CHAPTER 2
Noah Tallec clutched the restraint harness over his chest as the Izmir’s landing gear set down, jostling the entire ship. Noah pressed his head back into the cradle, one finger tapping against the thin metal handle on the harness. Coughs and grumbles filled the troop compartment. Noah rattled the harness as the overhead lights flickered.
The harness had high, padded sides to reduce the risk of injury during a rough landing. While he’d appreciated the cushion during the descent from orbit, the only thing he could see was directly overhead and an empty seat across from him.
The landing wasn’t like the net vids or the recruitment blocks everyone had to watch during their final year of mandatory education. No bombastic music or the thrill of landing in the midst of battle. The Izmir was a civilian cargo ship, not a proper Hegemony naval vessel. The rust bucket barely had any guns on it.
“Why’re we still locked in? There something wrong?” Noah asked. His multi-tool was on his belt and it would take him a minute or two to trip the emergency release if needed. He’d been taught that skill away from the eyes of sergeants as breaking anything aboard the Izmir would mean a dock in pay and extra duty for—
“Crew’s doing their thing. Just be quiet for a minute,” Mason Tallec said from the next seat over. “Everything’s ‘hurry up and wait’ in the Army. You should’ve figured that out by now.”
Noah’s brother, Mason, seemed far more serene about landing on a new planet. Mason had the same fresh, high and tight haircut required for all the soldiers of the Bretton Eleventh, but none of the nervous excitement of greener troops. During the final days of the journey, Mason had taken on the same long-distance stare and short temper Noah remembered from years ago. He thought Mason’s difficult nature then had to do with the awful news Mason had returned to, but the longer Noah was in and around the military, the less that idea held up.
“Right. Sure.” Noah rattled the harness again. “But we’ve rehearsed emergency evac procedures so many times—they said we’d be up and about thirty seconds after landing, didn’t they?”
“Hey.” A boot thumped against the deck to Noah’s left. “Real gravity! We’re finally here.” A baby-faced soldier with big brown eyes gave him a goofy smile.
“There’s no difference between ship gravity plating and a gravity well, Donan,” Noah said. “We’ve been over—”
The harness clicked and the pressure against Noah’s chest relented. He pushed the harness up and locked it into the housing built into the bulkhead. He could finally see his squad’s full compartment again. The other nine soldiers weren’t as eager to get up and about as he was; most sat there with a look somewhere between dull annoyance and exhaustion. They’d adapted to shipboard time during the transit from Bretton and their landing just so happened to take place in the middle of the sleep cycle, 3 AM ship time.
Donan drummed his feet against the deck, then raised his arms and let them fall to his side, still testing gravity. The top of his fatigues was rumpled from the harness. Noah checked his own uniform and tugged at the bottom, brushing away creases. Standard Hegemony fatigues for work and training were drab gray; soldiers’ bore their name over their right chest, patch for their unit on their right shoulder and the Hegemony armed forces crest on their left arm. Rank was embossed into the collar that extended halfway up their necks.
Mason peeled a short black strip from a wound-up puck of the same material and pressed it against his gums. He leaned to one side and rested a shoulder against a pile of duffel bags secured to the deck by rubber netting. Noah reached over and poked his brother in the arm; a slight raise of his chin was enough for Mason to know Noah was worried about him.
“Shipboard inspection uniform!” Sergeant Corre read off from a small screen on the underside of his wrist. He stood up from his seat next to the bay door, his face darkening as he continued to read. “Inspection uniform plus rain slicks. Battalion formation in ten minutes in the cargo bay.”
Corre, the oldest man in the squad bay, had a lean, angular face. His hairline had lost the battle against middle age and he’d opted for a bald shave, else the horseshoe around his bald pate would garner attention and jokes no one would make to his face. He had a perpetual air of seething annoyance to him, which Noah wasn’t sure was part of his nature or a consequence of being the squad leader for a bunch of mostly raw recruits.
Noah touched his belt over his left hip where the rain slick was supposed to be attached. It wasn’t there, of course; the plastic could melt in the event of a crash and wasn’t supposed to be worn during landings.
“Are the zeros serious?” Corporal Boyle said from across the compartment. The man was larger than the rest of the squad, and his thick arms and torso bulged against his fatigues. “It doesn’t rain in this bucket.”
“It rains on Dahrien.” Sergeant Corre unfastened the webbing over their duffel bags and rolled it towards the bulkhead. “LT’s orders didn’t come with an option for our feedback. Get your slicks and get to the cargo bay.”
Noah slid his duffel bag out of the pile and dragged it away from the others. He unlocked the top and jammed an arm deep into the bag. Now, where had he put the slick?
Mason worked his jaw from side to side as the nicotine strip on his gums activated. His rain slick was at the very top of his gear in his duffel bag.
“Mason,” Noah whispered just loudly enough for his brother to hear, “isn’t this bad luck?”
“What? Bad enough that we’re in the Saint-damned infantry on some backwater shithole for the next 364 standard days.” Mason gave him a sideways glance.
“No. Where is that damn slicker?” Noah pulled out a rolled-up set of fatigues and dropped them on the deck, then did the same with a pair of pristine boots. “It’s raining. Isn’t it bad luck to step off a ship when it’s raining?”
“Oh, yeah.” Mason nodded slowly. “I remember Grandpa saying something ’bout that during the Union War. Don’t matter. We made it dirtside without any screaming or fire, so this ain’t so bad.”
Mason reached into one of Noah’s spare boots and pulled out a rain slicker perfectly folded into a square and shoved it into his brother’s chest.
“There it is.” Noah rolled his eyes and repacked his duffel. “Why are you so calm? Dahrien’s got an insurgency on it, right? Isn’t that why we’re here?”
“Because we didn’t get here in a drop pod,” Mason said. “There’s three ways the Hegemony infantry ever go boots-down on a world: in a coffin bolted onto the outside of a pod built by the lowest bidder that lands in the middle of a firefight, a smooth descent in a pressurized and temp-controlled ship like this . . . or as a cloud of flaming chunks when either of those options fails or gets blown to shit during descent. I did two combat drops on my last hitch. This is a friggin’ pleasure cruise.”
“I’m just going to leave my duffel out here,” Donan said. “We’ve landed. No need to keep everything secure, right?”
He snapped a hook into a ring, closing his bag.
“You want to donate all your gear, private?” a short man asked as he slapped a patrol cap against his thigh. “Because anyone sticks their head in here and sees a loose bag it’s free game. You think everyone’s got every single bit of kit they’re supposed to?”
“I kinda do, Sarge.” Donan shrugged. “We’ve had layouts since before we even left Bretton and—”
“Rhetorical question, dipshit.” The sergeant—Rochelle by his name tape—swiped his cap at Donan. “Don’t let your discipline slip just because we’re out of hyperspace. Lock it down.”
“Yes, sergeant.” Donan lugged his bag back onto the pile. Noah was right behind him.
“Uniform is rain slicker, donned.” Sergeant Corre leaned over the threshold to the troop compartment. “Hard time in four minutes!”
“His hard time is in four minutes.” Mason shook his slicker out and squeezed his head through the hole in the center. “Platoon sergeant’s hard time is five minutes after that. Then the LT’s hard time is ten minutes later which is thirty minutes before the captain’s—”
“Do you want to be late for any of those?” Sergeant Rochelle asked. “No? Didn’t think so. Everyone move your asses. We’re representing all of Bretton on this shithole and we’re not going to embarrass our home. Move it!”
Major Easton Perrin rocked back and forth on his heels as soldiers filed into the cargo bay. No one ever called the Izmir a tramp freighter within earshot of the crew, but the general state of near dysfunction everywhere he looked was not going to ingratiate the crew in his memoirs.
The water leaking from a pipe running across the ceiling still wasn’t fixed, despite his numerous work order requests. The drip landed in the middle of the formation and was so dependable that the spot where a soldier should’ve fallen in was left habitually empty as the soldiers complained the gray water had a certain smell to it.
The hydraulics for the main cargo door functioned, but they hadn’t been polished to any sort of inspection standard in years—if ever—and no proper sailor in the Hegemony Navy would ever have tolerated such a sight.
But this was a civilian ship and Colonel Jematé seemed to have some sort of agreement with the captain to keep the ship and the cargo in separate spheres during transit. Jematé was with Captain Mehmet several yards away from where Perrin stood with the rest of the officers to one side of the battalion formation.
Perrin looked over his uniform again. His rather meager rows of medals were for training completion, one exemplary performance during field and command post exercises . . . nothing for combat. Not yet.
Just setting foot on a world eligible for combat pay meant a combat pin he could wear for the rest of his days. He was already ahead of the game for all the officers that opted to stay back home on Bretton.
Their loss.
He brushed a fingertip against his pencil-thin moustache. Few officers ever bothered with the only allowed bit of facial hair in army regulations. The precision required to keep it within standards was almost comical, but Perrin bore his with a bit of pride. He considered it a display of discipline and attention to detail.
Lieutenant Colonel Timmons, the battalion XO, touched her earpiece, then walked purposefully toward Jematé and Mehmet.
The tap of a cane sounded from behind Perrin.
“Ah, made it,” a rail-thin man a few years shy of elderly said. He wore fatigues in a different pattern than the rest of the battalion; a single golden arch of rank adorned one lapel, a globe of Bretton on the other. He dabbed sweat from his brow with a white handkerchief. The man’s right leg had an unpowered brace on it; the limb within was atrophied and the foot was several sizes smaller than the other.
“Mr. Lambert, didn’t think you’d be here for this,” Perrin said. “Logistics all taken care of?”
Lambert raised an eyebrow at him, then glanced at Perrin’s rank. He opened his mouth to speak, then drew in a short breath and nodded.
“Ah ha . . . once we landed here your commission automatically transfers to the Hegemony Army,” Lambert said. “My territorial rank is voided. Thanks for the reminder.”
“I don’t make the rules,” Perrin said. “Captain Mehmet looks happy to see you.”
“’Course he is. He thinks he’s about to be paid,” Lambert said.
“Isn’t he?” Perrin sneered at the dirty hydraulics and then at the leak in the overhead pipe.
“Soon as we’ve completely disembarked and I finish my inventories,” Lambert said. “Until then, I’ve got release authority for all his fees. And whoever has the gold, has the power.”
“Is that the Territorial Support Corps motto?” Perrin chuckled at his own joke.
“It should be.” Lambert scratched his chin, which was in need of a morning shave.
“Habibi!” Captain Mehmet approached, his arms wide. The civilian shipmaster’s head bore a knitted namaz cap; big pearly teeth were visible through his thick beard as he smiled at Lambert. “Our time together ends too soon!”
Mehmet hugged both arms around Lambert. The taller captain mashed Lambert’s face against his shoulder. Lambert rolled his eyes at the unwanted physical affection. Men of Bretton were more reserved in their contact with each other.
“Yes, I’m as heartbroken as you are,” Lambert said, disengaging, “I’m afraid Central hasn’t cleared my access to the port’s networks. Our disembarkation might be delayed a number of hours until I can organize longshoreman support.”
Mehmet held up a finger.
“I’ll contact the port authority immediately,” he said. “They did authorize our landing, after all.”
“Much appreciated,” Lambert said. Mehmet ducked down a passageway, a comms device in his hand as he shouted orders in his native language to someone.
“Okay . . . that was clever.” Perrin nodded slowly. “You got him to jump through his ass and saved me and my staff the trouble of getting the local quartermaster into gear.”
“It’s amazing how helpful people are when they want to get paid,” Lambert said. “Colonel’s moving.” He lifted the tip of his cane to point to the officer as he strode toward the front of the formation.
Lambert took a step forward but was blocked when Lieutenant Colonel Timmons poked two fingers in his chest.
“Sorry, Lambert, regular officers only,” she said. “Colonel wants you off to one side. Far to one side as possible.”
“Of—of course.” Lambert cleared his throat and shuffled away.
Perrin raised his chin slightly and followed Timmons to the front of the formation where Jematé was waiting. Perrin moved to the second rank behind the company commanders and their lieutenants to stand with the rest of the staff officers.
Jematé locked eyes with the battalion command sergeant major and gave him a brief nod.
“Battalion!” echoed through the cargo hold. “Atten-shun!”
Three hundred and eighty-two sets of heels slammed together.
Jematé pointed a knife hand at an Izmir crewman, who had the same ridiculous beard as Mehmet and had the top of his coveralls tied around his waist and a white sleeveless shirt covering his chest. The sailor opened a panel and hit three buttons in a quick sequence.
Warning klaxons sounded and the hydraulics controlling the large cargo doors squealed. The top of the ramp came away from the hull with a creak of breaking rust. Wind whistled through the opening, carrying tiny raindrops that swirled about the vortex at the top like spittle. The wind grew louder as the ramp lowered.
Perrin had dreamed of a true sky during the months-long journey. At no time during his imaginings had he envisioned the soulless gray overhead. Rain came down in lashes, gusts carried it over the formation, and Perrin hardened his face as moisture spattered against his uniform.
Colonel Jematé and the officers held their bearing as more of the storm blew in.
Best impression we can make, given the circumstances, Perrin thought.
The ramp slammed onto the landing pad, sending reverberations through the deck. Most of the void port was lost to rain and fog. Wind sent ripples across standing puddles as the heavy rain continued. Ground crew in bright raincoats kept their distance from the ship.
“God damnit,” one of the officers muttered.
Colonel Jematé turned his head ever so slightly to one side and Timmons hissed at someone.
Perrin rolled his eyes. Silly superstitions about stepping onto a new world while it rained were for the common soldiers, not the officers who were trained—and expected—to know better. Just because the first colony ship to land on Bretton’s eastern continent ended up crashing in a rainstorm, and the survivors nearly died from a hurricane that hit the next day, didn’t mean rain on this planet was an omen of anything.
Three hulking figures appeared out of the storm. Each wore Cataphract armor, the heavy infantry suits that the Hegemony preferred for most ground engagements. The frames added a foot of height to anyone wearing them. The more experience a soldier had in the system, the more natural their gait, and each of these soldiers carried themselves like they were on a casual stroll, not the stiff trudge most of the battalion’s Cataphracts still had. Thick armor plates on the shoulders and arms covered the reinforced frame and servos that carried the M-97 rotary cannons. The T-shaped slits on the soldier’s helms glowed from within as they marched up the ramp.
Perrin noted kill tallies etched into the thick breastplates. Each bore dents, dings and repair patches from firefights, and his heart swelled at the thought of his own suit returning home with the same hard-earned badges of courage.
The Cataphracts on the flanks stopped a few steps short of the top of the ramp. The soldier in the middle crossed the threshold, showing no concern for the thin waterfall coming off the hull. He towered over Colonel Jematé in silence.
Jematé raised his hand in salute, and almost forgot to turn his palm out in the proper Hegemony parade ground customs and courtesies, which differed slightly from Bretton’s.
The Cataphract clanged a hand against his chest twice and his helmet opened into three sections. The colonel within had hard, cold blue eyes. Streaks of scars crossed his face, pale hair on his beard and eyebrows marking where the scar tissue was unseen, but still there.
“Colonel Henry Jematé, Bretton 2nd battalion, 89th Infantry, reporting as ordered.” The colonel lowered his salute and extended his left hand to Timmons, who handed over a data slate. Jematé presented the slate to the Cataphract with a flick of his wrist.
The Cataphract held out a massive hand and a data port on his knuckle blinked twice. One third of the open face plate bent back towards his face.
“Brigadier General Zimri. Central chief operations officer. Marshal Van Wyck is expecting you but couldn’t be here in person. . . . Bretton was tasked with providing a brigade to Dahrien,” the general said.
“My apologies.” Jematé bent his head forward slightly. “Bretton is far removed from most of the Hegemony’s trade lanes. Our Governor was able to secure the Izmir immediately to answer the Hegemony’s tasking. The other battalions and the brigade command team will arrive shortly.”
The corner of Zimri’s mouth twitched.
“Bretton’s in the Gallia sector . . . no, not much traffic that far out on the frontier. Regardless, we’re glad you’re here,” Zimri said. “Marshal Van Wyck will see you and every captain and above now. Your soldiers will cycle through indoc and medical ASAP. Stations are on standby for them.”
“That . . . is nonstandard procedure, I believe, sir,” Jematé said.
“Welcome to Dahrien. We’ll take a tunnel to HQ at Fort Equity. I’ve got a cattle car on standby. I assume your lieutenants can handle moving your men through indoc,” Zimri said, and took a half step back.
“N-naturally.” Jematé cleared his throat and looked over to the sergeant major.
There was a brief discussion, then Jematé scooped a hand over his shoulder at head height, the “follow me” patrolling command. The lieutenants fell out of formation and Perrin followed the line of officers behind Jematé.
The tropical rain hit Perrin and he couldn’t help but smile.
Noah closed one eye and glanced up at the sky. It was nothing but deep gray, the cloud ceiling barely a few hundred yards overhead. The rain slicker he wore failed to keep him dry, but did manage to make him feel exceptionally cold as the slightest breeze cut through the fabric. He’d never gone through weather like this before. Granted, this was the only planet other than Bretton he’d ever been to.
“This is bullshit.” Mason Tallec’s teeth chattered as he and his platoon marched through the storm.
“You think they were going to turn the rain off for the infantry?” Boyle asked from the column to his right. “This ain’t your first deployment, Mason.”
“Them sending us to indoc on the opposite side of the void port is what’s bullshit,” Mason said. “We’ve passed at least a dozen warehouses where they could’ve done all this.”
“You mean the Army’s nothing but a bunch of ‘hurry up and wait’ compounded with incompetence at every opportunity?” Donan asked. “Why didn’t any of that get into the recruiting videos?”
“Absolutely nothing we’re doing requires jaw-jacking from anyone,” Sergeant Corre said. “Next man I hear bitchin’ volunteers for every shit detail that comes our way until his attitude changes.”
Mason shut his mouth and kept his eyes forward. The platoon sergeant halted the formation outside a warehouse with a moldy, faded-out sign over a set of double doors.
A small man with dark skin came out and waved them through.
“Wet no good. Come dry. Dry!” His accent was completely foreign to Noah.
Lieutenant Govrien and Sergeant First Class Malo were the first inside. The doors stayed open as the rain got worse. Noah felt moisture run down his back and into the last dry part of his clothing.
“Fall in by squads.” Malo waved the first squad in. “Scan your implants, or your training won’t be recorded and you’ll have to do this shit again.”
Noah finally made it out of the rain and swiped his right wrist over a small podium and felt a slight buzz up his arm. The briefing room was several rows of old seats facing a holo stick mounted on the wall. The whole place smelled of mold and fumes from insulation made by the lowest bidder.
“Fill in from the front. Make your buddy smile!” Malo shouted as soldiers abandoned their attempts to sit in the back. Noah ended up in the middle of the room, rubbing shoulders with other members of his squad. He stripped off his rain slicker and let it drip dry between his knees.
“Hello!” The small man walked across the front of the room. “I am Amir Jok. Welcome to Dahrien. You have already met samar. That’s our word for weather. Also our word for ‘summer.’ We only have one season here. I hope you like it.” He laughed heartily at his own joke and Noah suspected it wasn’t the first time he’d told it.
“Fuck me sideways,” Mason muttered.
“Enjoy your first indoctrination video. Coffee will be ready in ten minutes.” Jok waved at the platoon and moved to the back of the room.
“Coffee? There is a god,” Boyle said.
“You think they make it right out here?” Sergeant Rochelle twisted around to watch Jok at a coffee station in the back of the room.
“I don’t care if it’s old grounds I have to rub against my gums, just give me anything caffeinated.” Boyle rubbed a sleepy eye. Mason tapped the side of Boyle’s shoulder, the small tin in one hand.
Boyle’s eyes brightened and he mouthed “I love you” to Mason and took a strip out. Mason shifted the tin over to his brother.
“You told Mom you quit,” Noah said.
“You told Mom you were drafted.” Mason drew the tin back.
“Who volunteered for this?” someone two rows ahead asked.
“They were going to draft me anyway,” Noah muttered.
The lights darkened and the holo bar on the wall flickered to life. A flag with a deep star field in a silver ring surrounded by a blue field appeared and the first bars of “Hegemony, My Heart” began.
Every soldier snapped to their feet and saluted as the anthem played. Noah’s shoulder burned with exhaustion by the time it finished. The anthem had always struck him as being overly long, but hearing it after thirty-six hours without sleep almost got him a write up from the platoon leader for disrespect to the flag.
The holo blinked and a man and woman seated at a newscaster desk appeared.
“Hello, I’m Chad Storm.” The man had perfect hair and a smile that only money could buy.
“And I’m Vanessa Blanco.” The blonde woman’s green eyes glittered and Noah found a new reason to pay attention. “Welcome to Front Line Heroes and welcome to Dahrien.”
Noah squinted. He could’ve sworn her lips didn’t match that last word.
“Damn, she looks the same as when I saw her as a kid,” someone said. “Still damn good.”
“Stow it,” Malo growled.
“Dahrien is a category II world and vital to the Hegemony,” Chad Storm said as a spinning green and blue globe appeared next to him. “As you’re aware, anti-democratic forces have committed innumerable terrorist acts in the name of an outlawed religion. Thanks to the fine fighting spirit and noble sacrifice from soldiers—just like you!—Dahrien’s civilian population remains safe and protected.”
A series of graphs replaced the globe.
“Only two percent of the population have been brainwashed by the so called ‘red banner’ movement,” Vanessa continued. “Vestigial cultural ties between family members obligates another five percent of civilians to actively support the insurgency, but the death of the Red Banner polluting the clan will allow tribal elders to openly support the Hegemony.”
“Anyone catch what that meant?” Boyle asked.
“You.” Sergeant Malo pointed a knife hand at Boyle. “Front leaning rest until the end of the presentation. Next one of you that doesn’t want to pay attention can do burpees until I get tired.”
The chatter fell to zero as Malo got up and went to the aisle where he assumed the push-up position.
“Most insurgent support is in the deep hinterlands.” Chad Storm’s smile grew wider. “You’ll likely be called upon to support civil military affairs missions to extend Hegemony infrastructure to underserved areas. While the insurgents are capable of launching limited raids on poorly defended targets, you’ll be well protected in our field outposts.”
Mason shook his head.
Noah furrowed his brows. Everything he was hearing sounded like an easy deployment.
“We’ll pause a moment for your local cultural attaché to explain how best to interact with local civilians who may not act in accordance with Hegemony norms,” Vanessa said. “Once again, welcome to Da-ree-en.” The tone and inflection of the planet’s name sounded like it was said by someone else.
The holo froze.
Jok reappeared, a steaming cup in one hand.
“I haven’t finished my coffee yet,” he said. “Let’s watch another mandatory video before we get to my part. You all have to watch the STD video anyway.”
The platoon let out a collective groan.
“We watched it yesterday,” one of the squad leaders in the front row said. “Part of our pre-deployment training.”
“That’s nice.” Jok took a sip. “But you haven’t watched it in this certified facility after you swiped in. You only get credit for it if you watch it as part of indoc. Did you all see the finance, sexual harassment, operational security, and food safety videos too?”
An uneven chorus told him yes.
“That sucks,” Jok said. “Anyway. Coffee in the back.”
He held up a remote control and clicked a button. A new video from the Hegemony Medical Authority began playing.
“I told the LT this would happen.” Mason leaned back and nestled into his seat. “Could’ve been asleep yesterday when he had us doing ‘pre-training.’”
“Eww!” Donan held a hand up to cover his eyes and Noah sighed. The first image of any STD briefing was meant to be an attention getter. Noah got up and went to the line forming at the coffee station.