfhearted dinner in the camp's mess hall, slightly warmer, but still uncomfortably chilly, when Cerys noticed movement in the corner. She was about to rummage for the extra scarf she'd stashed when she heard a faint ripping sound from across the room.
A subtle hush fell. She looked up to see Hollywood, stooped over a bunk, carefully slicing at his single-issue blanket with a utility knife. He'd cut off a strip about a foot wide. Another. Another. The ripping of fabric seemed inordinately loud in the hush.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" demanded Matteo. He advanced with righteous indignation etched onto his face, as if the mere sight of that knife conjured memories best left buried. "Is that some kind of sabotage?"
Pork Chops, passing by with a mug of something steaming, halted mid-stride. "What the…are you wrecking your standard-issue blanket?"
Hollywood didn't answer at first. He continued cutting, eyes a blank slate.
Felix's face scrunched, showing a mix of anger, annoyance and… curiosity? "Those are official property, you know."
Hollywood resumed cutting, ignoring Felix's glower. "You can freeze your toes off if you like. I've decided I won't."
"Talk sense, you absolute fuckwit!" Matteo barked, trying to tower above him. It would've looked comical – he hadn't gotten the moniker 'Gnome' for nothing – if the situation had been different.
Finally, the man looked up, the lamplight casting shadows across the sharpened angles of his face. "We're in sub-zero temperatures," he said flatly. "Tunics and sandals will lead to frostbite." He held up a wide strip of the blanket with cool indifference. "I'm making pants."
A hush fell over that side of the barracks. The rest of the quartex drew closer now, curiosity piqued.
"Leave it," Cerys said sharply, stepping in. She gestured for Matteo and Felix to stand down. Then she looked to Hollywood. "Explain." Her pulse quickened as she walked over, her breath not quite yet fogging in the cold. "You can't just cut up your gear. That blanket is the only insulation we get for nighttime. And you'll need it."
Hollywood's voice was monotone, as though narrating a drab fact. "Better to freeze at night than lose my toes by day. I've seen it happen."
Felix folded his arms. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Hollywood's gaze flicked across them, settling on the half-finished blanket in his lap without stopping his work. "My father made a habit of taking his family skiing in the Helena Mountains back on Pompey. You know those, don't you? You're from Pompey." He didn't wait for Pork Chops' answer. "Some of our slaves – stable hands, domestic staff, you know – had to come along and carry gear. They weren't given proper boots. We watched the overseers drag one poor girl away when her feet blackened from frostbite. They amputated them later, along with half her fingers. Another man lost both half his toes, and an ear." His tone never changed, as though reciting a ledger.
A wave of uncomfortable silence swept through the recruits. Shock, disgust, anger. Maybe a swirl of all three. Cerys felt a raw frustration. She hated that a patrician family would force such cruelty. But Hollywood's voice was so emotionless, it unsettled her.
Hollywood continued, "I intend to turn these strips into leg wraps. And maybe a face covering. Because apparently, the quartermaster never had the sense to issue winter kits for an icebox planet."
Felix bristled, fists tightening. "You could have asked. Maybe we'll get more gear in a day or two. You don't have to—"
"I do," Hollywood interrupted, eyes flicking up. "In case you haven't noticed, none of you are eager to share anything with me. And I have no illusions about how the Hegemony's supply lines run—especially for me." He shrugged, returning to cutting. "We all fend for ourselves, right?"
Felix looked ready to protest, but Cerys raised a finger. "No fighting. Not now."
Pork Chops stared, his face unreadable. A half-dozen silent beats passed before he wheeled around and marched off to the far side of the barracks, muttering curses under his breath. She managed to grab him by the arm as he passed, and they locked eyes for an instant. His face mellowed and he gave her a curt nod before he stomped off.
Hollywood resumed slicing neat strips with that same dispassionate calm.
Cerys's chest tightened. She had a dozen retorts perched on her tongue, but something about his bleak tone made her hold them in. Cerys stood there, uncertain how to handle this. A part of her, a not-so-small part, wanted to call Hollywood out for insubordination or sabotage. Anything just to get back at him. Another part found itself weirdly… sympathetic. He might be right: They had no immediate solution to the cold, and at least the man was doing something about it. He wasn't complaining; he was just…resigned.
She felt the iron bracelet around her wrist slide.
Cerys studied him. His voice had no emotional heat. No anger, no fear, no resentment. Just emptiness. She nodded slowly. "Fine. Do your… sewing. Just make sure you keep a corner of blanket for sleeping."
Hollywood didn't respond, except for a brief nod of acknowledgment. With that, she walked away, ignoring Matteo's hissed curses under his breath. Hollywood remained, continuing to slice his blanket with unwavering hands. This is going to be an interesting deployment, she thought, rubbing the iron bracelet around her wrist. The chill gnawed at her toes.
Cerys withdrew to her bunk, uncomfortably unsettled. She found herself pressing a hand to her side, to the spot where his knife had entered. Her scar twinged, but the sharper pang was from the swirl of conflicting emotions in her chest, and her recognition of the need to subdue them to her responsibility as an NCO in a war zone. It was the weirdest of feelings.
Cerys eventually removed her sandals, rubbing her cold feet, wishing for better footwear. She made a mental note: tomorrow, after breakfast, she'd charge to the quartermaster's office and try again for official cold-weather gear.
Felix drifted over after a while, arms hugging himself. "We'll freeze tonight. Joy."
"I'll see about doubling up guard in the hallway," she said, half-laughing at the absurdity. "If we can't sleep, might as well keep watch."
The big man from Pompey sighed. "Then we'll be too exshausted to run a patrol, but hey, maybe our illushions of warmth will keep us company." He fell back into the Pompeyan dialect he usually so carefully hid, and studied her expression. "You all right? The Hollywood thing…?"
She flicked her eyes to the corner. Hollywood was quietly finishing his sewing, trying on the patchwork pants, looking more haggard than she remembered him. It looked ridiculous but functional, covering his calves and ankles. "I'm…conflicted," she admitted in a low tone. "He's still… well, he is who he is. That doesn't go away because he's, I guess, broken now? And I'm glad you guys have my back with him. But I also have to keep the platoon in mind, Felix," she whispered. "He's here, and somehow that's gotta work. Jolan's going to call the shots with him, but he's going to be in the field with us, with live ammo. I can't trust him, but I can't just let him die, either, right?"
Felix patted her shoulder gently, a gesture of solidarity. "You're a better person than him. And I'm pretty sure there'll always be at least one very angry body between you and him. Maybe that's enough for now."
She nodded, mustering a faint grin. "Thanks for the pep talk, big man."
He turned away, letting her sink into her own thoughts. She remembered how life had changed so drastically. From vineyard slave to legionary NCO, soon to ride an APC into a rebellious countryside. Maybe to put some people into slavery, too. The irony tasted bitter, yet also gave her a flicker of strength. She'd come too far to let uncertainty break her.
Night in that cold barracks was an exercise in misery. The single rattling heater provided minimal relief, and few had enough blankets to truly stay warm. Cerys dozed fitfully, stirring whenever the wind gusted outside or when her feet grazed a cold metal bedframe. Some time near midnight, she jerked awake to see an older recruit—Slowpoke, ironically—cramming wadded cloth in the cracks around the window. She murmured thanks and drifted off again.
Dawn arrived with a subdued glow that barely permeated the heavy cloud cover. A trumpet call or something akin to the camp's carynx horns signaled the official start of the day. Cerys felt a dull ache in her muscles, stiff from the cold. She peeled away the meager blanket. A wave of goosebumps erupted on her arms.
As folks stirred, curses and groans lit the air. Gnome's teeth chattered so violently that a spattering of laughter broke out. A few teased him about turning into an icicle.
Cerys sprang off her bunk as best she could, her breath fogging in the beams of early morning light that crept through the cracks. She rubbed her arms vigorously. "Rise and shine, Quartex," she called, forcing herself to sound bright. "We've got tasks to handle. Breakfast, then a queue at supply."
In the corner, Hollywood was already up, wearing the patchwork pants. She glimpsed the haggard cast of his face, faint shadows under the eyes, but he made no comment.
"Anyone want to volunteer to stand in line with me at supply?" she asked.
Felix raised a hand. "I'll go. We might need more than just boots; maybe cloaks, gloves, anything."
"I'd already settle for an extra blanket!" Gnome growled, drawing some muttered support.
Elara placed a calming hand on Cerys's shoulder. "Let me handle it. I learned a trick or two in Ballalaba mines about… persuasive bartering. Gnome can help haul."
"Be my guest."
The cold never relented. By midday, the camp's hustle had grown frantic. Officers barked new instructions about reorganizing the Tenth Cohort. The rumor mill said they might depart sooner. Rumors also said a local militia might have sabotaged a pirate depot, spooking Fletcher. Cerys gleaned that from overhearing two passing decurios.
Eventually, Elara returned with a triumphant grin, a small cart loaded with mismatched winter kit, some heavier fatigues, gloves, a few sturdy boots in random sizes. Not enough for everyone, but enough to help the worst off.
"Where'd you find all that?" Cerys gawked at the hodge-podge of clothes.
Elara winked. "A charming quartermaster with a taste for gambling and a lot of bad luck at cards. Let's say he's not too keen on being found out. And now He's also not too keen on seeing me again, so…"
Cerys let out a laugh and shook her head. "You're lucky you didn't get caught. But whatever, Granny. Cleverly done, and appreciated."
Slowpoke, seeing the new gear, cracked his knuckles. "Anyone else want to help me sew these gloves to the edges of my tunic? Because I'm about done losing feeling in my wrists."
"Call yer mum!" someone shouted, and everybody broke into laughter.
Cerys enjoyed the moment of levity before getting back to business. "Alright, get that stuff back in the barracks. See that everybody gets at least something." She quickly gauged what was on the cart. "It won't be enough, but it's better than nothing."
Back at G16, they divided their find as best as possible. The hours passed quickly. More trucks arrived at Camp Tiber, more crates of humanitarian aid, more people. The thundering engines of starting and landing shuttles and dropships never ceased to truly ebb. In the afternoon, they were assigned their APC, a lumbering tracked box with a low, stubby turret on top. Two machineguns stuck out of it, almost comically small compared to the wide-tracked vehicle that offered enough space to carry the whole of their quartex and combat gear. The vehicle crew seemed to be an okay outfit, from what little Cerys could tell. Everything else only time would tell. At least they wouldn't freeze in there. The engine and closeness would keep them warm. The smell of twenty-five physically active soldiers on a high-protein diet was price she was willing to pay in that case.
At least familiarizing themselves with their new ride gave the platoon something to do. Everything was better than sitting around in the barracks.
Before the call for dinner went out, Cerys, Felix and a few of the others put their stubbornness to test and went for a tussle with the quartermaster again. Some got gloves, others managed heavier boots, but not everyone's size was available. Looking at the empty racks in the prefab storage, Cerys at least didn't get the impression they were being kept intentionally short-stacked. Winter equipment simply was not there.
Cerys had secured a pair of worn boots that were one size too large, so she stuffed the toes with cloth. Felix likewise found something in the quartermaster's labyrinth. And they took what they could, which ironically lead to most of the platoon mimicking Hollywood's improvised approach. They used scraps of cloth or old tarps to wrap their legs, layering them under the uniform, wearing double shirts. In a twisted sense, Hollywood's solution spread through the ranks. Some asked him for tips on sewing. Cerys had no idea how or why he actually knew anything about that in the first place, and had no intention to ask. He responded by matter-of-factly showing them how to measure, cut, and do a basic backstitch. His face remained unreadable all the while.
Cerys oversaw these improvised measures, half exasperated, half resigned. She got glimpses of what might have been the genuine resourcefulness of that patrician boy, of the Not-so-pretty-Cunt, as Pork Chops had started to call him outside earshot: cunning, if not quite compassionate. But at least no one was losing toes, yet.
Lights-out came, but Cerys found herself sitting on her bunk, wide awake, hugging her knees for warmth. She stared across the aisle at Hollywood's sleeping form. The bunk's lamp was out, but the faint corridor light illuminated the irregular shapes of those patchwork. She wondered if he was truly asleep or if he lay there, mind turning.
Letting out a breath, she briefly touched the iron bracelet at her wrist. She remembered the day she first decided to enlist, the desperation, the thirst for something more than a life as property. The memory felt both raw and empowering. She was free, or at least on the path to freedom. He was the patrician, but these days, he seemed hollow. He tried to kill me, she reminded herself. The scar in her side pulsed with phantom pain. She'd be a fool to pity him too much, or at all. Eventually, she lay back, letting the cold lull her into shallow, uncomfortable sleep.
They received the order to move out the next day.
Part II: Insurgency
2. First Blood
Outpost Gemina, Galas
Occupied Illyria, fmr. Illyrian Palatinate
June 3011
Gemina wasn't much to write home about. Surrounded by earthen walls topped by thick, layered sandbag mounds, a veritable thicket of razor wire, and countless smaller and larger prefab anti-tank obstacles, it was little more than a central muddy, gravelly courtyard flanked by a tight cluster of prefab barracks. Low towers topped by heavy machine guns kept watch for approaching enemies, while a couple of crew-operated static missile and laser emplacements broke through the monotony of the sandbags here and there. A tall comms dish and a number of long antennas swaying in the icy breeze occupied one corner of the base, the centuria's motor pool the other. The barracks were half-buried with soil, both as a protection against the cold wind, and against possible local resistance attacks. After a month of living there, it actually wasn't half bad anymore, Cerys thought as she stepped into the icy morning air, pulling her cloak and scarf closer. They got three meals a day - sometimes even fresh ones - and the prefabs weren't quite as leaky as the ones back at Camp Tiber.
Also, out here, useful things had a habit of 'falling off trucks'. An extra heater here, a wood stove there, a bunch of blankets from a crate that one maniple just so happened to have forgotten to deliver with the latest relief mission, finding their way into the centuria's possession by pure chance.
For the past four and half weeks Cerys' unit had gone on eight patrols into the local countryside, making a show of force and handing out relief goods - mostly non-perishable food, basic medicines, and construction equipment meant to help the locals rebuild whatever Mercer and his cronies had smashed in their reign of terror. Four and half weeks, and not a single shot had been fired. Good fortune hadn't shone on the other quartexes quite as bright. All in all, the centuria had suffered four dead and twelve wounded, though all but two of those were up and running again.
Cerys held her Optio liable for their good graces. Flavius Jolan was a calm, collected man with an open smile and a penchant for talking down even the most heated situations. He didn't shy from stepping in front of an agitated mob of angry villagers to hear them out, and he'd been hands-on with the distribution of relief goods. He'd also been looking the other way with the stuff that had found its way into the unit's possession. As far as her image of the stereotypical Patrican went, he ticked none of the bad boxes.
She fastened her helmet - padded by a woolen cap -, clapped her hands and stepped out into the yard, raising her voice.
"Alright, folks, it's a beautiful day in this very winter wonderland, and we've got a job to do! Muster and smile, we're heading out in five!"
Quartex A filed out of its half-buried container, with more than one face shooting longing glances at another container across the yard, the one with the hot showers. Felix stopped next to her, his breath puffing out small white clouds. She looked him up and down and snickered.
"Seems our master seamstress finally got you, too," she pointed at the ill-fitting, thick, blue pants the tall Pompey-born soldier wore under his uniform tunic. There was an extra layer of cloth wrapped around his feet, with a leather 'cap' stitched around the toes to keep them dry, giving him the appearance of having elephant trunks rather than feet, with the sandals wrapping around them looking comically bloated.
Pork Chops scowled, wrapping a woolen scarf he had scavenged from an abandoned homestead tighter around his neck. "Beats freezing my balls off, even though I had to suffer the stare of those dead eyes. Bastard's making a killing, sewing stuff for the whole quartex. I would've gone to Granny, but she was busy with outfitting Gnome, like a mom pampering her newborn." He rolled his eyes.
Cerys snorted with laughter. "Come on, Matteo's not that small."
"Everything under six feet is a dwarf, SG. Gnome's like five feet on a good day. Five-five when he's angry," Felix replied dryly.
They stared ahead, waiting as the rest of the units filed out next to them.
"How'd he react?" Cerys asked quietly. "Hollywood, I mean."
Felix's scowl deepened. "I'd never have believed someone could tell me so flatly 'You broke my face.' Like, zero emotion. Very uncomfortable, almost as much as me going to ask him in the first place." He shook his head. "Then he told me it'd cost me double, up front, and that was that," he shrugged. "Not exactly the pants of a master tailor, but they're warm enough, and don't rip at the seams the moment I move, so there's that. Bloody fuckhead's making a killing, though. Smokes, MREs, denari - man's practically swimming in it."
"S'ppose you didn't get it out of him why the hell he knows what he's doing in the first place?!" Cerys looked up at him. The quartex had a betting pool running on that. After a month out here it was filled with a nice sum of money.
"Nope. Just some vague mumbling about a nanny and him wanting to stick needles into something. More creeper stuff," Felix shook his head.
"Figures," she muttered, glancing at the Patrician as he stood in line as the perfect cube of the quartex's twenty-five soldiers formed in the yard.
If it hadn't been for Hollywood's dead eyes he'd have looked outright comfortable. He wore a pair of knee-high, warm boots scavenged from some abandoned home, a fur collar, a white poncho, and a whole lot of different clothes that certainly kept him warm enough. Not exactly standard issue gear, but then, who still wore just that?
Despite their best efforts some of them had suffered frostbite in the early days of the deployment, though not so bad as to lose limbs. After that, and with Hollywood's example in mind, everybody had scrambled to collect whatever piece of cloth - or even just tent fabric to stave off the icy wind - they could get their hands on. Now, after a few patrols and crates that had fallen off the back of some relief truck, Quartex A - and the rest of the centuria - looked no better than some of those Deep Periphery mercs Jackson Fletcher had in his employ. But at least, they weren't completely freezing anymore, most of the time.
The patchwork clothes and uniforms had given rise to the most obvious nickname ever.
"Atten-hut!" Cerys bellowed, and her comrades stood straighter. "Who are we?" she challenged.
"Jesters!" they shouted back as one.
Feigning disappointment, Cerys shook her head and raised her voice even more.
"WHO. ARE. WE?!"
"JO-LAN'S JESTERS!" came back the shout from twenty-four throats, her comrades grinning despite the cold.
"Yer a bunch of wankers, that's who you are!" someone from another quartex shouted from across the yard, their comrades joining in, hooting and hollering. Cerys' people just waved and fluttered their cloaks and gave them the fingers, both sides taking it in good humor.
She turned to face her commanding officer and gave the Marian salute.
"Unit assembled and ready to depart, sir!" she reported.
"Thank you, contub." Jolan stood with one leg resting on the high chassis of one of the base's scout jeeps, a lightly-armored, four-wheeled ATV topped by a light machine gun. "At ease! Soldiers, you know the drill by now. We'll patrol a stretch of the countryside we haven't been to before, and deliver some of the goods on that truck behind you. Keep your wits, keep your eyes open, and don't do anything your moms wouldn't be proud of!" That earned him a number of chuckles from the units. "Now mount up!"
Weather reports predicted a continuing streak of relative mildness for Illyrian winter: no recent snowfall, limited wind. The midday sky lay thick with clouds, but the biting chill in the air was more subdued than usual. For once, perhaps, they could operate with some measure of comfort.
A supply truck grumbled near the main gate, loaded with boxes of relief goods bearing the ComStar sigils, while the crew of the APC - one Cerys's quartex had grown to trust - chatted amongst themselves, double-checking the turret's machine guns. Stepping inside the APC, Cerys paused in the open turret hatch.
"Permission to ride on top?" she asked the vehicle's commander, an elder soldier sharing her rank, and he motioned her to climb up while he ran the last checks with the other two crew members. She hoisted herself up and out, elbows braced on the rim of the open turret, scanning the outpost's walls. Down below, Felix balanced his recoilless rifle with the SMG he carried for personal defense, carefully hoisting the rocket launcher inside the cramped interior. The rest of the unit climbed into the old Mark V with him, and the ramp at the APC's back rose again, sealing them off behind thick armor plating. The armored vehicle's powerful ICE engine growled as the driver finished his checklist, the wide tracks waiting to get into motion. But first, a pair of lightly armored scout jeeps sortied. One led by Optio Flavius Jolan, the other intended to bring up the rear. Between them would roll the APC and, behind it, a civilian-style cargo truck stacked with blankets, medicine, basic rations - everything that could help struggling locals survive and rebuild.
Cerys thumbed the radio affixed near the turret ring.
"Optio, this is Contubernalis Cerys. Final comm check before we move." She heard static, then the calm, pleasant tenor of Flavius Jolan's voice.
"Good copy, Cerys," came Jolan over the net. "We're about to pull out. Tell the tin can to stay close; I'd rather not spread ourselves thin." He sounded as affable as always, a stark contrast to the usual patrician arrogance many of them had come to know during their lives. In the past month, Jolan had never flaunted his social standing, nor demanded special treatment. By now, he'd earned broad respect among the rank and file.
"Understood, Optio. We'll follow your lead. Everyone's on board and secured. I get the feeling local folks have started trusting us a bit, thanks to those missions with the ComStar people."
"That's what we need," Jolan replied, almost cheerily. "Let's keep their minds at ease and their bellies full, right? Keep those folks alive and well, and maybe they'll stop seeing us as the next wave of conquerors. Stand by. We'll be moving out asap, just waiting for the truck."
She nodded, though he couldn't see. "Roger, sir." The APC's commander gave her a thumbs' up. "Armor is ready to roll." Behind her, the APC's engine rumbled in a steady, comfortable beat, powering the radiators that kept the troop compartment warm and comfortable. She slid back into the hull, settling down onto a makeshift seat behind the turret ring. Felix joined her, stowing his recoilless rifle carefully. Nearby, Matteo "Gnome" Webber jostled with Noodles and Mudflat, exchanging jokes that belied their undercurrent anxiety. They all knew they had been lucky so far. And they all prayed it would stay that way.
With a creak and a metallic shudder, the APC lurched forward. Outside, the lead scout jeep revved away from the gate, heading down the roughly grated slope that led out of the outpost's perimeter. One by one, the four vehicles rumbled in column formation along the winding gravel track, disappearing between tall stands of conifers. Overhead, a pale sun peeked through clouds, painting the forest in muted browns and dull greens, glistening on the patches of snow still lying on the wide branches.
They made good time for nearly half an hour, traversing gently rolling ground where farmland and clusters of trees alternated. Patches of half-melted snow glistened in shady spots. Now and then, they passed groups of civilians, small, wary clusters that lingered near their houses and farms. The legionaries would wave, and sometimes received uncertain nods in return. But no open hostility, only guarded distrust. It was, by what they had come to expect of Illyrian standards, almost encouraging.
Cerys took a map from the satchel on her belt and checked their progress with a gloved finger. Orientation and map-reading came to her far more naturally than longform texts, but even there, necessity had led to some improvements, and she unwittingly touched the copy of 'De Bello Gallico' she kept in the same satchel. She toggled comms again, pushing herself up to look above the rim of the turret.
"Optio, we'll reach the first village in about twenty minutes, by my reckoning. Do we have any additional info on today's run, sir?"
"Negativ, contub," the radio cackled after a second. "A drone flew over the region two days ago, didn't get any substantial IR pingbacks. No significant vehicle movements, and definitely nothing heavy. As far as we know, the region's quiet, for what it's worth," Jolan told her. "Still, won't hurt to keep our eyes open."
"With you on that, sir," Cerys replied, squinting her eyes against the biting airstream. After a long pause she spoke up again. "Sir, permission to ask a more… personal question?"
"Go ahead, contub." Jolan sounded more amused than anxious.
"Why'd command give a decurio's job to an officer, sir?"
She heard a chuckle from the other end of the line. "The answer's pretty unglamorous, contub. The army's got more young officers in the pipeline than it has experienced NCOs. Alphard pushes every decurio with any sort of service history into training duty, then scrambles to fill the gaps. I still had about six months left at the academy. The offer was simple: pick up a lower position at higher pay, and get the active service counted to my academy time. Besides, I've always preferred to get out here rather than be a glorified assistant to a Centurio." Cerys could almost feel his wry grin. "So now we've got an inexperienced unit rushed into service led by an inexperienced commander rushed into service. I'll leave it to someone else to decide who got the worse end of that deal."
"Never thought you'd end up being part of the army's mad dash to manage the shortage, sir!" Cerys shook her head in disbelief. "If it's any consolation, I guess I can speak for the whole unit when I say we've all been pleasantly surprised. Hope we haven't been too much of an embarrassment either?"
"Negative on that, contub," Jolan answered almost immediately, and it sounded earnest. "Given the circumstances, you're all doing the best I can hope for. Just keep it up, and maybe at some point the army will actually reward us with functioning gear and equipment not made for tropical beaches."
"Amen to that, sir, amen to that."
The first sign of trouble came when they saw the village rise beyond a gentle bend. Fields framed by hedges and low stone walls extended southwards until a low, rocky cliff. A scattering of longhouses with sloping wooden roofs mingled with more modern brick structures. A modest spire rose near the center, a local temple, perhaps, or the village chief's dwelling. Few windows gleamed in the midday light. It all looked deserted, but that wasn't unusual. Some villages had grown used to hunkering down whenever an armed column approached.
Cerys pushed her head above the turret's rim again, scanning the settlement's edges. She glimpsed no movement in the narrow lanes. That, in itself, made her uneasy. Usually they saw at least one or two figures peeking from behind shutters or doorways. But these buildings stood dark, windows closed, as if the residents had vanished. She radioed the lead jeep. "Optio, you seeing anything?"
Flavius Jolan's voice crackled back. "Not a soul. I'm not seeing anyone out in the fields or barns either. We'll proceed. Keep your eyes open, though. Something feels off."
The column slowed slightly as it entered the village's main road, which curved between the houses. The lead scout jeep advanced carefully, scanning corners. The APC followed about twenty meters behind, engine grumbling, wide tracks grinding into the dirt road. Behind them rumbled the relief truck, and capping the rear was the second scout jeep. Flashes of sunlight reflected from upper windows. There was a hush to the place, broken only by the low rumble of engines and the occasional call sign or coordinate on the radio. The mild breeze carried the faint smell of old cooking fires and wood chimneys, stale and unmoving. Up ahead, a barn door swung loosely in the soft breeze. A shovel lay discarded in the knee-high snow. Cerys' grip around the turret's handle tightened.
All at once, the silence shattered. A deafening boom split the air. Cerys's heart slammed against her ribs as she saw, out of the corner of her eye, a rocket streak from behind a brick wall up ahead. The projectile impacted the lead jeep in a scorching burst, flipping the two tons of engine and metal plating onto its side like a toy. Rubble and splinters showered the narrow street, flames licked at twisted metal. At once, gunfire erupted from multiple angles, sharp cracks from rooftops, staccato bursts from hidden positions in farm houses.
Cerys lunged for the comm. "Contact front! Jeep's hit!" Even as she yelled, a second rocket whooshed in from another corner. This one slammed the second scout jeep at the rear. A gout of smoke and flame erupted, silhouetting the defenders inside. The crash tore the small vehicle apart. Shrapnel soared overhead. Smoke rolled thick and dark, obscuring the back of the column.
"SRMs inbound!" Cerys roared, grabbing her assault rifle. The APC jerked violently as the driver tried to pivot, but an instant later, the ground beneath them tore open in a wrenching explosion. Mines. The left track froze mid-turn, and the carrier ground to a lurching halt. Cerys was slammed against the inner plating of the turret, pushing her breath out in one painful yelp. Another detonation hammered the forward hull, tilting the vehicle sideways. Screams reverberated inside as men and women were thrown against the walls. Lights flickered. The entire interior stank of burning metal and chemical propellant.
Everything sounded like her head was packed in wool, dull and subdued. She blinked and shook her head to get back to her senses, feeling way too calm for the situation. Then, the sounds rushed all in at once, and adrenaline surged through her like a tsunami.
"Everyone out!"
Cerys screamed, pushing herself to the back of the APC, her presence forcing a semblance of order once she'd regained her footing. Being stuck inside was a death trap. The vehicle crew shouted back, "Turret's jammed, engine's thrown belts!" Another rocket smacked the upper armor, rattling them like dice in a cup. A wave of panic swelled. The Mark V was a solid box of armor, but even it couldn't take more than a few hits from something like an SRM. Noodles cradled her big sniper rifle, face pale with shock. Determined, Cerys hammered the button to lower the back hatch. His face a twisted mask of anger, Matteo slid the side hatch open, forcing it with a wrenching squeal. Smoke poured in.
"Get that turret operational again!" Cerys heard her own voice command, sounding unnaturally level. "Open fire! Distract them! Jesters!? Move, move!" Cerys barked, pushing them out. Beyond the smoke lay gunfire and shouting. She didn't hesitate, pulled a smoke grenade from her strap across her chest and threw it outside.
It ignited with a dull sizzling sound right before she jumped out into the Illyrian cold. Rifle pressed to her shoulder, she hopped down, landing in a swirl of dust, adrenaline pounding in her veins and ears like a drum beat. She fumbled with her thumb, trying three times before the safety was off.
The street was chaos: pinned shapes scrambled near the ravaged scout jeeps. The supply truck had tried to brake behind them, but it was nose-first in a shallow ditch. The distinct thump-thump of assault rifles echoed between houses. Muzzle flashes glinted from second story windows.
The Jesters poured from the beleaguered tin can. In front of the damaged APC a meter-wide crater had destroyed the road where the mine - an IED, most likely - had exploded. The blast wave had pushed in the brick walls of the nearby houses and set fire to wattle and daub huts. Broken glass and debris littered the narrow main road. Shots whistled past. She glimpsed a figure on a rooftop, muzzle blazing. Without thinking, she aimed her assault rifle and fired three rounds. The shape jerked and vanished from sight. A hail of returned fire forced her to duck behind a battered stone wall. Breathe, girl! she told herself, fighting panic. Her entire body trembled from the shock, but her mind was on auto-pilot.
"Smoke grenades!" she shouted, her voice pitched high. "Get to cover, and smoke the damn road!"
Her voice - sounding too shrill for her - cut through the chaos, and the men and women of Jolan's Jesters ducked and zig-zagged as they exited the APC, smoke grenades fizzling as artificial white fog quickly began to waft through the village center, mixing with the acrid black smoke of burning rubber. Out ahead, the lead jeep smoldered. She caught sight of a limp form half-hanging from the driver's seat. Another figure tried to crawl, only to be riddled by gunfire from an unseen vantage.
"I need a radio!" she snapped, and some wide-eyed kid with a mud-smeared face scrambled over to her. Every maniple had one radio, basically a telephone receiver with a cord attached to a portable battery that practically would never run out. She grabbed the receiver, fumbling with numb fingers. "Optio, come in! Optio Jolan, this is Contub Cerys, do you read?" She waited a few seconds, the time passing ever-so-slowly. Too slowly, when you were under enemy fire. Only static answered her. "Fuck," she muttered. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!" Think Cerys. Think, Slave Girl. She grabbed her rifle tightly. "Contubs, on me!"
Bullets whizzed by, landing in the muddy ground or the walls around them, with plenty clanging against the APC half-hidden by white smoke. She could hear the jammed turret groan as the servos tried to break whatever blockage kept it stuck. Another burst of rifle fire ricocheted off the armor and one of the crew cursed. The dual machine guns spat fire, the muzzle flashes burning through the smoke, .50 cal rounds and tracers flying off, not aimed, but sudden and violent enough to force a brief pause in the enemy barrage. The respite was short-lived, and the harrowing screech and whoosh of an SRM answered, burying itself into the ground barely a step away from the Mark V's front, showering the road in debris, the heat of the explosion briefly dispelling the Illyrian cold.
The other four maniple leaders converged on her position. A flurry of sniper rounds hissed overhead, caving in the windshield of the burned jeep. She peered around the corner, taking quick stock: Up above, the spire-like building with an open window. Probably the sniper nest. She jerked back as a bullet pinged off the frozen, rocky ground near her boot.
"We're sitting ducks, SG!" Felix yelled, his face a mask hiding his true feelings. He tumbled next to her, recoilless rifle on his back, SMG clutched to his side, looking almost comically small. He breathed in harsh, ragged bursts. "We can't stay in the open," he managed. "They're zeroing in on us."
Her thoughts spun. "We need to push forward or fall back to some cover." But the road behind them was blocked by the second jeep's burning wreckage, plus crossfire from hidden insurgents. Shots hammered the APC's armor through the fog, sparks dancing from the turret. At least the crew was inside, still manning the guns. She heard the rattling double chatter of the turret machine guns as they fired back again, the turret's traversing mechanism still jammed.
Somewhere near, a soldier shrieked, a raw, haunting sound. Someone else called for a medic. Cerys forced herself to function.
"We have to get out of this kill zone. Clear those buildings for cover. Take them from the ground floor up. We can't let these rebels pin us here!" she shouted, voice cracking with urgency. "Granny, take your people south. Pork Chops, into the building, then north!" she motioned frantically. "I'll go east. Mudflat," she pointed at another contubernalis crouched behind a boulder, "clear the west. Gallo?"
"Yeah, what about -ack!" Blood shot from a wound in the NCO's throat. Wide-eyed, he tumbled backwards, clasping his hands, trying futilely to keep the blood in, red bubbles spraying from his mouth. Another burst of gunfire rang out, and slumped to the ground like puppet whose strings had been cut. Cerys didn't need a medic to know he was dead; his face was a ruin, half gone, with a dead eye staring her way.
No time to panic, no time to freeze, no time to die, a voice in her head yelled at her. "E-Maniple, hold the APC!" she commanded, her voice galloping. "Jesters, let's move!"
She dashed from cover, crossing the street in a low sprint. Gunfire rattled behind her. A muzzle flash from the second-story window across the street spewed bullets that chewed through the dust. She heard Felix's recoilless rifle bark, sending a rocket smashing into the upper floor of a half-collapsed house. Shouts of pain or alarm in the distance. Smoke rolled in thick clouds. They had no time for gentle tactics and the safety of civilians possibly caught in this chaos.
"Grenade out!" She lobbed an egg-shaped frag grenade through a splintered door. The explosion momentarily dulled the gunfire.
Cerys kicked what remained of the door off the hinges, revealing a dim hallway. Inside, the smell of dust and stale air choked her. She pressed her rifle forward, finger on the trigger. Behind her, two legionaries stacked up, Noodles among them. She cleared the left corner, heart hammering so loudly it drowned the roar outside. A single door in the hallway stood ajar. Tense seconds crawled. A silhouette scrambled within, brandishing what looked like a hunting rifle.
She fired instinctively, pulling the trigger before her mind had fully realized what was happening. A short burst to center mass, half a dozen rounds in barely a second. The figure dropped with a guttural cry, the weapon clattering away, blood spattering the washed-out white floorboards behind it. Cerys advanced, mind reeling at the sight of the slowly swelling puddle of blood. Her first real kill in close quarters. She bit down a wave of nausea. Another shape came rushing down a stairwell drenched in pale sunlight through dust motes. She didn't see if it was a man or woman, the features hidden behind layers of cloth and fur.
A raw voice screamed 'FRIIIIHET!', brandishing a snub-nosed, drum-fed SMG, as thickly-gloved fingers pulled the trigger. Bullets sprayed through the hallway before Cerys could raise her own rifle. One ricocheted off the edge of her helmet, another round ripped across her left shoulder plate, jolting her. Like in slow motion she could see the insurgent pushing the rocking gun towards her, trying to adjust for the weapon's recoil. From the corner of her eyes, she glanced movement. Before she could truly grasp what was happening the enemy fighter erupted in a hailstorm of impacts, making them dance like an unhinged puppet on a string.
'BRAAAAATTTT-clk-clk-clk…'
Noodles stood next to her, wide-eyed, her sniper rifle strapped across her back, her own SMG gripped tightly in both hands, the bolt hitting an already empty chamber before the enemy she had turned into a human pin-cushion hit the ground. The smell of gunpowder and warm copper filled the room.
Cerys coughed, adrenaline spiking anew. "All clear inside," she forced out for those behind her, though her voice trembled. Noodles's wide, frightened eyes found hers, and they both gave shaky nods. They swiped the sweat from their brows, ignoring the trembling in their hands.
Outside, more gunfire crackled, accompanied by the distinctive boom of grenades. Cerys slammed open a side window, scanning for vantage. Rebels perched in the upper floors of a house a few dozen meters away, raking the carrier with automatic bursts. That explained the incessant clang of bullets on steel.
"We move to the second floor, see if we can return fire from above," Cerys ordered, pointing up the battered staircase. She dreaded the possibility of more rebels, but if they could secure vantage, they might help extricate the rest of the squad pinned down. On the comm, partial transmissions crackled: calls for help, scattered words about casualties.
Noodles led the way, slamming a new clip into her gun, stepping gingerly around debris. They climbed to a cramped landing. A battered door was partially open, revealing a modest living area with shuttered windows. The reek of cordite lingered, probably from the shots fired below. Carefully, they advanced. The room was empty, though signs of a hasty barricade told them the rebels had used it before. The shutters might provide a vantage outside.
Cerys lifted the latch, pushing one shutter open a fraction. Immediately, a bullet splintered wood overhead. She gasped, pulling back. "Sniper across," she hissed. She'd gotten a glimpse of movement in the tower-like building. Her throat constricted. "Central spire, up in the tower. Cover me," she told Noodles. "I'll draw his attention, you'll nail him from the other window." Noddles nodded and unslung her sniper rifle, a long, heavy black thing that could put a hole through a car's engine block. Kneeling, both readied their rifles, Cerys pushing a new mag into hers. Slower this time, she peered out from low by the windowsill. Movement flickered in the tower's upper gap, partially concealed by chipped brick. "Got him. Get ready." She exhaled, aligning her iron sights. The sniper's silhouette leaned forward, presumably searching for fresh targets. She squeezed the trigger. A short burst spat from her muzzle. Sparks danced against the brick and she ducked away. Not a moment too soon as bullets riddled the window and the half-timbered wall, not quite penetrating.
Noodles flung her window open and took aim in a fluid motion belying her lanky build. Flames belched from the long rifle's muzzle brake as a shell as thick and long as her middle finger unloaded its explosive content and sent a high-velocity round on its way. She immediately worked the bolt again, staring through her scope, her face calm now, almost serene. Her finger hovered on the trigger, then pulled back. "Got'im. Went right back out of the tower on the other side," she told Cerys calmly.
Down below, metal groaned as the Mark V shed its right tracks, rumbling back a few paces on steel wheels before it dug itself into the ground. The turret rotated slowly, but surely now, no longer jammed. Another SRM raced in on a fiery trail, clipping some fence pole and going haywire instead of hitting the tin can. The APC's gunner zeroed in on the enemy's position, a wattle-and-daub longhouse on the far edge of the road, and let loose.
Movies always showed how the hero hid behind walls and stayed safe and protected. The real thing was something wholly different. Even if it hadn't been wattled-and-daub but a foot-thick brick wall, it would have stopped a barrage of .50 cal rounds as much as a sheet of paper had a chance of stopping a hailstorm. The whole front of the building erupted into a cloud of splintered wood and hard clay pieces as the twin machine guns raked the whole length, leaving little chance of survival for those inside. Tracers pierced through the debris clouds, quickly setting the dry wood and the thatched roof on fire. Before you knew it, flames hungrily licked at a dozen places. That took care of at least one of the enemy SRM teams.
"Building's clear!" a soldier yelled from somewhere behind Cerys, pulling her out of the role of observer.
"Affirmative!" she replied, "moving out. We stick to the plan, house by house." She hoped she'd been loud enough for her maniple to hear her. "You stay here, Noodles," she turned to the lanky sniper. "You've got a good vantage point across half the village. Cover us."
"Yes, contub. And SG… good luck." No longer sounding anxious, but determined, she moved away from the window and into a different room. Sniper 101: don't stay in the same place too long.
"Thanks, Noodles." Halfway down the stairs, the radio hissed. "A-Maniple? Cerys? You read?" a male voice panted. She recognized Pork Chop's tone. "We're pinned, second building north, near the supply truck. They're lobbing grenades at us from behind a stable at the northeast corner. I've got wounded. We need you guys to push them off."
"Copy," she rasped, scanning the layout outside. The stable in question was probably adjacent to a series of squat houses. "Moving to flank them."
Outside, the sporadic thunder of the APC's dual machine guns raked across the street, thr turret turning left and right as the gunner scanned for enemy movement in the cone of destruction his field of view had become. Stuck, but stable, and with E-Maniple to back them up, the tin can was their anchor now. Cerys and her three remaining comrades emerged from the battered building, hooking right into a narrow alley. Mudflat, Gnome, and two others soon joined. "Three houses to the west are clear, up to the edge of the village. I left my machine gunner behind to keep our back secure, SG." Their faces were taut with alarm and flushed with the heat of battle.
She quickly took stock of her surroundings, then grabbed the radio. "Granny, you good?"
It took the older woman a moment to answer. "Affirmative. We've moved up to the square with the well," she replied, her voice strained. "Six enemy KIA, and one of my guys is down."
"Damn it," Cerys muttered, then spoke up again. "B-Maniple, I'm moving north-east to flank Pork Chops' attackers. Mudflat and his guys will follow me, then move north-west. They'll push through the houses and force the enemy your way. Stay put."
"Affirmative, SG. Setting up field of fire. B-Maniple out."
Cerys took point, creeping down the alley. Sporadic bullets cracked above their heads, answered either by the loud crack of Noodles' anti-material rifle or bursts from the tin can. Some heavy blasts indicated that Felix was still in the fight, likely launching shells from his recoilless to dislodge snipers. The stable rose at the corner, a slanted roof of rotted planks. A tall fence framed the property. Gunshots rang from within. She peeked around a corner, glimpsing two rebel fighters behind the fence, fiddling with something, likely grenades. Another figure fired a wood-rimmed semi-automatic hunting rifle from a slat in the fence.
No time for subtlety. She double-checked her assault rifle and signaled Gnome to circle left. Eight Marian legionaries broke cover and assaulted the enemy position, riddling the fence with holes. Shouts from the other side were cut short. One rebel popped up to return fire. Gnome's light machine gun hammered him down. A second enemy tried to hop the fence. Mudflat fired his underslung grenade launcher. The explosive thumped, and in a heartbeat, the fence and rebel both vanished in a cloud of splinters and dust, throwing a broken body aside. The rest presumably scattered or were wounded, but her people left nothing to chance. One moaned from the ground. A bayonet stabbed down, and the moaning stopped. Cerys had no illusions about the brutality they were unleashing. The rebels started it, she told herself. They had no choice but to respond in kind, or they'd die.
They pressed forward, bursts of adrenaline fueling them. Shots erupted from the stable door. Another rebel, face covered in a makeshift scarf, brandishing a shotgun. The muzzle flashed. Gnome cursed as pellets pinged off the corner. Cerys pitched a frag inside. She turned away from the door, ears ringing as it detonated. When she burst inside, the corpse lay slumped, straw smoldering. She checked each stall, heart pounding, nearly retching at the sight of limbs pinned by collapsed beams. The taste of ash lingered in the back of her throat.
"Clear!" she yelled. Returning outside, they spotted Felix emerging from the building where his unit had been pinned down, shielding two wounded men. Blood stained his sleeves and makeshift, stitched uniform. Cerys nodded, a weary but relieved smile appearing on his face in the brief lull their frontal assault had caused. At least Felix was okay. "How bad are they?"
"Serious. Gunshot wounds," he answered, his deep voice tight. One soldier, a young woman, clutched her abdomen, uniform dark with blood. Another had a ragged gash across the thigh, wincing in agony.
"Get them to the APC, there's first aid kits and the guys from E-Maniple there," Cerys said, voice clipped. "We have to finish clearing this nest before we can arrange anything. Take 'em there, then get back and hold this position. Mudflat, we stick to the plan." Despite the danger of SRMs, the Mark V was the safest place for their wounded, and they had some bandages from the ComStar crates, too. Not nearly enough. But it would have to do. Even as she said it, they heard more bursts of fire from up the street.
Hollywood charged across an intersection, alone, like a ghost of violence. A lit grenade in his hand, rifle slung. He vanished into a side door of a longhouse. An explosion rattled the windows. The man truly looked suicidal, or perhaps possessed by a savage calm. She had never imagined he'd fight like that, after all the tension, all his aloof bitterness. She glimpsed him again moments later, crossing the threshold of another house, muzzle flashing.
"Move, people, move!" she shouted, knowing there was nothing she could do for or to him right now. "Mudflat, west. The rest, with me. We've got them rattled now, don't let up!"
They moved in fireteams of two. The rotting wooden planks of door after door were shattered with boots and short bursts of gunfire. Interiors that stank of fear, with half a minute of screaming violence, ended in scattered bodies. Some rebels wore a motley mix of civilian clothing, flak jackets, or improvised ballistic vests. In corners, they'd stashed rocket tubes or battered assault rifles. More than once, Cerys found herself muzzle-to-face with an older rebel or a teenage fighter gripping a battered pistol and molotov cocktail. Each time, the choice was made in a split second: shoot or be shot. She felt numb, mechanical, like a part of her soul reeled away from it. Burning human flesh smelled foul. She hoped someone would shoot her rather than let her burn to death. It was a detached thought in her head, leaving a farm house where she'd shot a man just as he had ignited an incendiary bomb. The rest of her had to stay in control, or her people would die.
They kicked in one door to find no opponents inside, only terrified civilians huddled near a corner. A mother shielded her children, eyes wide, tears streaking dirty cheeks. Cerys hesitated, muzzle lowering. "Stay down!" she barked. "We're not here to hurt you!" She gestured, searching for hidden weapons. None. With a grimace, she motioned for Gnome to keep them in place. The family looked petrified, but not rebellious. That was a small relief.
They pressed on, stepping over broken doors, splintered beams. Shell casings littered the ground. The moans of wounded drifted from behind walls. Cerys's breathing rasped in her own ears as she heard a new round of automatic fire erupt from a building just ahead. "They're cornered in the courtyard! We need grenades!" someone shouted. Another firing position exploded in a whoosh of Felix's recoilless rifle, presumably from further down an alley. Cerys gestured for a group of legionaries to take the courtyard from behind. She circled a low wall, found a vantage near a side gate. Across the courtyard, she saw five or six rebels exchanging gunfire from a fortified position.
Laying down covering fire she ordered two men to storm ahead and attack with hand grenades. She spotted the opening to her left too late. Hidden in a collapsed corner of a ruined house, a tripod-mounted small laser hissed from under a tarpaulin. One moment one of the soldiers was running, a grenade primed. The next a thin beam punched right through him, the condensed energy turning him instantly into a flailing torch. The grenade exploded, sending the second man flying.
"Concentrate fire on that building!" she yelled. Assault rifles barked as the legionaries tried to suppress the heavy weapon. Another rocket soared out from the building's upper floor, fizzing overhead to explode harmlessly beyond them. That was too close for comfort. Cerys flinched as shards of glass and debris rained down. The building's facade was soon chewed up by a hail of return fire, plaster and brick crumbling. But it didn't deter the small laser cannon. It hissed again, missing, but the beam still hot enough that she felt like she had received an instant sunburn. The image of the torched body still fresh in her mind, she advanced, half-dazed by the cacophony.
Suddenly, Hollywood appeared on the second floor of the same ruined building. She recognized him from the blood-smeared legion tunic, the improbable patchwork pant leg wraps he'd improvised back at Camp Tiber. He fired downward, presumably at the rebels on the first floor. Flames flickered behind him. In a single fluid motion, he lobbed a grenade into the hallway, then pivoted to jump through a side window. Glass shattered. He landed catlike on a ledge, an insane move that should have broken limbs. He barely kept his balance. Then he swung down onto a porch roof, dropping out of sight. Moments later, an interior blast lit the empty window frame. The rebel fire from that building ceased almost entirely. Another figure in the window flailed before toppling out, hitting the street in a bloody sprawl. The stench of smoke and charred flesh drifted across the intersection.
The rampage must have diverted the laser team's attention as it reacted too late to Mudflat's sudden appearance. He stepped up from behind a thigh-high wall, took aim and fired his assault rifle's underslung grenade launcher from barely twenty meters away, hitting the enemy position dead on. With that position down, the rebels broke, abandoning the courtyard. The legionaries fired after them, killing two of the fleeing five.
Slowly, gradually, the gunfire tapered off. Sporadic shots persisted in distant corners, but the concerted ambush had been broken, the rebels routed. Cerys didn't let up, adrenaline still pumping through her veins. She ordered the Marian platoon, battered and bleeding, to advance methodically, checking for stragglers.
Only slowly, when she was certain the immediate danger was over, did the roar in Cerys's ears subside, replaced by the groans of the wounded. A few civilians emerged hesitantly from backdoors, terrified. Soldiers yelled at them to stay put. The air stank of dust, smoke, and gore.
Coughing drifted from behind. She turned to see Hollywood step out of a collapsed doorway, panting. His hair and helmet were matted with dust, his face was smeared in blood. He carried his assault rifle in one hand, a pistol in the other. His eyes were calm, empty, distant. She stared, remembering the man who'd once stabbed her. "Hollywood. You all right?" she asked, voice trembling with subdued anger, confusion, something.
He raised an eyebrow, chest heaving. "I'm fine. Not my blood," he muttered, shoving the pistol into his belt. For a moment, he looked on the verge of saying more, but turned away, ignoring the corpses in the corner, some still smoldering from the grenades he'd used.
Cerys exhaled a shaky breath, deciding now wasn't the time to dig deeper. They had casualties to tend to. "Good. Then help me gather the wounded."
He just gave a slight nod, meeting her gaze evenly.
Cerys stumbled forward to the APC, sliding against its hull, then turned around a corner where nobody could see her. Her breath came in ragged gasps. Adrenaline crashed, leaving her almost nauseous. She heaved, shivered, and suddenly puked her guts out. A soldier flagged her down. "Contubernalis, some of ours are down the street. They need help."
She nodded, thick-tongued. "Do it. We're finishing a sweep. Secure the area." She let her rifle rest on its sling, scanning the scene for leadership. Her eyes settled on a body next to the forward scout jeep, gold trimmed helmet lying in the dust next to it, and she sprinted over.
Cerys didn't need a medic to figure out Jolan was dead. He lay in the street, face down, his body contorted. She knelt down and turned him around, revealing the ruin the impact of the SRM and the explosion of the scout car had made of his torso. The polished, overlapping metal plates of the lorica segmentata-inspired armor had done little to soften the hailstorm of shrapnel. Strangely enough, his face was almost untouched. Cerys felt a wave of sadness as she looked into her commander's lifeless eyes, a brief moment of surprise - and fear - frozen in them. She'd never realized how young Jolan had been; in command, he'd always appeared older, steady, wisened even. But the face that stared into the gray-blue sky above was that of a young man, no older than herself, and just as inexperienced.
"You got the worse end of that deal after all, sir," she whispered quietly, brushing his eyes respectfully shut with two fingers one last time. "I'm sorry."
Optio Flavius Jolan's first glimpse at war had also been his last. He was at peace now. The same couldn't be said about the rest of them.
Matteo collapsed near a roadside gutter, retching. Tears streamed down his cheeks. Another soldier tried comforting him. In the corner, Gnome let out a wheezing laugh that bordered on hysteria, the kind that spoke of trauma. Others just stared at the ground, checking themselves for bullet holes, as if disbelief had taken hold. A few sobbed quietly, some crouched over the bodies of fallen friends, while some discovered they'd pissed or soiled themselves in the chaos. Real war was never neat. Cerys felt that same primal fear gnawing at her now empty belly, tasting bile, but she forced herself to keep outward composure for their sake. She had to be the anchor.
With great effort, they set up a makeshift casualty collection near the supply truck, ironically using bandages from the very crates they'd come to deliver. The front half of the truck was peppered with bullet holes, a testament to the fury of the ambush. Elara, caked in dust and dried blood, worked feverishly to stabilize multiple wounded. The few medically trained soldiers pitched in, their faces hollow. Screams cut the midday gloom. Cerys repeated triage instructions, ignoring the churning in her gut.
As the immediate threat receded, some of the villagers crept out to see what remained of their homes.
A handful stared at the carnage, the bodies of dead rebels - some of which may well have been their neighbors-, some Marian fallen, the shattered wrecks of scout jeeps. Resentment flared in their eyes, only tempered by the presence of Cerys heavily armed legionaries.
Her anger flashed. She wanted to rage, to blame these people for harboring the ambushers, to punish them. She could almost feel the heat in her veins return. But she remembered how Jolan had insisted on hearts and minds, how their orders demanded no reprisals on helpless civilians. She inhaled, forcing the anger down.
She spotted a wiry older man peering from behind a crumbling doorway, a cluster of younger villagers behind him. Slowly, she approached, rifle held low, forcing her expression to remain controlled. They shrank back at first. She raised a hand, palm open. "No one else needs to die," she said, her voice raw. "If you have wounded, we can help. Or if you know where the rebels fled. We…we came with supplies. We're not here to punish you."
Her heart pounded, waiting for a sign of hostility. The old man spat on the ground, glaring. "This is what you bring," he gestured at the destroyed houses, the spilled blood. "You are the same as the pirates, or the others before them. We don't want you here."
A wave of bitterness rose in her. "We didn't ambush ourselves," she replied with forced calm. "We're not pirates. We're peacekeepers. If you help us find the ones who set these bombs, we can spare your village more violence. We can offer medical help." She gestured at the battered supply truck.
At that, the man's eyes flicked to the crates. Suspicion warred with desperation. After a long moment, he grudgingly indicated the far hills. "They vanish into the old logging roads behind the orchard, is all I can and will say. Sometimes they come in the night, telling us to help." His voice trembled, carrying the frustration of a people caught between two armed powers.
Cerys pressed her lips together, nodding. She tried to keep her voice steady, though inside she wanted to scream in fury for Jolan's death, for her fallen comrades. "Understood," she said softly. Then she looked toward the old man, gesturing to a row of battered houses. "We'll handle our wounded, and we'll leave. You can help or not. But the supplies are also for you. We keep our word."
He stared, uncertain. Then a few others emerged, drawn by necessity. They needed medicine for their own. Despite the swirling rage in her chest, Cerys directed legionaries to hand over some bandages, perhaps some meal packets, ironically the same cargo that had led them into this deadly trap. She kept her gaze stony, not letting her men devolve into retribution. They'd lost enough already. They didn't need to lose their honor, too.
When the perimeter was sufficiently secure, she returned to the APC to see if they could fix the track. The driver emerged, shaking his head. "We might manage field repairs if we have an hour or two. We have a spare track link and some tools. Just need cover." The man was pale but determined to get the vehicle mobile. They'd need it to haul the wounded back. They radioed back to Gemina. There was no chance of med-evac, but they would keep the field hospital ready.
Cerys assigned a dozen soldiers to watch the perimeter and rooftops, distributing them to vantage points. Others gathered near the truck, rigging a small triage zone. The smell of antiseptic mingled with the reek of blood. The men and women wearing legionary tunics tried not to stare too long at the bodies of friends who'd fought beside them minutes ago, lying silent in the street.
Minutes stretched into an hour, then nearly two, as the legionaries worked. They replaced a shattered portion of the APC's track, hammered twisted metal away from the drive sprocket. The supply truck's driver managed to back out of the ditch with help from half a dozen pushing shoulders. Gradually, the small group stabilized the wounded enough for transport. A few who had died were laid out in a quiet corner, soon to be placed aboard for the somber ride back. The village itself remained on edge, with scattered residents lurking behind fences. Some approached for bandages or rations, others glared, seething with resentment. But Cerys's cooler head prevailed, ensuring no vengeful acts took place. She stuffed her fury deep inside. If she let it out, they would lose any hope of bridging the gap with these people.
Hollywood reappeared, caked in soot, limbs stiff as if exhausted. He stood near the battered APC, expression unreadable. The front of his tunic was soaked in drying blood. She forced a breath. "You're not wounded?" she asked quietly, though her voice held no warmth.
He gave a slow shake of his head. "It's theirs," he said, not elaborating. He turned his gaze to the corpses lined up. "Got nothing else to do," he added flatly, and walked off to help shift debris. That was it. No bravado, no sneer. Just… emptiness.
By late afternoon, the APC's track was back in place. The engine coughed to life, battered but functional. Soldiers secured the wounded on improvised stretchers, laying them in the truck bed or inside the carrier, whichever had space. The bodies of the fallen, Jolan included, were gently placed in the cargo hold, covered with tarps. A hush pervaded. The day's sunlight angled long across the battered village. Smoke drifted from half a dozen ruined buildings.
Cerys found Felix near the APC. He'd taken a seat on a broken crate, face in his hands, recoilless rifle leaning against his leg. She placed a hand on his broad shoulder. "We should get going," she murmured.
He nodded, swallowing. "Yeah. We lost a lot of good people," he said thickly. "That was… that was real."
She gripped his shoulder harder, wordlessly. In that brief moment, the weight of it all settled between them. Then she squared her own shoulders, stepping away. "Quartex, let's move out!" she called, voice carrying an authority she wasn't sure she felt. But the men and women rose, trudging to their vehicles with battered stoicism.
Before climbing into the APC, she locked eyes with the old man she'd spoken to earlier. He stood with three or four villagers, cradling meager supplies gleaned from the wrecked truck. Their expressions were grim. No one said a word. She nodded curtly, then ducked into the carrier, and set off back to base.
Quartex A had left Outpost Gemina with thirty-four people.
They returned with twenty-eight, and seven wounded.
2. First Blood
Outpost Gemina, Galas
Occupied Illyria, fmr. Illyrian Palatinate
June 3011
Gemina wasn't much to write home about. Surrounded by earthen walls topped by thick, layered sandbag mounds, a veritable thicket of razor wire, and countless smaller and larger prefab anti-tank obstacles, it was little more than a central muddy, gravelly courtyard flanked by a tight cluster of prefab barracks. Low towers topped by heavy machine guns kept watch for approaching enemies, while a couple of crew-operated static missile and laser emplacements broke through the monotony of the sandbags here and there. A tall comms dish and a number of long antennas swaying in the icy breeze occupied one corner of the base, the centuria's motor pool the other. The barracks were half-buried with soil, both as a protection against the cold wind, and against possible local resistance attacks. After a month of living there, it actually wasn't half bad anymore, Cerys thought as she stepped into the icy morning air, pulling her cloak and scarf closer. They got three meals a day - sometimes even fresh ones - and the prefabs weren't quite as leaky as the ones back at Camp Tiber.
Also, out here, useful things had a habit of 'falling off trucks'. An extra heater here, a wood stove there, a bunch of blankets from a crate that one maniple just so happened to have forgotten to deliver with the latest relief mission, finding their way into the centuria's possession by pure chance.
For the past four and half weeks Cerys' unit had gone on eight patrols into the local countryside, making a show of force and handing out relief goods - mostly non-perishable food, basic medicines, and construction equipment meant to help the locals rebuild whatever Mercer and his cronies had smashed in their reign of terror. Four and half weeks, and not a single shot had been fired. Good fortune hadn't shone on the other quartexes quite as bright. All in all, the centuria had suffered four dead and twelve wounded, though all but two of those were up and running again.
Cerys held her Optio liable for their good graces. Flavius Jolan was a calm, collected man with an open smile and a penchant for talking down even the most heated situations. He didn't shy from stepping in front of an agitated mob of angry villagers to hear them out, and he'd been hands-on with the distribution of relief goods. He'd also been looking the other way with the stuff that had found its way into the unit's possession. As far as her image of the stereotypical Patrican went, he ticked none of the bad boxes.
She fastened her helmet - padded by a woolen cap -, clapped her hands and stepped out into the yard, raising her voice.
"Alright, folks, it's a beautiful day in this very winter wonderland, and we've got a job to do! Muster and smile, we're heading out in five!"
Quartex A filed out of its half-buried container, with more than one face shooting longing glances at another container across the yard, the one with the hot showers. Felix stopped next to her, his breath puffing out small white clouds. She looked him up and down and snickered.
"Seems our master seamstress finally got you, too," she pointed at the ill-fitting, thick, blue pants the tall Pompey-born soldier wore under his uniform tunic. There was an extra layer of cloth wrapped around his feet, with a leather 'cap' stitched around the toes to keep them dry, giving him the appearance of having elephant trunks rather than feet, with the sandals wrapping around them looking comically bloated.
Pork Chops scowled, wrapping a woolen scarf he had scavenged from an abandoned homestead tighter around his neck. "Beats freezing my balls off, even though I had to suffer the stare of those dead eyes. Bastard's making a killing, sewing stuff for the whole quartex. I would've gone to Granny, but she was busy with outfitting Gnome, like a mom pampering her newborn." He rolled his eyes.
Cerys snorted with laughter. "Come on, Matteo's not that small."
"Everything under six feet is a dwarf, SG. Gnome's like five feet on a good day. Five-five when he's angry," Felix replied dryly.
They stared ahead, waiting as the rest of the units filed out next to them.
"How'd he react?" Cerys asked quietly. "Hollywood, I mean."
Felix's scowl deepened. "I'd never have believed someone could tell me so flatly 'You broke my face.' Like, zero emotion. Very uncomfortable, almost as much as me going to ask him in the first place." He shook his head. "Then he told me it'd cost me double, up front, and that was that," he shrugged. "Not exactly the pants of a master tailor, but they're warm enough, and don't rip at the seams the moment I move, so there's that. Bloody fuckhead's making a killing, though. Smokes, MREs, denari - man's practically swimming in it."
"S'ppose you didn't get it out of him why the hell he knows what he's doing in the first place?!" Cerys looked up at him. The quartex had a betting pool running on that. After a month out here it was filled with a nice sum of money.
"Nope. Just some vague mumbling about a nanny and him wanting to stick needles into something. More creeper stuff," Felix shook his head.
"Figures," she muttered, glancing at the Patrician as he stood in line as the perfect cube of the quartex's twenty-five soldiers formed in the yard.
If it hadn't been for Hollywood's dead eyes he'd have looked outright comfortable. He wore a pair of knee-high, warm boots scavenged from some abandoned home, a fur collar, a white poncho, and a whole lot of different clothes that certainly kept him warm enough. Not exactly standard issue gear, but then, who still wore just that?
Despite their best efforts some of them had suffered frostbite in the early days of the deployment, though not so bad as to lose limbs. After that, and with Hollywood's example in mind, everybody had scrambled to collect whatever piece of cloth - or even just tent fabric to stave off the icy wind - they could get their hands on. Now, after a few patrols and crates that had fallen off the back of some relief truck, Quartex A - and the rest of the centuria - looked no better than some of those Deep Periphery mercs Jackson Fletcher had in his employ. But at least, they weren't completely freezing anymore, most of the time.
The patchwork clothes and uniforms had given rise to the most obvious nickname ever.
"Atten-hut!" Cerys bellowed, and her comrades stood straighter. "Who are we?" she challenged.
"Jesters!" they shouted back as one.
Feigning disappointment, Cerys shook her head and raised her voice even more.
"WHO. ARE. WE?!"
"JO-LAN'S JESTERS!" came back the shout from twenty-four throats, her comrades grinning despite the cold.
"Yer a bunch of wankers, that's who you are!" someone from another quartex shouted from across the yard, their comrades joining in, hooting and hollering. Cerys' people just waved and fluttered their cloaks and gave them the fingers, both sides taking it in good humor.
She turned to face her commanding officer and gave the Marian salute.
"Unit assembled and ready to depart, sir!" she reported.
"Thank you, contub." Jolan stood with one leg resting on the high chassis of one of the base's scout jeeps, a lightly-armored, four-wheeled ATV topped by a light machine gun. "At ease! Soldiers, you know the drill by now. We'll patrol a stretch of the countryside we haven't been to before, and deliver some of the goods on that truck behind you. Keep your wits, keep your eyes open, and don't do anything your moms wouldn't be proud of!" That earned him a number of chuckles from the units. "Now mount up!"
Weather reports predicted a continuing streak of relative mildness for Illyrian winter: no recent snowfall, limited wind. The midday sky lay thick with clouds, but the biting chill in the air was more subdued than usual. For once, perhaps, they could operate with some measure of comfort.
A supply truck grumbled near the main gate, loaded with boxes of relief goods bearing the ComStar sigils, while the crew of the APC - one Cerys's quartex had grown to trust - chatted amongst themselves, double-checking the turret's machine guns. Stepping inside the APC, Cerys paused in the open turret hatch.
"Permission to ride on top?" she asked the vehicle's commander, an elder soldier sharing her rank, and he motioned her to climb up while he ran the last checks with the other two crew members. She hoisted herself up and out, elbows braced on the rim of the open turret, scanning the outpost's walls. Down below, Felix balanced his recoilless rifle with the SMG he carried for personal defense, carefully hoisting the rocket launcher inside the cramped interior. The rest of the unit climbed into the old Mark V with him, and the ramp at the APC's back rose again, sealing them off behind thick armor plating. The armored vehicle's powerful ICE engine growled as the driver finished his checklist, the wide tracks waiting to get into motion. But first, a pair of lightly armored scout jeeps sortied. One led by Optio Flavius Jolan, the other intended to bring up the rear. Between them would roll the APC and, behind it, a civilian-style cargo truck stacked with blankets, medicine, basic rations - everything that could help struggling locals survive and rebuild.
Cerys thumbed the radio affixed near the turret ring.
"Optio, this is Contubernalis Cerys. Final comm check before we move." She heard static, then the calm, pleasant tenor of Flavius Jolan's voice.
"Good copy, Cerys," came Jolan over the net. "We're about to pull out. Tell the tin can to stay close; I'd rather not spread ourselves thin." He sounded as affable as always, a stark contrast to the usual patrician arrogance many of them had come to know during their lives. In the past month, Jolan had never flaunted his social standing, nor demanded special treatment. By now, he'd earned broad respect among the rank and file.
"Understood, Optio. We'll follow your lead. Everyone's on board and secured. I get the feeling local folks have started trusting us a bit, thanks to those missions with the ComStar people."
"That's what we need," Jolan replied, almost cheerily. "Let's keep their minds at ease and their bellies full, right? Keep those folks alive and well, and maybe they'll stop seeing us as the next wave of conquerors. Stand by. We'll be moving out asap, just waiting for the truck."
She nodded, though he couldn't see. "Roger, sir." The APC's commander gave her a thumbs' up. "Armor is ready to roll." Behind her, the APC's engine rumbled in a steady, comfortable beat, powering the radiators that kept the troop compartment warm and comfortable. She slid back into the hull, settling down onto a makeshift seat behind the turret ring. Felix joined her, stowing his recoilless rifle carefully. Nearby, Matteo "Gnome" Webber jostled with Noodles and Mudflat, exchanging jokes that belied their undercurrent anxiety. They all knew they had been lucky so far. And they all prayed it would stay that way.
With a creak and a metallic shudder, the APC lurched forward. Outside, the lead scout jeep revved away from the gate, heading down the roughly grated slope that led out of the outpost's perimeter. One by one, the four vehicles rumbled in column formation along the winding gravel track, disappearing between tall stands of conifers. Overhead, a pale sun peeked through clouds, painting the forest in muted browns and dull greens, glistening on the patches of snow still lying on the wide branches.
They made good time for nearly half an hour, traversing gently rolling ground where farmland and clusters of trees alternated. Patches of half-melted snow glistened in shady spots. Now and then, they passed groups of civilians, small, wary clusters that lingered near their houses and farms. The legionaries would wave, and sometimes received uncertain nods in return. But no open hostility, only guarded distrust. It was, by what they had come to expect of Illyrian standards, almost encouraging.
Cerys took a map from the satchel on her belt and checked their progress with a gloved finger. Orientation and map-reading came to her far more naturally than longform texts, but even there, necessity had led to some improvements, and she unwittingly touched the copy of 'De Bello Gallico' she kept in the same satchel. She toggled comms again, pushing herself up to look above the rim of the turret.
"Optio, we'll reach the first village in about twenty minutes, by my reckoning. Do we have any additional info on today's run, sir?"
"Negativ, contub," the radio cackled after a second. "A drone flew over the region two days ago, didn't get any substantial IR pingbacks. No significant vehicle movements, and definitely nothing heavy. As far as we know, the region's quiet, for what it's worth," Jolan told her. "Still, won't hurt to keep our eyes open."
"With you on that, sir," Cerys replied, squinting her eyes against the biting airstream. After a long pause she spoke up again. "Sir, permission to ask a more… personal question?"
"Go ahead, contub." Jolan sounded more amused than anxious.
"Why'd command give a decurio's job to an officer, sir?"
She heard a chuckle from the other end of the line. "The answer's pretty unglamorous, contub. The army's got more young officers in the pipeline than it has experienced NCOs. Alphard pushes every decurio with any sort of service history into training duty, then scrambles to fill the gaps. I still had about six months left at the academy. The offer was simple: pick up a lower position at higher pay, and get the active service counted to my academy time. Besides, I've always preferred to get out here rather than be a glorified assistant to a Centurio." Cerys could almost feel his wry grin. "So now we've got an inexperienced unit rushed into service led by an inexperienced commander rushed into service. I'll leave it to someone else to decide who got the worse end of that deal."
"Never thought you'd end up being part of the army's mad dash to manage the shortage, sir!" Cerys shook her head in disbelief. "If it's any consolation, I guess I can speak for the whole unit when I say we've all been pleasantly surprised. Hope we haven't been too much of an embarrassment either?"
"Negative on that, contub," Jolan answered almost immediately, and it sounded earnest. "Given the circumstances, you're all doing the best I can hope for. Just keep it up, and maybe at some point the army will actually reward us with functioning gear and equipment not made for tropical beaches."
"Amen to that, sir, amen to that."
The first sign of trouble came when they saw the village rise beyond a gentle bend. Fields framed by hedges and low stone walls extended southwards until a low, rocky cliff. A scattering of longhouses with sloping wooden roofs mingled with more modern brick structures. A modest spire rose near the center, a local temple, perhaps, or the village chief's dwelling. Few windows gleamed in the midday light. It all looked deserted, but that wasn't unusual. Some villages had grown used to hunkering down whenever an armed column approached.
Cerys pushed her head above the turret's rim again, scanning the settlement's edges. She glimpsed no movement in the narrow lanes. That, in itself, made her uneasy. Usually they saw at least one or two figures peeking from behind shutters or doorways. But these buildings stood dark, windows closed, as if the residents had vanished. She radioed the lead jeep. "Optio, you seeing anything?"
Flavius Jolan's voice crackled back. "Not a soul. I'm not seeing anyone out in the fields or barns either. We'll proceed. Keep your eyes open, though. Something feels off."
The column slowed slightly as it entered the village's main road, which curved between the houses. The lead scout jeep advanced carefully, scanning corners. The APC followed about twenty meters behind, engine grumbling, wide tracks grinding into the dirt road. Behind them rumbled the relief truck, and capping the rear was the second scout jeep. Flashes of sunlight reflected from upper windows. There was a hush to the place, broken only by the low rumble of engines and the occasional call sign or coordinate on the radio. The mild breeze carried the faint smell of old cooking fires and wood chimneys, stale and unmoving. Up ahead, a barn door swung loosely in the soft breeze. A shovel lay discarded in the knee-high snow. Cerys' grip around the turret's handle tightened.
All at once, the silence shattered. A deafening boom split the air. Cerys's heart slammed against her ribs as she saw, out of the corner of her eye, a rocket streak from behind a brick wall up ahead. The projectile impacted the lead jeep in a scorching burst, flipping the two tons of engine and metal plating onto its side like a toy. Rubble and splinters showered the narrow street, flames licked at twisted metal. At once, gunfire erupted from multiple angles, sharp cracks from rooftops, staccato bursts from hidden positions in farm houses.
Cerys lunged for the comm. "Contact front! Jeep's hit!" Even as she yelled, a second rocket whooshed in from another corner. This one slammed the second scout jeep at the rear. A gout of smoke and flame erupted, silhouetting the defenders inside. The crash tore the small vehicle apart. Shrapnel soared overhead. Smoke rolled thick and dark, obscuring the back of the column.
"SRMs inbound!" Cerys roared, grabbing her assault rifle. The APC jerked violently as the driver tried to pivot, but an instant later, the ground beneath them tore open in a wrenching explosion. Mines. The left track froze mid-turn, and the carrier ground to a lurching halt. Cerys was slammed against the inner plating of the turret, pushing her breath out in one painful yelp. Another detonation hammered the forward hull, tilting the vehicle sideways. Screams reverberated inside as men and women were thrown against the walls. Lights flickered. The entire interior stank of burning metal and chemical propellant.
Everything sounded like her head was packed in wool, dull and subdued. She blinked and shook her head to get back to her senses, feeling way too calm for the situation. Then, the sounds rushed all in at once, and adrenaline surged through her like a tsunami.
"Everyone out!"
Cerys screamed, pushing herself to the back of the APC, her presence forcing a semblance of order once she'd regained her footing. Being stuck inside was a death trap. The vehicle crew shouted back, "Turret's jammed, engine's thrown belts!" Another rocket smacked the upper armor, rattling them like dice in a cup. A wave of panic swelled. The Mark V was a solid box of armor, but even it couldn't take more than a few hits from something like an SRM. Noodles cradled her big sniper rifle, face pale with shock. Determined, Cerys hammered the button to lower the back hatch. His face a twisted mask of anger, Matteo slid the side hatch open, forcing it with a wrenching squeal. Smoke poured in.
"Get that turret operational again!" Cerys heard her own voice command, sounding unnaturally level. "Open fire! Distract them! Jesters!? Move, move!" Cerys barked, pushing them out. Beyond the smoke lay gunfire and shouting. She didn't hesitate, pulled a smoke grenade from her strap across her chest and threw it outside.
It ignited with a dull sizzling sound right before she jumped out into the Illyrian cold. Rifle pressed to her shoulder, she hopped down, landing in a swirl of dust, adrenaline pounding in her veins and ears like a drum beat. She fumbled with her thumb, trying three times before the safety was off.
The street was chaos: pinned shapes scrambled near the ravaged scout jeeps. The supply truck had tried to brake behind them, but it was nose-first in a shallow ditch. The distinct thump-thump of assault rifles echoed between houses. Muzzle flashes glinted from second story windows.
The Jesters poured from the beleaguered tin can. In front of the damaged APC a meter-wide crater had destroyed the road where the mine - an IED, most likely - had exploded. The blast wave had pushed in the brick walls of the nearby houses and set fire to wattle and daub huts. Broken glass and debris littered the narrow main road. Shots whistled past. She glimpsed a figure on a rooftop, muzzle blazing. Without thinking, she aimed her assault rifle and fired three rounds. The shape jerked and vanished from sight. A hail of returned fire forced her to duck behind a battered stone wall. Breathe, girl! she told herself, fighting panic. Her entire body trembled from the shock, but her mind was on auto-pilot.
"Smoke grenades!" she shouted, her voice pitched high. "Get to cover, and smoke the damn road!"
Her voice - sounding too shrill for her - cut through the chaos, and the men and women of Jolan's Jesters ducked and zig-zagged as they exited the APC, smoke grenades fizzling as artificial white fog quickly began to waft through the village center, mixing with the acrid black smoke of burning rubber. Out ahead, the lead jeep smoldered. She caught sight of a limp form half-hanging from the driver's seat. Another figure tried to crawl, only to be riddled by gunfire from an unseen vantage.
"I need a radio!" she snapped, and some wide-eyed kid with a mud-smeared face scrambled over to her. Every maniple had one radio, basically a telephone receiver with a cord attached to a portable battery that practically would never run out. She grabbed the receiver, fumbling with numb fingers. "Optio, come in! Optio Jolan, this is Contub Cerys, do you read?" She waited a few seconds, the time passing ever-so-slowly. Too slowly, when you were under enemy fire. Only static answered her. "Fuck," she muttered. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!" Think Cerys. Think, Slave Girl. She grabbed her rifle tightly. "Contubs, on me!"
Bullets whizzed by, landing in the muddy ground or the walls around them, with plenty clanging against the APC half-hidden by white smoke. She could hear the jammed turret groan as the servos tried to break whatever blockage kept it stuck. Another burst of rifle fire ricocheted off the armor and one of the crew cursed. The dual machine guns spat fire, the muzzle flashes burning through the smoke, .50 cal rounds and tracers flying off, not aimed, but sudden and violent enough to force a brief pause in the enemy barrage. The respite was short-lived, and the harrowing screech and whoosh of an SRM answered, burying itself into the ground barely a step away from the Mark V's front, showering the road in debris, the heat of the explosion briefly dispelling the Illyrian cold.
The other four maniple leaders converged on her position. A flurry of sniper rounds hissed overhead, caving in the windshield of the burned jeep. She peered around the corner, taking quick stock: Up above, the spire-like building with an open window. Probably the sniper nest. She jerked back as a bullet pinged off the frozen, rocky ground near her boot.
"We're sitting ducks, SG!" Felix yelled, his face a mask hiding his true feelings. He tumbled next to her, recoilless rifle on his back, SMG clutched to his side, looking almost comically small. He breathed in harsh, ragged bursts. "We can't stay in the open," he managed. "They're zeroing in on us."
Her thoughts spun. "We need to push forward or fall back to some cover." But the road behind them was blocked by the second jeep's burning wreckage, plus crossfire from hidden insurgents. Shots hammered the APC's armor through the fog, sparks dancing from the turret. At least the crew was inside, still manning the guns. She heard the rattling double chatter of the turret machine guns as they fired back again, the turret's traversing mechanism still jammed.
Somewhere near, a soldier shrieked, a raw, haunting sound. Someone else called for a medic. Cerys forced herself to function.
"We have to get out of this kill zone. Clear those buildings for cover. Take them from the ground floor up. We can't let these rebels pin us here!" she shouted, voice cracking with urgency. "Granny, take your people south. Pork Chops, into the building, then north!" she motioned frantically. "I'll go east. Mudflat," she pointed at another contubernalis crouched behind a boulder, "clear the west. Gallo?"
"Yeah, what about -ack!" Blood shot from a wound in the NCO's throat. Wide-eyed, he tumbled backwards, clasping his hands, trying futilely to keep the blood in, red bubbles spraying from his mouth. Another burst of gunfire rang out, and slumped to the ground like puppet whose strings had been cut. Cerys didn't need a medic to know he was dead; his face was a ruin, half gone, with a dead eye staring her way.
No time to panic, no time to freeze, no time to die, a voice in her head yelled at her. "E-Maniple, hold the APC!" she commanded, her voice galloping. "Jesters, let's move!"
She dashed from cover, crossing the street in a low sprint. Gunfire rattled behind her. A muzzle flash from the second-story window across the street spewed bullets that chewed through the dust. She heard Felix's recoilless rifle bark, sending a rocket smashing into the upper floor of a half-collapsed house. Shouts of pain or alarm in the distance. Smoke rolled in thick clouds. They had no time for gentle tactics and the safety of civilians possibly caught in this chaos.
"Grenade out!" She lobbed an egg-shaped frag grenade through a splintered door. The explosion momentarily dulled the gunfire.
Cerys kicked what remained of the door off the hinges, revealing a dim hallway. Inside, the smell of dust and stale air choked her. She pressed her rifle forward, finger on the trigger. Behind her, two legionaries stacked up, Noodles among them. She cleared the left corner, heart hammering so loudly it drowned the roar outside. A single door in the hallway stood ajar. Tense seconds crawled. A silhouette scrambled within, brandishing what looked like a hunting rifle.
She fired instinctively, pulling the trigger before her mind had fully realized what was happening. A short burst to center mass, half a dozen rounds in barely a second. The figure dropped with a guttural cry, the weapon clattering away, blood spattering the washed-out white floorboards behind it. Cerys advanced, mind reeling at the sight of the slowly swelling puddle of blood. Her first real kill in close quarters. She bit down a wave of nausea. Another shape came rushing down a stairwell drenched in pale sunlight through dust motes. She didn't see if it was a man or woman, the features hidden behind layers of cloth and fur.
A raw voice screamed 'FRIIIIHET!', brandishing a snub-nosed, drum-fed SMG, as thickly-gloved fingers pulled the trigger. Bullets sprayed through the hallway before Cerys could raise her own rifle. One ricocheted off the edge of her helmet, another round ripped across her left shoulder plate, jolting her. Like in slow motion she could see the insurgent pushing the rocking gun towards her, trying to adjust for the weapon's recoil. From the corner of her eyes, she glanced movement. Before she could truly grasp what was happening the enemy fighter erupted in a hailstorm of impacts, making them dance like an unhinged puppet on a string.
'BRAAAAATTTT-clk-clk-clk…'
Noodles stood next to her, wide-eyed, her sniper rifle strapped across her back, her own SMG gripped tightly in both hands, the bolt hitting an already empty chamber before the enemy she had turned into a human pin-cushion hit the ground. The smell of gunpowder and warm copper filled the room.
Cerys coughed, adrenaline spiking anew. "All clear inside," she forced out for those behind her, though her voice trembled. Noodles's wide, frightened eyes found hers, and they both gave shaky nods. They swiped the sweat from their brows, ignoring the trembling in their hands.
Outside, more gunfire crackled, accompanied by the distinctive boom of grenades. Cerys slammed open a side window, scanning for vantage. Rebels perched in the upper floors of a house a few dozen meters away, raking the carrier with automatic bursts. That explained the incessant clang of bullets on steel.
"We move to the second floor, see if we can return fire from above," Cerys ordered, pointing up the battered staircase. She dreaded the possibility of more rebels, but if they could secure vantage, they might help extricate the rest of the squad pinned down. On the comm, partial transmissions crackled: calls for help, scattered words about casualties.
Noodles led the way, slamming a new clip into her gun, stepping gingerly around debris. They climbed to a cramped landing. A battered door was partially open, revealing a modest living area with shuttered windows. The reek of cordite lingered, probably from the shots fired below. Carefully, they advanced. The room was empty, though signs of a hasty barricade told them the rebels had used it before. The shutters might provide a vantage outside.
Cerys lifted the latch, pushing one shutter open a fraction. Immediately, a bullet splintered wood overhead. She gasped, pulling back. "Sniper across," she hissed. She'd gotten a glimpse of movement in the tower-like building. Her throat constricted. "Central spire, up in the tower. Cover me," she told Noodles. "I'll draw his attention, you'll nail him from the other window." Noddles nodded and unslung her sniper rifle, a long, heavy black thing that could put a hole through a car's engine block. Kneeling, both readied their rifles, Cerys pushing a new mag into hers. Slower this time, she peered out from low by the windowsill. Movement flickered in the tower's upper gap, partially concealed by chipped brick. "Got him. Get ready." She exhaled, aligning her iron sights. The sniper's silhouette leaned forward, presumably searching for fresh targets. She squeezed the trigger. A short burst spat from her muzzle. Sparks danced against the brick and she ducked away. Not a moment too soon as bullets riddled the window and the half-timbered wall, not quite penetrating.
Noodles flung her window open and took aim in a fluid motion belying her lanky build. Flames belched from the long rifle's muzzle brake as a shell as thick and long as her middle finger unloaded its explosive content and sent a high-velocity round on its way. She immediately worked the bolt again, staring through her scope, her face calm now, almost serene. Her finger hovered on the trigger, then pulled back. "Got'im. Went right back out of the tower on the other side," she told Cerys calmly.
Down below, metal groaned as the Mark V shed its right tracks, rumbling back a few paces on steel wheels before it dug itself into the ground. The turret rotated slowly, but surely now, no longer jammed. Another SRM raced in on a fiery trail, clipping some fence pole and going haywire instead of hitting the tin can. The APC's gunner zeroed in on the enemy's position, a wattle-and-daub longhouse on the far edge of the road, and let loose.
Movies always showed how the hero hid behind walls and stayed safe and protected. The real thing was something wholly different. Even if it hadn't been wattled-and-daub but a foot-thick brick wall, it would have stopped a barrage of .50 cal rounds as much as a sheet of paper had a chance of stopping a hailstorm. The whole front of the building erupted into a cloud of splintered wood and hard clay pieces as the twin machine guns raked the whole length, leaving little chance of survival for those inside. Tracers pierced through the debris clouds, quickly setting the dry wood and the thatched roof on fire. Before you knew it, flames hungrily licked at a dozen places. That took care of at least one of the enemy SRM teams.
"Building's clear!" a soldier yelled from somewhere behind Cerys, pulling her out of the role of observer.
"Affirmative!" she replied, "moving out. We stick to the plan, house by house." She hoped she'd been loud enough for her maniple to hear her. "You stay here, Noodles," she turned to the lanky sniper. "You've got a good vantage point across half the village. Cover us."
"Yes, contub. And SG… good luck." No longer sounding anxious, but determined, she moved away from the window and into a different room. Sniper 101: don't stay in the same place too long.
"Thanks, Noodles." Halfway down the stairs, the radio hissed. "A-Maniple? Cerys? You read?" a male voice panted. She recognized Pork Chop's tone. "We're pinned, second building north, near the supply truck. They're lobbing grenades at us from behind a stable at the northeast corner. I've got wounded. We need you guys to push them off."
"Copy," she rasped, scanning the layout outside. The stable in question was probably adjacent to a series of squat houses. "Moving to flank them."
Outside, the sporadic thunder of the APC's dual machine guns raked across the street, thr turret turning left and right as the gunner scanned for enemy movement in the cone of destruction his field of view had become. Stuck, but stable, and with E-Maniple to back them up, the tin can was their anchor now. Cerys and her three remaining comrades emerged from the battered building, hooking right into a narrow alley. Mudflat, Gnome, and two others soon joined. "Three houses to the west are clear, up to the edge of the village. I left my machine gunner behind to keep our back secure, SG." Their faces were taut with alarm and flushed with the heat of battle.
She quickly took stock of her surroundings, then grabbed the radio. "Granny, you good?"
It took the older woman a moment to answer. "Affirmative. We've moved up to the square with the well," she replied, her voice strained. "Six enemy KIA, and one of my guys is down."
"Damn it," Cerys muttered, then spoke up again. "B-Maniple, I'm moving north-east to flank Pork Chops' attackers. Mudflat and his guys will follow me, then move north-west. They'll push through the houses and force the enemy your way. Stay put."
"Affirmative, SG. Setting up field of fire. B-Maniple out."
Cerys took point, creeping down the alley. Sporadic bullets cracked above their heads, answered either by the loud crack of Noodles' anti-material rifle or bursts from the tin can. Some heavy blasts indicated that Felix was still in the fight, likely launching shells from his recoilless to dislodge snipers. The stable rose at the corner, a slanted roof of rotted planks. A tall fence framed the property. Gunshots rang from within. She peeked around a corner, glimpsing two rebel fighters behind the fence, fiddling with something, likely grenades. Another figure fired a wood-rimmed semi-automatic hunting rifle from a slat in the fence.
No time for subtlety. She double-checked her assault rifle and signaled Gnome to circle left. Eight Marian legionaries broke cover and assaulted the enemy position, riddling the fence with holes. Shouts from the other side were cut short. One rebel popped up to return fire. Gnome's light machine gun hammered him down. A second enemy tried to hop the fence. Mudflat fired his underslung grenade launcher. The explosive thumped, and in a heartbeat, the fence and rebel both vanished in a cloud of splinters and dust, throwing a broken body aside. The rest presumably scattered or were wounded, but her people left nothing to chance. One moaned from the ground. A bayonet stabbed down, and the moaning stopped. Cerys had no illusions about the brutality they were unleashing. The rebels started it, she told herself. They had no choice but to respond in kind, or they'd die.
They pressed forward, bursts of adrenaline fueling them. Shots erupted from the stable door. Another rebel, face covered in a makeshift scarf, brandishing a shotgun. The muzzle flashed. Gnome cursed as pellets pinged off the corner. Cerys pitched a frag inside. She turned away from the door, ears ringing as it detonated. When she burst inside, the corpse lay slumped, straw smoldering. She checked each stall, heart pounding, nearly retching at the sight of limbs pinned by collapsed beams. The taste of ash lingered in the back of her throat.
"Clear!" she yelled. Returning outside, they spotted Felix emerging from the building where his unit had been pinned down, shielding two wounded men. Blood stained his sleeves and makeshift, stitched uniform. Cerys nodded, a weary but relieved smile appearing on his face in the brief lull their frontal assault had caused. At least Felix was okay. "How bad are they?"
"Serious. Gunshot wounds," he answered, his deep voice tight. One soldier, a young woman, clutched her abdomen, uniform dark with blood. Another had a ragged gash across the thigh, wincing in agony.
"Get them to the APC, there's first aid kits and the guys from E-Maniple there," Cerys said, voice clipped. "We have to finish clearing this nest before we can arrange anything. Take 'em there, then get back and hold this position. Mudflat, we stick to the plan." Despite the danger of SRMs, the Mark V was the safest place for their wounded, and they had some bandages from the ComStar crates, too. Not nearly enough. But it would have to do. Even as she said it, they heard more bursts of fire from up the street.
Hollywood charged across an intersection, alone, like a ghost of violence. A lit grenade in his hand, rifle slung. He vanished into a side door of a longhouse. An explosion rattled the windows. The man truly looked suicidal, or perhaps possessed by a savage calm. She had never imagined he'd fight like that, after all the tension, all his aloof bitterness. She glimpsed him again moments later, crossing the threshold of another house, muzzle flashing.
"Move, people, move!" she shouted, knowing there was nothing she could do for or to him right now. "Mudflat, west. The rest, with me. We've got them rattled now, don't let up!"
They moved in fireteams of two. The rotting wooden planks of door after door were shattered with boots and short bursts of gunfire. Interiors that stank of fear, with half a minute of screaming violence, ended in scattered bodies. Some rebels wore a motley mix of civilian clothing, flak jackets, or improvised ballistic vests. In corners, they'd stashed rocket tubes or battered assault rifles. More than once, Cerys found herself muzzle-to-face with an older rebel or a teenage fighter gripping a battered pistol and molotov cocktail. Each time, the choice was made in a split second: shoot or be shot. She felt numb, mechanical, like a part of her soul reeled away from it. Burning human flesh smelled foul. She hoped someone would shoot her rather than let her burn to death. It was a detached thought in her head, leaving a farm house where she'd shot a man just as he had ignited an incendiary bomb. The rest of her had to stay in control, or her people would die.
They kicked in one door to find no opponents inside, only terrified civilians huddled near a corner. A mother shielded her children, eyes wide, tears streaking dirty cheeks. Cerys hesitated, muzzle lowering. "Stay down!" she barked. "We're not here to hurt you!" She gestured, searching for hidden weapons. None. With a grimace, she motioned for Gnome to keep them in place. The family looked petrified, but not rebellious. That was a small relief.
They pressed on, stepping over broken doors, splintered beams. Shell casings littered the ground. The moans of wounded drifted from behind walls. Cerys's breathing rasped in her own ears as she heard a new round of automatic fire erupt from a building just ahead. "They're cornered in the courtyard! We need grenades!" someone shouted. Another firing position exploded in a whoosh of Felix's recoilless rifle, presumably from further down an alley. Cerys gestured for a group of legionaries to take the courtyard from behind. She circled a low wall, found a vantage near a side gate. Across the courtyard, she saw five or six rebels exchanging gunfire from a fortified position.
Laying down covering fire she ordered two men to storm ahead and attack with hand grenades. She spotted the opening to her left too late. Hidden in a collapsed corner of a ruined house, a tripod-mounted small laser hissed from under a tarpaulin. One moment one of the soldiers was running, a grenade primed. The next a thin beam punched right through him, the condensed energy turning him instantly into a flailing torch. The grenade exploded, sending the second man flying.
"Concentrate fire on that building!" she yelled. Assault rifles barked as the legionaries tried to suppress the heavy weapon. Another rocket soared out from the building's upper floor, fizzing overhead to explode harmlessly beyond them. That was too close for comfort. Cerys flinched as shards of glass and debris rained down. The building's facade was soon chewed up by a hail of return fire, plaster and brick crumbling. But it didn't deter the small laser cannon. It hissed again, missing, but the beam still hot enough that she felt like she had received an instant sunburn. The image of the torched body still fresh in her mind, she advanced, half-dazed by the cacophony.
Suddenly, Hollywood appeared on the second floor of the same ruined building. She recognized him from the blood-smeared legion tunic, the improbable patchwork pant leg wraps he'd improvised back at Camp Tiber. He fired downward, presumably at the rebels on the first floor. Flames flickered behind him. In a single fluid motion, he lobbed a grenade into the hallway, then pivoted to jump through a side window. Glass shattered. He landed catlike on a ledge, an insane move that should have broken limbs. He barely kept his balance. Then he swung down onto a porch roof, dropping out of sight. Moments later, an interior blast lit the empty window frame. The rebel fire from that building ceased almost entirely. Another figure in the window flailed before toppling out, hitting the street in a bloody sprawl. The stench of smoke and charred flesh drifted across the intersection.
The rampage must have diverted the laser team's attention as it reacted too late to Mudflat's sudden appearance. He stepped up from behind a thigh-high wall, took aim and fired his assault rifle's underslung grenade launcher from barely twenty meters away, hitting the enemy position dead on. With that position down, the rebels broke, abandoning the courtyard. The legionaries fired after them, killing two of the fleeing five.
Slowly, gradually, the gunfire tapered off. Sporadic shots persisted in distant corners, but the concerted ambush had been broken, the rebels routed. Cerys didn't let up, adrenaline still pumping through her veins. She ordered the Marian platoon, battered and bleeding, to advance methodically, checking for stragglers.
Only slowly, when she was certain the immediate danger was over, did the roar in Cerys's ears subside, replaced by the groans of the wounded. A few civilians emerged hesitantly from backdoors, terrified. Soldiers yelled at them to stay put. The air stank of dust, smoke, and gore.
Coughing drifted from behind. She turned to see Hollywood step out of a collapsed doorway, panting. His hair and helmet were matted with dust, his face was smeared in blood. He carried his assault rifle in one hand, a pistol in the other. His eyes were calm, empty, distant. She stared, remembering the man who'd once stabbed her. "Hollywood. You all right?" she asked, voice trembling with subdued anger, confusion, something.
He raised an eyebrow, chest heaving. "I'm fine. Not my blood," he muttered, shoving the pistol into his belt. For a moment, he looked on the verge of saying more, but turned away, ignoring the corpses in the corner, some still smoldering from the grenades he'd used.
Cerys exhaled a shaky breath, deciding now wasn't the time to dig deeper. They had casualties to tend to. "Good. Then help me gather the wounded."
He just gave a slight nod, meeting her gaze evenly.
Cerys stumbled forward to the APC, sliding against its hull, then turned around a corner where nobody could see her. Her breath came in ragged gasps. Adrenaline crashed, leaving her almost nauseous. She heaved, shivered, and suddenly puked her guts out. A soldier flagged her down. "Contubernalis, some of ours are down the street. They need help."
She nodded, thick-tongued. "Do it. We're finishing a sweep. Secure the area." She let her rifle rest on its sling, scanning the scene for leadership. Her eyes settled on a body next to the forward scout jeep, gold trimmed helmet lying in the dust next to it, and she sprinted over.
Cerys didn't need a medic to figure out Jolan was dead. He lay in the street, face down, his body contorted. She knelt down and turned him around, revealing the ruin the impact of the SRM and the explosion of the scout car had made of his torso. The polished, overlapping metal plates of the lorica segmentata-inspired armor had done little to soften the hailstorm of shrapnel. Strangely enough, his face was almost untouched. Cerys felt a wave of sadness as she looked into her commander's lifeless eyes, a brief moment of surprise - and fear - frozen in them. She'd never realized how young Jolan had been; in command, he'd always appeared older, steady, wisened even. But the face that stared into the gray-blue sky above was that of a young man, no older than herself, and just as inexperienced.
"You got the worse end of that deal after all, sir," she whispered quietly, brushing his eyes respectfully shut with two fingers one last time. "I'm sorry."
Optio Flavius Jolan's first glimpse at war had also been his last. He was at peace now. The same couldn't be said about the rest of them.
Matteo collapsed near a roadside gutter, retching. Tears streamed down his cheeks. Another soldier tried comforting him. In the corner, Gnome let out a wheezing laugh that bordered on hysteria, the kind that spoke of trauma. Others just stared at the ground, checking themselves for bullet holes, as if disbelief had taken hold. A few sobbed quietly, some crouched over the bodies of fallen friends, while some discovered they'd pissed or soiled themselves in the chaos. Real war was never neat. Cerys felt that same primal fear gnawing at her now empty belly, tasting bile, but she forced herself to keep outward composure for their sake. She had to be the anchor.
With great effort, they set up a makeshift casualty collection near the supply truck, ironically using bandages from the very crates they'd come to deliver. The front half of the truck was peppered with bullet holes, a testament to the fury of the ambush. Elara, caked in dust and dried blood, worked feverishly to stabilize multiple wounded. The few medically trained soldiers pitched in, their faces hollow. Screams cut the midday gloom. Cerys repeated triage instructions, ignoring the churning in her gut.
As the immediate threat receded, some of the villagers crept out to see what remained of their homes.
A handful stared at the carnage, the bodies of dead rebels - some of which may well have been their neighbors-, some Marian fallen, the shattered wrecks of scout jeeps. Resentment flared in their eyes, only tempered by the presence of Cerys heavily armed legionaries.
Her anger flashed. She wanted to rage, to blame these people for harboring the ambushers, to punish them. She could almost feel the heat in her veins return. But she remembered how Jolan had insisted on hearts and minds, how their orders demanded no reprisals on helpless civilians. She inhaled, forcing the anger down.
She spotted a wiry older man peering from behind a crumbling doorway, a cluster of younger villagers behind him. Slowly, she approached, rifle held low, forcing her expression to remain controlled. They shrank back at first. She raised a hand, palm open. "No one else needs to die," she said, her voice raw. "If you have wounded, we can help. Or if you know where the rebels fled. We…we came with supplies. We're not here to punish you."
Her heart pounded, waiting for a sign of hostility. The old man spat on the ground, glaring. "This is what you bring," he gestured at the destroyed houses, the spilled blood. "You are the same as the pirates, or the others before them. We don't want you here."
A wave of bitterness rose in her. "We didn't ambush ourselves," she replied with forced calm. "We're not pirates. We're peacekeepers. If you help us find the ones who set these bombs, we can spare your village more violence. We can offer medical help." She gestured at the battered supply truck.
At that, the man's eyes flicked to the crates. Suspicion warred with desperation. After a long moment, he grudgingly indicated the far hills. "They vanish into the old logging roads behind the orchard, is all I can and will say. Sometimes they come in the night, telling us to help." His voice trembled, carrying the frustration of a people caught between two armed powers.
Cerys pressed her lips together, nodding. She tried to keep her voice steady, though inside she wanted to scream in fury for Jolan's death, for her fallen comrades. "Understood," she said softly. Then she looked toward the old man, gesturing to a row of battered houses. "We'll handle our wounded, and we'll leave. You can help or not. But the supplies are also for you. We keep our word."
He stared, uncertain. Then a few others emerged, drawn by necessity. They needed medicine for their own. Despite the swirling rage in her chest, Cerys directed legionaries to hand over some bandages, perhaps some meal packets, ironically the same cargo that had led them into this deadly trap. She kept her gaze stony, not letting her men devolve into retribution. They'd lost enough already. They didn't need to lose their honor, too.
When the perimeter was sufficiently secure, she returned to the APC to see if they could fix the track. The driver emerged, shaking his head. "We might manage field repairs if we have an hour or two. We have a spare track link and some tools. Just need cover." The man was pale but determined to get the vehicle mobile. They'd need it to haul the wounded back. They radioed back to Gemina. There was no chance of med-evac, but they would keep the field hospital ready.
Cerys assigned a dozen soldiers to watch the perimeter and rooftops, distributing them to vantage points. Others gathered near the truck, rigging a small triage zone. The smell of antiseptic mingled with the reek of blood. The men and women wearing legionary tunics tried not to stare too long at the bodies of friends who'd fought beside them minutes ago, lying silent in the street.
Minutes stretched into an hour, then nearly two, as the legionaries worked. They replaced a shattered portion of the APC's track, hammered twisted metal away from the drive sprocket. The supply truck's driver managed to back out of the ditch with help from half a dozen pushing shoulders. Gradually, the small group stabilized the wounded enough for transport. A few who had died were laid out in a quiet corner, soon to be placed aboard for the somber ride back. The village itself remained on edge, with scattered residents lurking behind fences. Some approached for bandages or rations, others glared, seething with resentment. But Cerys's cooler head prevailed, ensuring no vengeful acts took place. She stuffed her fury deep inside. If she let it out, they would lose any hope of bridging the gap with these people.
Hollywood reappeared, caked in soot, limbs stiff as if exhausted. He stood near the battered APC, expression unreadable. The front of his tunic was soaked in drying blood. She forced a breath. "You're not wounded?" she asked quietly, though her voice held no warmth.
He gave a slow shake of his head. "It's theirs," he said, not elaborating. He turned his gaze to the corpses lined up. "Got nothing else to do," he added flatly, and walked off to help shift debris. That was it. No bravado, no sneer. Just… emptiness.
By late afternoon, the APC's track was back in place. The engine coughed to life, battered but functional. Soldiers secured the wounded on improvised stretchers, laying them in the truck bed or inside the carrier, whichever had space. The bodies of the fallen, Jolan included, were gently placed in the cargo hold, covered with tarps. A hush pervaded. The day's sunlight angled long across the battered village. Smoke drifted from half a dozen ruined buildings.
Cerys found Felix near the APC. He'd taken a seat on a broken crate, face in his hands, recoilless rifle leaning against his leg. She placed a hand on his broad shoulder. "We should get going," she murmured.
He nodded, swallowing. "Yeah. We lost a lot of good people," he said thickly. "That was… that was real."
She gripped his shoulder harder, wordlessly. In that brief moment, the weight of it all settled between them. Then she squared her own shoulders, stepping away. "Quartex, let's move out!" she called, voice carrying an authority she wasn't sure she felt. But the men and women rose, trudging to their vehicles with battered stoicism.
Before climbing into the APC, she locked eyes with the old man she'd spoken to earlier. He stood with three or four villagers, cradling meager supplies gleaned from the wrecked truck. Their expressions were grim. No one said a word. She nodded curtly, then ducked into the carrier, and set off back to base.
Quartex A had left Outpost Gemina with thirty-four people.
They returned with twenty-eight, and seven wounded.
Part II: Insurgency
3. Tin Man's Rampage
Outpost Gemina, Galas
Occupied Illyria, fmr. Illyrian Palatinate
June 3011
"Keep your chin up, Contubernalis," Centurio Franklin Jaune-Callus said in a measured tone, fixing Cerys with a pointed stare. Outside the command bunker, the morning sun had crested the earthen walls of Outpost Gemina, throwing slanted light across the half-frozen courtyard. Activity buzzed as legionaries rushed between prefabricated bunkhouses, supply depots, and defensive emplacements. A pungent mix of wood smoke and diesel exhaust hung in the crisp Illyrian air. Inside, it was a cramped space of corrugated metal walls, a small desk, and a single sputtering heater, with half a dozen paperwork piles strewn around. The heater glowed dull orange and filled the space with a faint smell of scorched dust.
"Keep your chin up, Contubernalis," Jaune-Callus repeated in a low voice, leaving against a folding table that served as a desk, arms crossed over his battered cuirass. "I read your after-action reports and spoke to some of your comrades. It's clear your unit performed admirably under that ambush. You taking over command and showing initiative saved a lot of lives."
His voice carried a gentleness that stood in contrast to his raw, chiseled appearance. Cerys, still wearing the soiled uniform from the day before, stood straight, arms at her sides. She felt the memory of the ambush clinging to her like damp clothes: the acrid smoke, the clash of rocket fire, and the screams that haunted the periphery of her consciousness. She tried to shake it off and focus on what the Centurio was saying. "Thank you, sir. It wasn't just me. Everyone fought their hardest."
He gave a slight nod and smiled. Humility in the face of open praise was a rare trait. "The death of Optio Jolan puts us in a tight spot. He was a good man, from a good family, and it seems he knew what he was doing, which is something that cannot be said about everybody on this damned icicle of a planet," he frowned, absentmindedly tapping a pencil against the edge of the table. "I don't need to tell you that we're short on most the things that matter, officers and NCOs included. Camp Tiber doesn't have an immediate replacement for Jolan." The centurio gave her a pointed stare. "So let me be direct. You're going to lead Quartex A, effectively, until we sort this out. You're the senior contubernalis left, and you've got the respect and trust of your peers and legionaries. You'll report to me, but you'll handle your platoon's day-to-day operations, command, training, supply requests, the lot."
She stiffened, both anxious at the additional responsibilities and happy at the trust put in her. "Yes, sir," she managed, though her throat felt dry.
"The wise thing, the smart thing to do would be to promote you to decurio right away. But this is the army, and apparently we don't do smart," he grimaced mirthlessly. "Your 'special' legal status makes this a proverbial minefield," he glanced at the iron bracelet around Cerys' left arm. It suddenly felt like it weighed a ton. "High Command, in their infinite wisdom, never thought about that little facet when they implemented the Emperor's reforms. It's never crossed their minds that, yes, we might be going to war, and yes, slave volunteers can serve courageously and competently." He shook his head. "There's all sorts of political moves to consider which, to be honest, are way above my paygrade, contub. De facto you'll be acting decurio, and I've logged a request with the paymaster's office to at least grant you the same pay. But I can't grant you the recognition on paper, soldier."
She tried not to betray the twinge of bitterness inside. She had never expected to climb the ranks, certainly not quickly. Freedom was her goal, not a career. Yet, it felt strange to do the job of a Decurio while lacking the official title. She was aware of the uncertain glances that trailed her in passing from soldiers from the other units in the centuria. She was also smart enough by now to understand exactly what her commander was alluding to: the optics of a slave commanding free men and women, Patricians even? That could be a proverbial minefield unless word from above set it in stone. Knowing it didn't make it sting less, however.
"I understand the chain of command is in shambles," she said diplomatically, glad that she kept her face in check. "I'll do whatever the Legion needs, sir, with or without the rank."
Callus-Jaune studied her, his stern face etched with lines that suggested he, too, was exhausted by the demands of this occupation. "Your unit's wounded will recover, or so the medics tell me. Some fresh replacements will be on the next supply flight from Alphard as well. Grunts are easier to come by," he chuckled without true mirth. "For now, you lead. You have the authority, the responsibility - and the burden." He gestured at a small stack of envelopes on the corner of his desk. "In fact, your first official burden is right there."
She threw a glance at the envelopes, brows furrowed with concern. "Sir?"
He sighed, placing a rough palm atop them. "Letters. You have to write personal notifications to the families of the legionaries who died in that ambush. Normally the Optio does it, but you're in command now. You wrote that after-action report, so you're already half in the role. You also knew these people better. This may be the hardest part of the job."
She hesitated. "Sir… I'm not the best with words." The admission felt humiliating in front of a commanding officer, but she refused to lie. "I'll do it, but… it might not read so well."
Callus's reaction was compassionate but firm. "I understand, I do. But war rarely lines up with personal aptitudes. You're permitted to ask for help from your subordinates, should you trust them with this. Just ensure the final letters are dignified and honest. That's all we can give the families of the fallen."
"Yes, sir." A knot tightened in Cerys's throat. She'd have to tell them how their loved ones died, under her watch. She pressed her lips together, schooling her expression into something stoic. "I'll do my best, sir."
"I know you will," Callus set the envelopes down again and eased upright. "I've got endless supply forms, and a million square kilometers worth of logistics and security headaches. If you need me, I'll be in the command bunker. Dismissed, Contubernalis."
She saluted and left the bunker, hugging the envelopes to her chest. Outside, the wind slapped her face, instantly chilling, sucking the heat from her body. The courtyard was in half-motion as legionaries loaded up trucks or carried gear from one place to another. The earthen ramparts, topped with sandbags and razor wire, loomed all around, a fortress hastily carved out of the Illyrian winter landscape. On the horizon, the wooded highlands blurred to white and gray beneath a sky that seemed perpetually clouded. The crisp clang of hammer on metal echoed from the motor pool where a few legionaries worked on battered vehicles. Over by the half-sunken barracks, some soldiers lounged near a wood stove, warming stiff fingers. Others bustled about, carrying crates of supplies or reorganizing the equipment for the next patrol. She caught a few glances and respectful nods from legionaries of the other platoons, recognition of the Jesters' baptism of fire.
Her boots crunched on the ground as she crossed to the large, half-buried prefab that Quartex A called its 'office'. It was cramped inside, sticky with the damp smell emanating from twenty-five bunks. She found Felix seated on a folded metal chair, flipping through ration logs. He looked up, relief washing over his broad face.
He looked up, exhaling in relief. "Finally. You were meeting with the Centurio, right? Did he say when wee'll get a replacement for Jolan?"
She shook her head. "Nope. I'm it, apparently, until further notice." She hesitated, then dropped the envelopes on the table. "And that starts with writing these letters."
Felix let out a low whistle. "Condolence letters?"
"Yeah."
His broad face softened. "I see." Setting aside a battered ration log, he gestured for her to sit on the lone chair. The desk was little more than a salvaged plank on cinder blocks, but it offered a semblance of workspace. "Let me guess: you'd like me to help you write them?"
She swallowed. "Please." Her voice trembled more than she liked. "I can't do this alone. I might be able to do it, but it'd take me… forever. And I'd worry about messing up the words. This is too important."
He rose, took one envelope, and grimaced at the typed label on it. "I can help. I know it's… well, it's never easy. But you're not alone, SG."
A wave of gratitude welled up in her chest. "Thank you, big man." She inhaled a quivering breath, blinking away the sting in her eyes, then slid an envelope across. It bore the name of a recruit's parents on Pompey. The text was typed with a battered machine from the outpost's admin office, but the actual letter had to be handwritten.
Felix took a scrap of paper and rummaged for a pen. "Alright. Let's do this."
Easier said than done. Each letter forced her to dredge up the soldier's name, how they died, and some comforting yet honest words for the families. Something like 'He liked to carve funny figurines for his bunkmates', or 'Your daughter fought with courage, staying to help wounded comrades… She saved lives, at the cost of her own.' Felix shaped the sentences for her, smoothing out her halting attempts at grammar. Over the last months, she had improved at writing short, crisp statements for the legion's records, but condolence letters demanded a nuance that tested her. Occasionally, tears blurred her vision. Keep it together, girl, she told herself. But, somehow, killing was far easier than commemorating the dead. She stumbled, and paused often, but it was a task that needed to be done. These had been their comrades, mostly since basic, so there were no better people to write those letters than them.
Whenever the lump in her throat got too big, Felix would read back the last few lines, letting her correct or confirm them or add a detail about the fallen soldier that might bring the family comfort: the little hobbies they had or the fact that they saved others in their final moments. More than once, she pressed her face into her hands, feeling physically and mentally drained, longing for a life free of this burden. But she carried on.
They finished the last letter well into the evening. The overhead light flickered ominously, and the prefab walls rattled in a gust of wind. Stacks of half-filled, black-ink forms lay scattered. Outside, footsteps crunched in the snow. Occasional voices drifted by.
"Done." Felix set the pen aside, stretching his stiff shoulders. "It's… not perfect, but we gave them something. Something real."
Cerys let out a shaky exhale, pushing the final page aside. She stared at the battered desk, shoulders slumped. "Jolan should be here. He'd know how to do this better. But we did what we could." She glanced up at Felix, voice thick with unshed tears. "Thanks. I'd have drowned in this alone."
He gave her a small, weary smile. "You're not alone, SG. Never. Let's get these delivered to the Centurio for final stamping. Then maybe a meal, or at least coffee. Some fresh air might do us good." He rose, collecting the letters into a neat pile.
She nodded, feeling hollow. "Alright, big guy. Let's do that."
* * *
Time is a fickle thing on Illyria. It could race by in a flurry of frantic patrols or drag on in endless monotony of watch shifts under the biting wind. Four months slipped away almost without Cerys noticing, spattered with constant skirmishes, bruising defeats, small victories, and harsh lessons. Rather than 'keeping the peace' and 'handing out relief supplies' on Galas, Tenth Cohort found itself in a long, grinding campaign of anti-insurgency, driven by an overall Marian plan that always seemed to be under revision.
Cerys had begun those months as a somewhat awkward stand-in for an officer, still grappling with literacy and the complexities of writing reports. She learned to scribble short briefing notes and present them to the Centurio, who would scribble his own signature or pass them upward. She wrote countless updates on intelligence gleaned from captured rebels or local villagers, and yes, more condolence letters. With every scrawled line, her penmanship improved, her reading speed increased, and her vocabulary expanded.
Sometimes it seemed the only ones who didn't care about the niceties of grammar were the insurgents. The local rebels harried the Marian movements with IEDs and ambushes. Tenth Cohort learned day by day how to adapt. Not everything was a makeshift solution. Supplies from Alphard and the Hegemony arrived slowly, but they did arrive, with ships carrying the first batches of rapidly manufactured, basic winter gear. The Legion's presence grew in size and scope. Tanks came as reinforcements, yet often found themselves less effective in the dense forests or rocky passes. VTOLs and recon drones became more frequent sights in the skies. Quartex C even took part in an operation with artillery support. Rebel forces didn't stand still, either. Some outposts reported infiltration attempts, with insurgents disguised as villagers. Elsewhere, ComStar shipments of medicine or relief supplies were hijacked. Buying the loyalty of a village was a game two sides could play.
So the Jesters practiced the old tenets of 'Cover, Precision, Dispersal, Surprise' drilled into them by Mad Dog Mitchell. It proved just as relevant against scattered rebel cells as it did in facing a hypothetical battlemech. They learned to spread out when they disembarked, never offering the rebels a clustered target. They grew adept at scanning every nook and cranny of the terrain, the underside of bridges, the hollows of old logs, even false floors in abandoned barns. They refined swift responses to mortars or rocket attacks, launching into the right flanking route before the enemy could vanish. It was a slog, with small but real progress made in each engagement.
It was a harsh truth, but death was a good teacher. Polished armor and colorful cloaks made them stick out like a sore thumb, so they started bleaching their cloaks and tunics white and gray. Helmets and armor received white and gray and brown coats of paint, each in their own individual patterns. Mechanics in the motor pools began tinkering with additional armor to boost what the legionaries wore. And officers tore out the feather plumes on their helmets and scratched off the gold or silver trim. Looking fancy was for parades. But out here, looking fancy was like handing out written invitations to enemy snipers.
Bit by bit, the Legion dug in across Galas, pacifying entire stretches of the wild land. Villages that once slammed their doors at the sight of legionaries now began cautiously accepting them, especially when the soldiers handed out basic rations or medicine. The Jesters found that local children often showed them hidden trails or pointed out shady strangers in exchange for small gifts or kindly gestures. The journey toward winning trust was slow, but in those four months, the Jesters saw the difference: fewer hateful glares, more reluctant acceptance.
Month by month, they pushed the insurgents deeper into remote pockets, pacifying hamlets and farmland, forging a reluctant respect from villagers who had seen too many false promises. They distributed ComStar crates of grain, or helped repair a local mill, or cleared roads blocked by sabotage and neglect. Each time, the region stabilized a little more, though it cost them. The red patches on the map grew smaller and smaller.
And still, she wrote letters for the families of the fallen. Still, she sought help from Felix or occasionally from someone else with more refined grammar. Each time, her reading advanced, and each letter felt sharper, clearer, and more confident, though the sadness never faded. Four more times, she penned words of condolence to next of kin after a violent encounter. Four more soldiers who had joined the Jesters, some older veterans, others new replacements, went into the ground. Almost everyone in the Jesters spent time in the field hospital at some point. In exchange, the Marian command funneled fresh recruits to them, fresh from Camp Avernus. The 'Old Guard' felt echoes of their own early days in their wide eyes and shaky stances.
When a fresh-faced youth from Alphard asked if they were actually allowed to adjust their uniform, Cerys couldn't help but let out a short laugh. "Adjust away, kid. If you don't, you'll freeze your toes off."
Come August, they actually received the first shipment of boots - real boots - and a bunch of extra heaters for each prefab! Ironically, the next month, though calendrically marking the beginning of autumn on Terra, saw the slow end of Illyria's long winter season.
By the end of that four-month stretch, the Tenth Cohort's grip on southern Galas stood firmer. The ambushes came less frequently. Or when they did come, they fizzled after the first exchange of gunfire, the rebels fading into deeper mountains and forests. The legionaries had learned how to patrol unpredictably, how to coordinate quick-response teams, how to keep the population from tipping off every route. VTOLs could respond fast. Constant recon drone flights made it hard for the insurgents to just vanish into thin air after attacks. The region was not 'liberated' in a grand sense, but it was calmer, more stable, and the Marian troops could point to real progress.
In truth, a large portion of what they did now was more about forging relationships than it was about raw firepower. This brand of war demanded that you shoot one day, and distribute blankets the next. She doubted the higher-ups had ever properly trained them for such a mission. Not even Jolan had been prepared. They were all improvising.
Holding command was a task filling every waking minute, so much so that she barely had time to reflect on her old life or the fact that she was still, by law, a slave. But the war overshadowed such details in practice. There was no time for the bureaucracy to decide her rank or status, and in briefings with the Centurio and the other quartex leaders, her voice carried the same weight as theirs. Each dawn found her reading new intel logs with far more fluency than she ever dreamed possible. Each dusk found her training fresh arrivals, teaching them the same caution she had learned through bitter experience. Cerys led in fact, if not in name. Felix often teased her that she was "the Decurio behind the scenes," which never failed to bring a small, rueful smile to her lips. She discovered the odd satisfaction of growing into a new identity. Not quite free, not quite recognized as an official decurio, but in the field, her orders carried weight. Her people responded to her calm authority, and if the replacements did not from the start, the Old Guard was quick to show them the error of their ways.
Even Hollywood, if they crossed paths, might mutter 'Contub' or simply nod in acknowledgment. Her former tormentor carved out a bizarre niche in the Jesters. His ferocity in combat, combined with a stoic disregard for personal risk, made him a lethal asset whenever insurgents tried to stand and fight. A few recognized that if they wanted a near-suicidal infiltration, Hollywood was the man for it. Cerys observed him from a distance, unsettled by the vacant, almost resentful look in his eyes when he returned from each mission. He seldom spoke to anyone except to confirm orders or request ammo. With grudging respect, soldiers whispered that he was "the scariest bastard in the Jesters". Wisely, she kept him at arm's length.
Early spring slowly came to Illyria. The snows no longer fell so much, then stopped completely, and eventually, one day, the thawing started. And the time for the rebels on Galas ran out.
Occupied Illyria, fmr. Illyrian Palatinate
Early October 3011
The morning sun broke across the highlands in a pale, cold light as all of Outpost Gemina rumbled forth in force. It was the beginning of October by Terran reckoning, but on Illyria, that meant early spring, though you'd be hard-pressed to believe it from the chill still haunting the crisp mountain air. Four quartex of Marian legionaries, battered white paint dulling the sheen of their armor, packed themselves into the Spartan interiors of their four Mark V APCs and light scout jeeps. Ahead of them, a maniple of five tanks - two Galleons and three Vedettes, old, battered, and painted in dapples of white and gray and brown - took point, their treads grinding over the rocky path, diesel fumes blasting from their combustion engines. The plan was simple: strike before the rebels had any inkling, using speed and stealth to seize the advantage.
Cerys watched from her quartex' APC's turret, goggles shielding her eyes against the glare and biting airstream. A brief swirl of dust behind the column made her think of Addhara's deserts for a heartbeat, but the pine scent and lingering patches of melting snow, growing streams of meltwater, and treacherous puddles reminded her that this was anything but the dry steppes of their training.
Apparently, early spring here meant scattered green showing through old frost, and the air possessed a faint promise of renewal. She stuck close to the turret's radio, trying to not entangle herself with the gunner too much, ready to react to new orders in a heartbeat. Jaune-Callus was up ahead, in a scout jeep, which was a ballsy move, given all that had happened, Cerys thought. But the Centurio had insisted on not riding in one of the APCs. The company's local mechanics had done some impressive welding these past weeks and months, repairing damaged vehicles, fitting them with additional armor plating. It slowed the scout jeeps down, made them harder to drive and top-heavy, she was told. But you couldn't deny that an additional five millimeters of steel might make the difference between life and death. Besides, the ATVs' radio equipment was newer and more capable than the bulky boxes inside the Mark Vs.
Uncomfortably, she adjusted the harness strapped over her white-and-gray painted lorica segmentata-style armor. Jury-rigged from wires and tent fabric by the same crew that did the vehicle welds, the harness held a thick, ballistic steel plate, just large enough to cover her ribcage. It was crude, but it had already once saved her from serious injury. As such, necessity was the mother of invention, and boy, did necessity kick them all around, all the time!
Ahead, she could see the rocky ridges, the dark lines of the coniferous forests that covered most of Gallas, enshrouding the abandoned logging village they were headed to.
They'd found this place a week ago. Or, more accurately, they'd pieced together its location from drones, tips by villagers who had grown wary of their compatriots' demands and appreciative of the Marians' help, and the loose tongues of captured rebel fighters who knew when to break under the right kind of interrogation. The logs pinned to a battered table back in Outpost Gemina hinted the rebels had used an old, abandoned sawmill and its stone-and-wood huts for a headquarters. Now the entire company was moving in a rush to finish them off before the insurgents could melt away.
Four quartex, each around thirty legionaries, spread across APCs and a cluster of lightly armored scout jeeps. The tanks clattered at the front, turrets scanning left and right in case of ambush. Every soldier wore improvised winter-spring camouflage, cloaks bleached a splotchy mix of off-white or pale green as if to echo the forests they would soon fight within.
Felix sat just below Cerys in the APC, resting the recoilless rifle between his legs, the tube painted in a dull white. he exuded the casual calm of a man who'd spent the better part of the last half year in near-constant battle. Gnome sat across him, the differences in physical appearance between the two of them almost comical, absentmindedly checking the charging handle on his light machine gun. He shot her a quick glance, an unspoken question: Ready? She gave him a small nod. Inside her chest, her heart pounded with that familiar swirl of excitement and dread.
The road wound upward through rocky terrain and small forests, forcing the tanks into single file. In the lead was a Galleon, a squat wedge with a turret that housed a medium laser. Its treads crushed loose stones underfoot. The second tank, a Vedette with an autocannon, rumbled just behind, barrel angled warily. Where the terrain permitted it, the scouts in jeeps peeled off at intervals, taking side paths. When the shooting started, the light vehicles' task would be to circle the logging village quickly to cut off possible angles of retreat. The operation's entire approach hinged on shock and speed.
After another half hour of tense driving, and the path opened into a broader plateau littered by tree stumps from tall evergreens cut years ago, ringed by pines and stony outcroppings. Smoke curled faintly from a handful of chimneys in the distance on a gentle slope, a sign that the rebels were present, and still utterly unaware of the hammer about to fall.
"Centuria!" Jaune-Callus's voice crackled over the comm. "We have eyes on the village. Proceed as planned. Tanks, you lead. Quartexes, dismount, and secure the perimeter. Let's keep the momentum. For the Emperor! Attack!"
"For the Emperor," Cerys echoed under her breath. She gave Felix a last nod, then dropped into the troop bay. "Jesters! We're hitting them fast and hard. Remember your positions. Dismount on my signal. Tin Can!?" she yelled to the front. "Get us to the edge of the village. Hit it!"
Like a well-rehearsed ballet, the column of vehicles fanned out into a wide, inverted wedge. The APCs took up position between the tanks as they raced forward across the jagged ground, their wide tracks clawing through mud, rock, and rotten tree stumps. Cerys climbed up into the turret again, the rough ground tossing her back and forth as she tried to steady her stance, pressing a pair of binoculars to her eyes.
In the distance, the sawmill's tall wooden edifice rose against the backdrop of a bare hill, flanked by ramshackle houses of stone and logs that dotted the hillside. It might have looked quaint once, if not for the rebel fortifications scattered around, sandbag emplacements, barbed wire, some scrounged metal plating forming improvised barricades.
One after the other, the Marian vehicles opened fire as they raced across the plateau, covering the settlement in a barrage of 60 mm autocannon shells, scorching medium laser beams, and a hailstorm of .50 cal bullets from the APC and advancing scouts.
Cerys pressed the binoculars to her eyes, feeling the flat turret shudder as the gunner next to her unleashed a staccato of machine gun fire as the Mark V jolted across the uneven ground. Rebel gunmen scrambled for cover. Cerys saw panicked figures dart between huts. The rebels had been caught flat-footed. The next moment, the entire hillside erupted with the chatter of insurgent weapons.
Yet the Marians had already seized control of the momentum. Several huts belched black smoke, walls exploding, wooden shingles catching fire from the searing heat of laser beams. For once having the space to bring their hardware to bear, the Marians' concentrated onslaught forced the defenders into half-dug foxholes or behind fragile stone walls. APCs thundered through, only stopping a hundred meters or so away from the village's edge, disgorging more legionaries in a swirl of powdery soil and leftover snowmelt.
Cerys tapped the gunner's helmet. "Keep up covering fire, and keep moving once we're out. Stationary is bad, m'kay?" One of the earliest lessons learned: if you stuck around, you made yourself an easy target. "Jesters?! Ready to roll! Move out!"
The rear hatch flung open, and the legionaries poured out, Cerys letting herself sink back into the APC before she hurried after them. Immediately the wind carried the tang of pine resin and the faint hum of running water, a rocky stream pouring down the hillside.
"Fire teams! Keep moving, and cover each other. Ten o'clock and two o'clock; let's clear those houses. On the double!" She signaled her maniples forward, heart thumping. Quartex A advanced in bounding overwatch, some kneeling behind boulders while others sprinted towards the edge of the village in a by now well-rehearsed zig-zag. Run - cover. Run - cover. A missile from Felix's recoilless screamed over their heads and slammed into a rebel machine-gun nest barricaded in an old stable while the crew fumbled with the stationary gun, the explosion collapsing the structure with a roar of splinters and flame. Rebels scrambled out, living torches, half-burned. The closest maniple pinned them easily. It was both, mercy and cold calculation. Nobody deserved to burn alive. But there had been cases where wounded rebels had quite literally shot legionaries in the back, and Cerys and her comrades were not about to take risks.
Fire from the tanks moved deeper into the village, AC shells arching over their heads while the two Galleons rattled closer, small lasers buzzing in support of the advancing infantry while their main guns suppressed enemy fire points. With tracers zapping by, the camouflaged legionaries broke into the houses, entering close-quarters combat. Unlike their very first encounter, this time they came prepared.
Cerys fixed her gladius and was the first to storm in after Slowpoke opened the way with a frag grenade. Their cold, methodical approach belied the anxiety and adrenaline that rushed through Cerys' veins as she moved deeper into the contested buildings, rifle at the ready. Slowpoke had her back, moving with her at an angle that allowed both of them to fire.
A half-naked, middle-aged man stumbled into their field of view, a shotgun in one hand while the other clutched at a gash in his side where wooden splinters had puckered his chest. Two quick bursts struck him down. Behind the contubernalis, the rest of Quartex A filed in, breaking off to secure the rooms to the sides of the hallway. Only a few shots rang here and there. The rebels had been good when lying in wait, setting up ambushes. A concerted, frontal assault from a trained and - by now - experienced force was a whole different ball game.
A couple of rebels fled from the outer houses, running into the village square, trying to reach the opposite houses where their comrades hurriedly tried to set up a defense. Most of them didn't make it across, being cut down by the advancing Marians. Between the houses, the tanks and jeeps rumbled closer. From a distance, the Vedettes and APCs kept firing. The logging village sloped softly uphill, allowing for clear fields of fire from behind. Cerys watched the sawmill's main yard fill with legionaries, ready to pounce on the last pockets of resistance. The plan was working. Surprise had shattered the defenders' nerve.
The ground trembled. An explosion, most likely.
But the Vedettes' autocannons had paused. Then it trembled again. And again.
A deep, mechanical groan that didn't belong to any scout jeep or tank, like stretching metal, rolled over the square. For a heartbeat, Cerys thought it must be a trick of the wind, or maybe some rumbling from the sawmill's ancient generators. Then the sound intensified, joined by a clank of heavy steps. The rebels' panicked voices became something else entirely: exultation, as if a hidden card had just been flipped in their favor.
A-Maniple's radio crackled. "We've got a big heat signature at the sawmill!" their APC's commander reported anxiously.
A metallic behemoth, painted in a grungy white and blue razzle-dazzle pattern that made Cerys' eyes swim, emerged from behind the abandoned sawmill tower. Ten meters of bipedal steel strode forward with shocking ease, each footfall sending tremors up Cerys's spine. It was something Mad Dog had trained them for - and his words still rang true. You could not train away the primal fear that suddenly gripped Cerys as the rebel battlemech almost leisurely strode into the fray. Somewhere deep behind the flush of fear in her mind, a warbook picture merged with the metal beast stomping towards them. It was an Enforcer, armed with an autocannon mounted on its right arm, a large laser on its left.
An immediate wave of panic rippled through the Marian lines. The lead Galleon tank pivoted to engage, turret swiveling with a high-pitched whine. The Enforcer pilot didn't hesitate. Thunder cracked as the autocannon spat a burst of shells that tore through the Galleon's frontal plating, shredding treads in an explosion of sparks. The tank lurched, undone in seconds.
"Gods," Felix whispered, breath tight. He half-lowered his recoilless rifle in disbelief. "They have a 'Mech?"
All hell broke loose. Scattered curses screamed through comm channels. "Enemy battlemech on the field!" someone shouted. "It's an Enforcer! Watch for that large laser!" Another voice: "Tanks, focus fire. Infantry, spread out!"
Cerys felt a cold sweat break across her brow. She forced a breath. They had practiced anti-mech tactics, learned from Drill Sergeant Mitchell. Cover, Precision, Dispersal, Surprise. They'd done it on Addhara's courses, but facing a real 'Mech was another terror altogether. The rebel pilot twisted the Enforcer's torso, large laser flaring a beam that scorched across a Vedette. The second tank reeled, its turret half-melted.
Pushing against the overwhelming feeling of fear, she grabbed the radio hard, yanking the operator closer. "Jesters!" she shouted into the receiver, voice cracking. "Spread out! We can't cluster or it'll pick us off. Recoilless teams, SRM launchers, gunners: keep hitting whatever you can. Every shot has to count!" One-handed, she fumbled a new magazine into her assault rifle. "Tin Can!? Keep up covering fire against the hillside houses, but by Mars' hairy ass cheeks, keep moving! Cerys Out!"
She jumped up, pulling Felix and the radio operator with her, repeating her commands again against the cacophony of the newly flared-up battle. "Disperse, Jesters, disperse!" she screamed, her voice raw. "Five are a target, two a waste of ammo!"
Felix gulped air, and found a boulder to kneel behind. "SG, help me reload to be quicker," he muttered. "So much for the quality of our recon."
"I'll remember to file a complaint once we're done," she replied with fake levity, pushing a missile into the weapon's tube. She cleared Pork Chops' back and patted his helmet.
The tall man didn't need an extra invitation. Cold sweat ran down his cheeks as he raised his weapon, calculating the mech's path, and pushed the trigger. The missile screamed away in an almost perfect straight line and slammed into the mech's torso, leaving little more than scorch marks and a dent.
The Enforcer didn't stop. With a roar of jump jets, it leaped almost a hundred meters in a single bound. The ground shook as it landed near a cluster of legionaries from Quartex C, who scattered like ants under a falling boot. The autocannon thundered, each shell churning soil and flesh in savage plumes. Debris whirled. In the blink of an eye, half a squad was gone, lost in an explosion that made Cerys's stomach lurch. She forced herself to move, sprinting to the next patch of cover, mind racing.
Their advantage over the rebels had flipped. Now the mechanized giant skittered among the smoldering huts, leaping short distances, each jump leaving a deep gouge in the muddy ground. The pilot's skill was clear and eerily mirrored Cerys' own approach: never staying in one place, always flanking the enemy. Another burst of 120 mm shells and a laser beam as thick as an arm cut into the Vedette's side armor. The tank came to a sputtering halt. Barely a second later a geyser of flame shot through the turret and the other hatches.
The three remaining vehicles tried to track it, autocannons and lasers rattling. Shells sparked off the Mech's side armor, leaving black gouges but no crippling damage. The Enforcer hammered back with its own autocannon in a savage exchange of steel and lead. Large laser beams slashed arcs of molten heat across the defenders, forcing them to duck behind rock outcroppings, dive into ruined houses, or behind the husks of older vehicles. The machine's torso twisted mid-stride, sending another burst over their heads and into one of the APCs that circled the village perimeter. One of the scout jeeps came too close, trying to use speed and its lower profile to its advantage. The mech pilot bowed his machine forward and punched the jeep aside with his left arm, sending it crashing into a solid rock house.
Something about that unstoppable grace reminded Cerys how small they all were, like ants faced with a grizzly bear. Ten meters, 50 tons, running at over sixty kilometers per hour, or launching skyward in dizzying jumps. None of the scattered huts offered real shelter from that walking terror.
"SRMs, now!" she yelled, toggling the comm. "Keep it off guard!" She recalled something Mad Dog had told them once: Neurohelmets can't help if you blow off a knee. That was the best chance for infantry: somehow disable the Mech's mobility, bring it down to your level, and keep it occupied by a thousand papercuts.
A pair of legionaries hefted shoulder-mounted SRM tubes and fired. Smoke contrails streaked upward, one grazing the Enforcer's left hip. An explosion, a flash of orange. The second missile soared wide, smashing into an abandoned shack. The Enforcer staggered, but quickly recovered, whipping around to blast the SRM team with an almost casual autocannon burst. Fragments of bone and cloth spattered the clearing. Cerys clenched her fists, heart hammering, fighting to push aside the horror. She had to keep going.
Nearby, a Vedette revved forward, main gun barking in quick succession. Shells hammered the Enforcer's torso, stripping off external plating. The pilot launched again, using jump jets to arc behind the Vedette and blow out its engine with a savage laser shot. The tank's hull erupted in flame, thick smoke rolling high. The Mech pivoted to face the rest, fearlessly pouncing from one position to the next. Rebels on the sidelines cheered, renewed in their will to fight.
Cerys scrambled behind a half-collapsed house, throwing out hand signals for her squads to circle around. She glimpsed a flash of motion at the second-floor window above: Hollywood, perhaps, or Noodles, trying to line up a shot from higher ground. Another rocket whooshed out, clipping the Mech's right shoulder. Sparks showered, making the machine hiss in protest. But it was still far from crippled.
The Centurio's rough, strained voice barked from the radio. "Tanks, box it in if you can. Everyone else, keep it dancing, don't let it pin you down! Concentrate your fire!" One by one, they had no chance. Their only way out of this was to put enough bullets on target from enough different angles so that even a decent pilot like the rebel one came to the end of his rope.
The last Vedette tank roared in from the flank, turret belching lethal autocannon shells. Another SRM volley soared from behind a line of pines. The Enforcer jerked as multiple impacts tore at its side, sending smoke spewing from the torso. The pilot forced the Mech into another jump, bounding behind a ramshackle stone warehouse. The Vedette rumbled closer, its commander staring out the turret hatch, peppering the building with fire. Through the swirling dust, Cerys saw Felix hustling into position again. If he timed it right, they could catch the Mech on landing.
The next moment the Enforcer soared back into view with a thunderous shriek of its jump jets, leaping across the sawmill's yard. Felix fired his recoilless. The shaped-charge warhead slammed into the Mech's left leg mid-flight. A plume of fire enveloped the joint. Precautiously, the pilot tried to steady the landing, the joint being hit but not quite damaged, but his prescience turned against him. The machine hit unevenly, crashing through a floor into a cellar with one leg. Metal screamed as it skidded, plating buckling. The approaching Vedette's autocannon spat fire, projectiles hammering the exposed leg and half-stuck torso. Struggling to regain balance, the Enforcer half-sank to a knee before powering upright again. The misstep had made it take damage. It limped, but was still lethal, trying to steer free of the wrecked house until its jump jets were powered up again.
"Now!" Cerys hollered. She felt adrenaline spike like molten iron in her veins. "Bring it down!"
A second wave of SRM teams and the battered Galleon converged, saturating the Mech's flanks with heavy fire. Two satchel-charge carriers flung their explosives at the knee and ankle servo. Their blasts rattled the hillside. The pilot aimed the autocannon wildly, turning one soldier into a fine mist and crumbling the house behind him, while the large laser spat sizzling energy into the Galleon's upper hull. The tank reeled, turret cracked but still operational. Defiantly, its medium laser and two small lasers fired back, biting into the Enforcer's damaged plating.
Noodles with her heavy rifle aimed for the cockpit. The bullet pinged off the Mech's thick head assembly, no kill or penetration, but it left a spiderweb across the transparent armor, enough to shock the pilot. A second satchel charge stuck to the lower leg. The Mech tried to pivot. Another scalding volley from the Vedette hammered its torso, the tank driving behind a collapsed house to give it greater protection. The final satchel detonated. Metal shards soared in all directions. The Enforcer's left leg gave way. With a ragged screech, the entire war machine crashed into the muddy ground, rattling the stone foundations of nearby huts. The pilot, refusing to surrender, peppered the area with a desperate autocannon blast that sent legionaries scurrying behind cover. Felix reloaded his weapon again and put another projectile into the side of the cockpit. A gout of flame belched from the Mech's ruined plating. The arm twitched once, its integrated autoloader still cycling, then fell limp.
For the brink of a moment, a hush settled, broken by the crackle of fires and the moans of wounded. While a sense of relief still flooded her veins, Cerys grabbed the radio again. "Jesters, divert fire to infantry targets. Don't let up, this isn't over jet!"
To their credit, the Jesters reacted like a well-oiled machine, the result of months of action and training. But only a few more shots were fired. The rebels, seeing their prized Mech lying broken in the sawmill yard, had lost their taste for further battle. Shouts in their own dialect echoed across the village yard.
"Vi overgir oss!" (We surrender!)
"Ikke mer slassing!" (No more fighting!)
One by one, they stumbled out of half-shattered buildings with arms raised. A few tried to flee, only to run into the advanced scouts or get pinned by a leftover tank.
Cerys stayed crouched for a moment, chest heaving, mind reeling at how close they'd come to disaster. Slowly, she rose. The savage noise of combat ebbed into a subdued din, overshadowed by the hiss of smoldering debris and the faint wail of the wounded. She glimpsed Hollywood stepping out of the warehouse's top floor, carrying an SRM launcher he had picked up somewhere, face grim. He looked at the collapsed Enforcer as though half expecting it to stir. No, not expecting, she corrected herself. Wishing! But it stayed inert, a testament to every single anti-mech lesson they had drilled into their bones over the last year. And to a big helping by Lady Fortuna.
Felix came limping forward, recoilless rifle slung. His cheeks were smeared with soot and sweat. He locked eyes with Cerys. "We did it," he managed, voice tight. "We actually took down a bloody 'mech!"
She let out a breath that felt like it had been stuck in her lungs forever. "Yeah," she rasped, heart still racing. Then louder: "All maniples, secure the perimeter. Tend to the wounded. Let's make sure no more rebel surprises are waiting."
And that was that. A hush fell over the ruined village.
By noon, VTOLs patrolled overhead, and the company had swept the last pockets of resistance from the rocky hillsides, capturing stragglers. The Enforcer remained where it fell, a colossal trophy waiting to be salvaged. Soldiers milled around the downed husk, some snapping pictures or kneeling to knock on the battered plating. Twenty-two insurgents were in irons, most of them wounded. The same number lay dead in the village and in the ruined houses. It was a moment of triumph overshadowed by the cost in blood. Between the tanks and the infantry, the Marians had lost a sixth of their force, with most casualties caused by the enemy 'mech.
Cerys stood on the edge of the mill's scorched yard, gazing at the horizon. Smoke rose from the battered houses, but beyond that, the distant forest swayed gently in the spring wind. She felt battered, but alive, happy that the battle was over, and her unit had suffered only one KIA. They'd faced the worst the rebels had to offer, and won.
Jaune-Callus approached her, his left arm in a sling, a few cuts on his face, but otherwise her company's commanding officer seemed unshaken. She straightened and gave the Marian salute.
"At ease, soldier." He shook his head and produced a crumbled pack of cigarettes from a pocket, fetching one with his lips, and offered another one to Cerys.
Surprised, she took one and helped her CO light them on fire. She inhaled and coughed, never having smoked before. But it would have been foolish to reject Jaune-Callus' gesture.
The gruff officer simply smiled. "The first is always the worst. Your people did good today. They kept it together better than the other quartexes."
"Thank you, sir. We had a very good instructor in basic," she replied modestly while still feeling elated at the praise.
"Maybe so, Cerys. But they've also had someone capable leading them under enemy fire, and basic training can only account for so much. You're good at what you're doing." He glanced back over his shoulder at the downed battlemech. "I'm going to have some serious words with someone back at recon," he gritted his teeth. "They should've detected that thing on IR or magnetics, even if it had been powered down. We'd have done this differently then. I would have done this differently."
"It's cost us a lot of good people, sir," Cerys replied quietly.
Jaune-Callus simply nodded. "Yes, it did. All the more important that the unit kept it together. Still, the stronghold's been taken. Not going to jinx it, but the rebellion's backbone in these parts' has been snapped. Which means I can finally do this." He reached into his pocket. When it came out again, his fingers held a small pair of silver chevrons which he unceremoniously attached to Cerys' collar before she had a chance to react. "Congratulations, decurio." He straightened and gave the Marian salute.
Cerys eyes widened to the size of saucers. "I… thank you, sir! I serve the Hegemony!" she returned his salute.
The Centurio smiled wryly and extended his hand. Tentatively, Cerys shook it, still surprised. Jaune-Callus' grip was hard, earnest. Their eyes met. "I know you will," the older man said plainly. "And faithful service, good service, demands recognition, decurio. The paperwork's already done. I'll handle the fallout, if there is any."
They smoked the rest of their cigarettes in silence, the village's pacification continuing around them. In the distance, a large salvage truck forced its way through the narrow forest roads.
Command would see the battle as a great victory. Salvaging the 'mech alone accounted for a lot, the machine costing more than the lost tanks combined, and wiping out the remaining core of the local insurgency justified the losses to Camp Tiber. But to Cerys and her comrades, the loss of friends and fellow soldiers weighed more than the change of some lines on a map. It'd take time to rebuild the company, adjust to new faces, adjust to seeing some faces never again.
In her bunk that night, Cerys removed her helmet, set aside her battered rifle, and eased out of the improvised cold-weather cloak. She pressed a hand to the small iron bracelet that remained locked around her wrist. If she survived another few years, the contract would end, granting her freedom. Yet, ironically, she was already wielding more authority than a lot of free citizens might ever touch. The paradox gnawed at her, but she was too exhausted to dwell on it. Sleep eventually claimed her.
High above Illyria, the planet's small moon glimmered against the black vacuum.