by Brian Dorsey
“Goodnight,” she smiled and stepped into the shelter.
Heat enveloped her and she began to sweat almost immediately after entering the shelter. The sensors quickly de-energized but residual heat radiated through her suit, hastening her desire to remove the suit. Martin set her rifle in a cabinet with others and unzipped her combat vest. Placing the vest on a nearby ammo box, she hastily reached for her the environmental suit’s zipper and pulled it down to her waist and pulled her arms out of the suit. She let out a sigh of relief as she rolled the top of the suit down to her belt. Next, she removed her facemask and headgear. After another soothing breath, she unhooked her duty belt and stepped out of the suit. Once the suit was stored, Martin reaffixed the belt holding her sword and sidearm and stepped into the main shelter.
“Emily,” said Jackson as she entered. “I see Yates convinced you to head back in.”
“Uh…yeah,” she replied, looking around the room. She was alone with Jackson. “Where’s everyone else?”
“Lieutenant Varus wanted an officers-only shelter and Yates and Morgan agreed. I actually think they jumped at the chance to bunk with their men.”
“Are you shitting me?” huffed Martin. “He kicked them out. These shelters are designed for five so in order to keep his highness comfortable and away from the unclean enlisted they are going to have to pack more in the other shelters.”
Jackson let out a sigh. “First, Yates and Morgan had no problem with moving—”
“Me neither,” interrupted Martin as she turned to exit the shelter.
“Stop,” ordered Jackson. “You don’t get off that lucky. If I have to stay then so do you.”
“Fine,” snapped Martin. “Let’s just leave the whole shelter to little prince Varus.
“Nope,” replied Jackson with a smile. “You’re stuck.”
“This guy shouldn’t even be here,” argued Martin, her anger returning. “He should’ve died up there with the rest of his crew. Instead we’re—I’m—stuck babysitting him down here.”
“We’ll, my young lieutenant, that’s what we call a leadership challenge. Make it work.”
“It’s what I call getting bent over,” shot back Martin.
“Either way,” laughed Jackson, “you’ll need to get used to both if you’re gonna stay in the Guard.”
“Whatever. Where is Lieutenant Sequentis Varus of the Varus family, son of Magistrate Horatio Varus and nephew of the exalted Senator Dominotra Varus at now?” she asked, mocking the First Family formal vernacular. “Perhaps seeing to his estate or looking for recreation girls?”
“Morgan is showing him how to use the environmental suit and walking him through our defenses so he doesn’t kill himself on one of our tripwires—”
“As if we would be so lucky—”
“Oh just shut up about it, will you?” interrupted Jackson.
Martin saw the anger in his eyes. It was different than his normal frustrations; he was pissed. “I was just—”
“Stop,” interrupted Jackson again. “What’s your problem with him?”
“He doesn’t know what he’s doing. I’m guessing he was barely competent at his job on Draxius and he’s just fucking deadweight down here. Oh…and he’s a dick.”
“Well guess what, Martin. You’re surrounded by dicks.”
He was so right, in both the literal and metaphorical sense. She couldn’t help but laugh.
“Damn it, Emily,” grumbled Jackson, his face turning. “You know what I mean.”
She could tell he too was trying to hold back laughter so she just waited. She tried to force her expression into a sober look but another smile broke through and she chuckled again. This time Jackson joined her in laughter.
After a moment, Jackson’s expression grew more somber and he spoke again.
“Can we talk without arguing?” he asked.
“I can try,” she answered as she sat on an ammo box across from Jackson.
“I don’t like him either. But he was assigned by a senior officer. A senior officer that bravery sacrificed himself and his entire crew for his people.”
“Not his entire crew,” quipped Martin. She saw the frustration on Jackson’s face. “I’m sorry. Continue.”
“We both know most of these First Family types are jerks but that’s the way they’re raised.”
“The major isn’t like that.”
“The major is different. And don’t forget his family’s history.”
“Every family has history,” replied Martin, looking toward the ground.
“What about Captain Arilius Tacitus? Is he not a good leader?”
“He is. But he’s still a pompous jerk.”
“Would you follow him in battle?”
“Yes. But because of his skill and bravery, not his last name.”
“Don’t you agree with our society’s structure?” shot back Jackson.
“Of course I do,” snapped Martin, rising to her feet. “I understand the need for hierarchy to maintain order. My father defended the ProConsul proudly as a Praetorian. But they need to understand that leadership is more than titles or wealth.”
“Yes,” smiled Jackson, “leadership is a tricky thing isn’t it.”
She could tell Jackson was hinting at her problems with her men. Normally, she would have responded angrily but her mind was someplace else…someplace painful. “I understand what you’re trying to do,” she said calmly, “and I have listened to you and Yates and I am trying to understand, but this is different. I struggle with leadership because I had to fight against the system for everything I’ve earned while they just assume everything is theirs without earning it…they are thieves and burglars masquerading as nobility.”
“What have they stolen from you, Emily?”
“My family,” she declared, pushing the words through her clinched teeth.
“Your father?” asked Jackson softly.
“All of it,” she replied. She had always tried to control any emotion she felt would be viewed as weakness around anyone but her father. But she felt different with Jackson. He frustrated and often infuriated her but sitting in the shelter, looking across at him, the dam she had built to hold back her emotions cracked. She continued as tears began to roll down her cheeks. “My father was my life. He taught me everything and not just the normal ‘hug you because of a scratched knee’ stuff. He taught—no, he showed me—about honor, duty, and service to our people every day of his life. Until…,” she paused and inhaled and exhaled a long, deep breath. “Until…he became sick.”
“Sick?” asked Jackson. “I thought—”
“Yes,” breathed Martin. “It was alcohol but the real cause was a sickness of the heart when she left him—left him for her First Family lover and the chance to improve her own status.”
“Your mother?”
“The Lady Nia Vanara,” she almost choked on the words, “is no mother to me.” She swallowed hard. “I have no mother,” she continued as she wiped a tear from her cheek, not wanting to shed a single drop over the woman who abandoned her and her father.
“I didn’t know,” said Jackson tenderly.
“When she left, it broke him. He tried to stay strong but he was never the same. First Family privilege and entitlement poisoned her but my father suffered for it.”
“Despite his dismissal, many still speak of your father—”
Martin slammed her fist against the ammo box and stood. “And that son of a bitch Marack Vanara just took her…took her and ripped my family apart.”
“And that’s where your trouble as a youth—”
She hadn’t told anyone about this. It had been too painful, but there, in that moment in a tent on a frozen Dark Zone world, she had to tell him.
“Talia Vanara was a nephew of Marack. I was 18 and two months from entering the Xenus Military Academy. I was picking up some…something for my father at the Mt. Castra market when Talia and a bunch of his friends came strolling through, like they owned the place.
I apparently didn’t greet him properly so I was stopped to explain myself. When he found out who I was he said I should whore myself out to him just like my mother did to his uncle. I told him to leave me alone but he grabbed me and…” she exhaled heavily through her nose. “…so I broke the little asshole’s nose.”
“That’s what your Magistrate Censure was for? And why you didn’t get into the Xenus Academy?”
“Yeah and it was worth it to watch that little weasel bleed.” She paused as another wave of emotions washed over her. “Don’t you see…that’s the way they think; everything is theirs for the taking. They are supposed to be proud, honorable leaders—like the Major, and even Tacitus—but most are just greedy, plotting degenerates that care more for their own base needs than their people.” She looked up toward Jackson, her eyes red and swollen and trails of tears streaming down her face, dripping onto her uniform. “Do you know how hard it is to pledge a life of loyalty and duty to a society you love but at the same time is led by evil men?”
Jackson stepped toward her, his arms outstretched. She didn’t think about her reputation, she didn’t think about rank; instead she longed for his embrace. With a heavy exhale, Martin stepped into Jackson’s arms and returned his embrace, squeezing tightly. She looked into his eyes to see him returning her gaze. “I don’t know why—”
“It’s okay,” he smiled. “Your secrets are safe with me,” he added, placing his hand on her cheek.
She wanted him to kiss her. She needed him to kiss her.
A noise in the vestibule startled Martin and she quickly stepped back from Jackson’s embrace and wiped her face. ‘What have I done?’ she thought to herself as she struggled to regain her composure.
“You’re fine,” said Jackson reassuringly. “Good as new.”
“Thanks,” she mouthed.
She let out a quick huff of air and transformed herself into the Emily Martin the rest of the world knew.
“Lieutenant Varus, Sergeant Morgan,” said Jackson, greeting the two as they stepped into the room.
“Captain,” replied Varus. “Lieutenant,” he added coldly as he turned toward Martin.
“Sir,” she replied.
She could tell he was surprised by her almost-cordial response. If he only knew how hard it was for her.
“How was your tour?” asked Jackson.
“Good,” answered Varus. “I must admit your men are very well trained.”
“Well they are Guardsmen,” replied Martin. They didn’t need his validation.
“Of course,” replied Varus.
“Sergeant Morgan,” interjected Jackson, “anything to report?”
“Not much, Sir,” he answered. “I spoke with Sergeant Yates on our walk. He’s almost finished inspecting our positions. Our heavy guns are set up with good lines of direct fire on the most likely approach areas and our forward patrols are out. Unfortunately, our drone was destroyed at the crash site so our aerial recon capabilities are down.”
“Alright,” said Jackson, reaching for a digital map stowed in his gear, “let’s get our plan together. “Any thoughts?” he asked Martin.
“Always,” replied Martin with a smile. Leaning over the map, she felt Jackson’s breath against her neck. ‘Focus,’ she thought to herself. Luckily, she had already reviewed the terrain and knew exactly what she wanted to do. “We’ll do an area recon of the old Ter base about fifteen kilometers to our north. We can use two teams of two,” she continued as she took control of the digital map.
“You want to take four men away from our defenses?” asked Varus.
“Well three men and me,” answered Martin matter-of-factly. She then looked toward Jackson and tilted her head slightly, her lips tight with frustration. “Do you have a tactical recommendation, Flight Lieutenant Varus?”
“The recon is our primary mission,” interrupted Jackson. “For the Ters to have three combat ships in the system, they need to be defending something. And it’s our job to find out what it is.”
“Anyway,” continued Martin, “I’ll take a team and move northeast like so,” she said as she overlaid her path on the map. “And the other team will move due north. We’ll rendezvous about a kilometer from the base perimeter here. That should allow us to get pretty good terrain overlays for most of the southern approach. We’ll set up observation posts and if it looks clear, we’ll move into the base and check it out.”
“When do you want to leave?” asked Jackson.
Martin placed a half-circle on the map north of their position. “If we leave with two hours left of the cold, we should be able to make it here and drop off our environmental gear. After that, we can move faster and should be able to complete the recon and either make it back to the gear before the next temperature shift or hold up in the base. If the base is empty, we’ll keep one team there and send the other back to notify you so the rest of the unit can join us.”
“If it’s empty it would make a good location to wait for pickup. Hell, we might be lucky and find some gear or vehicles left behind. It’s not like this planet is crawling with people looking to scavenge gear from the First War,” said Jackson. “Pick your teams.”
Martin knew exactly who she wanted. But she paused before speaking as she thought about her discussions with Jackson and Yates. “Sergeant Morgan, get with Yates when he returns and chose three of the men and have them ready for a brief at 0400 for a 0445 departure.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” replied Morgan.
“Good call,” added Jackson. “Let the NCOs worry about that. And for you,” he added, “you should probably get some sleep since you won’t be getting much in the near future.
Chapter 7
The wailing of the proximity alarm jolted Martin from her sleep.
‘Sensor 75 and 90 warnings. Correlates to 087 degrees at approximately 500 meters. Patrol team one in route,’ came a report over the tactical comms station.
“What is it? What’s happening?” blurted Varus as he scrambled out of his sleeping bag.
“Probably nothing,” replied Martin, grabbing her rifle and combat belt. She could see the mixture of confusion and fear in Varus’ eyes. “Or maybe something,” she added with a smiled.
“You stay here,” ordered Jackson to Varus before he turned to Martin. “You link up with the patrol. I’ll be right behind with the quick response team.”
“Roger,” replied Martin as she stepped into the vestibule.
She quickly stepped into the environmental suit and zipped it to her chin. She grasped her belt and wrapped it around her waist, checking her pistol and sword after latching the clasp. As she was attaching her combat vest, she noticed Jackson stepping into the room. “You sure his highness will be safe in here?” she mocked. “Maybe we should pull someone off the line to bring him some more blankets and maybe hold his hand and read him a story,” she added as she grabbed her headgear.
“Funny,” replied Jackson. “Shouldn’t you be somewhere?”
“Already gone,” replied Martin as she pulled her face mask into position and snatched her rifle. “Happy hunting,” she replied and stepped into the cold air.
The freezing air stung her body but the sensation quickly dissipated as the suit warmed.
‘Patrol team one in position 200 meters from contact, currently at 084 by sensor data,’ came another report.
Martin made her way toward the patrol, glancing down toward the small digital readout attached to her a lanyard on her vest. Fed by the ring of sensors arranged every 15 degrees in a 360 arc around the camp, the page showed whatever setoff the warning straight ahead at about 400 meters.
Slowing her pace as she came to within 100 meters of the contact, Martin turned toward Daemon and showed the war dog the hand signals for quiet and then alert telling the animal to be silent unless defense of a Humani warrior was required. She cautiously moved forward, ensuring she had solid footing on the now frozen swamp as she scanned the landscape around.
After a few meters, she knelt besi
de a large tree on a small tuft of frozen ground jutting from the icy swamp. “Patrol One, report status,” she whispered into the tactical circuit as Daemon’s body brushed against her side. Two pulses in her earpiece told Martin the team was too close to the contact to speak.
Martin raised her rifle to her shoulder and slowly advanced toward the contact point. After a few cautious steps, the weight of Daemon’s body against her hip caused her to stop. She looked down to see the dog’s thick fur puffed out, increasing the size of the already massive animal.
Something was out there.
Suddenly gunfire erupted from the direction of the patrol.
“Free!” shouted Martin.
Daemon let out a growl and exploded from his position toward the sound of the gunfire. “Contact!” yelled Martin into the comms circuit as she sprinted after Daemon. “Gunfire from Patrol One.”
An additional burst of gunfire, followed by an ear piercing scream, echoed through the swamp as Martin rushed over the icy ground and frozen water. She burst through the thick overgrowth of shoulder-high ferns to see an enormous animal, almost like a lion, except with long brownish-white quills protruding all along its back and tail, standing over the body of one of her men. She raised her rifle to fire but Daemon crashed into the beast in an explosion of fur, teeth, and inhuman growls before she could fire.
The two animals rolled across the ground and came to rest with the massive cat on top of the war dog. Without hesitating, Martin sent two rounds into the chest of the lion-creature. As the animal let out a low groan, Daemon sank its teeth deep into the beast’s neck and pushed it over onto its side.
With beast out of the way, Martin rushed toward the Guardsman lying on the ground in front of her.
“Frederick?” she said, kneeling over the injured man.
Vapor rose into the frigid air from the multitude of wounds to his torn body. She took a deep breath as she assessed the man’s injuries. ‘A Ranger’s sword would have done less damage,’ she thought.
Frederick’s left calf was almost torn from his leg, his stomach was torn open, his left hand was missing, and the right side of his face was sliced with three bloody gashes. She felt Frederick grasp for her arm with his remaining hand.
