by Mark Barber
Sessetti nodded, his smile fading when he saw Rae’s empty bunk. He had not known Weste for very long, but every time he walked past the spot where Weste had been killed, it always pained him a little. The pain inside from losing Rae was on another scale entirely. He knew who he blamed for the decision to attack the Ghar in the open, but that did little to mask the guilt he felt for failing to find the courage to follow Rhona and try to drag Rae to safety. The post battle analysis had said she was dead before she even hit the ground, but he did not know that at the time. If she had have been alive, he would have failed her. He would have failed the soldier who had the courage to drag him to safety when he needed it.
“You okay?” Qan asked.
Sessetti looked up. Before he could answer, Rhona, Gant, and Clythe arrived together and walked into the communal area, dumping their kit bags in the center of the room in front of the sofas.
“Hello, guys!” Qan grinned broadly. “The lil’ family is back together!”
“Not all of us,” Jemmel snapped, folding her arms. “We’ve got another bunk empty.”
Rhona nodded slowly and stepped out into the center of the room.
“Look, I’m sorry,” she began, her hands outstretched passively, “I made a dumb call. I shouldn’t have done that.”
“Not you! I don’t expect much from you, you don’t know your arse from your elbow! But you!” Jemmel hissed as she pointed a finger at Gant. “You made the dumb call! You went all Feon Rall on us and convinced us to run into the most obvious trap I’ve seen in four years of soldiering! You are the one who should have known better, you prick!”
“Me?” Gant exclaimed. “I didn’t give anybody any orders! I gave my opinion, that’s all. Rhona made the call, not me. I’m not in charge.”
“Yeah, she made the call,” Jemmel yelled, “based on your expert opinion! She did her job, which was to listen to the advice of her most experienced guys and make a decision! I don’t have a problem with that, I’ve got a problem with you! And now you don’t even have the balls to man up and face the responsibility of your actions, you weasel!”
Sessetti lunged forward and grabbed Jemmel by her arms as soon as he saw her stomp toward Gant with her fists clenched. Qan jumped to his feet and stood in between Jemmel and Gant, his arms outstretched to hold them apart. Rhona sank down on her bunk, her face in her hands.
“Leave it!” Clythe growled at Jemmel. “Gant saw an opportunity and he voiced his opinion! It’s easy for you to stand on your pedestal now you’ve got the benefit of hindsight! Now you know you were right! You didn’t know at the time! None of us knew!”
“Who the hell said you had a speaking part?” Jemmel demanded, yanking her arms free from Sessetti’s grip with a surprising strength. “Some wet behind the ears little moron like you doesn’t get to express an opinion!”
That was enough for Sessetti. Everybody else had spoken. His anger rising, he was on his feet almost before he had formulated his sentence.
“Just stop!” he snapped, stepping into the center of the altercation. “We’ve been shot at, blown up, and have gunned down and killed just the same as you! We’re not new anymore, we’re in this. We get a speaking part. And here’s mine. You and Gant both expressed your opinions to Kat. You both gave her options. But you, Bo! You came wading in with some crappy, gung ho attitude and you tipped the balance! That’s what I remember! You, Bo! Not them!”
“Me?” Clythe’s eyes widened in surprise. “I did nothing! I…”
“Just stop,” Rhona commanded, jumping to her feet and pacing toward them, “all of you. Squad Chyne is dead, all of them. Squad Teal has lost five guys since we got here. Squad Jai has lost six, including replacements. We’ve lost one and it’s tearing us apart? Rae deserved better, she didn’t deserve to die like that, but she’s one casualty in something bigger. We need to close ranks, look after each other, and move forward; not look for blame. Y’all want blame? You want a bad guy in this? That’s me. I’m in charge, the responsibility rests with me, I made the call. I got Rae killed. You wanted to hear it? There it is. I got her killed, and I’ll carry that with me forever. So you guys need to stop bitchin’ at each other and get your act together, because we’re gonna be heading back to the front real soon, and we’re doing it together. You wanna hate someone? Hate me, I don’t give a crap. I hate myself enough for the way things went down, so you might as well jump in on that party. But you guys need to quit kicking each other because it won’t make us work well as a team, and more importantly, it won’t bring Rae back.”
Pushing her way past the others, Rhona walked out of the room and headed back to the transmat pads. After a few moments of awkward silence, Sessetti followed Jemmel’s lead and began quietly unpacking his kit.
***
After finally conceding defeat, Sessetti opened his eyes and sat up in his bunk. The cushion of warm air escaped from beneath his duvet and the artificial coolness of the air conditioning in his room hit him. He checked the time: still a good couple of hours until the rest of the world would wake up. Sessetti clambered out of bed and smeared a handful of shaving foam across his jaw, waiting for a few seconds until it had dissolved his stubble before wiping it off again. He pulled on his uniform and opened the door from his tiny room into the communal area. The other doors were all shut except for Jemmel, who lay on her bunk with her hands behind her head, staring up at the ceiling.
“You’re up early,” she remarked without looking at him.
“Bit weird, being back in this room,” Sessetti admitted.
“Fair enough. Go for a run or something, it might take your mind off things. The weather’s cleared up again.”
“Yeah,” Sessetti shrugged, “I’ll go for a walk, I guess. Catch you later.”
Sessetti walked down the cold corridors to the transmat pads, pulled on his black beret, and then beamed up to the transmat station just outside the subterranean accommodation block. The first fiery orange sun was just peering over the horizon, painting the world in pale, pastel shades and casting long shadows across the soft sand. Sessetti had never noticed before that the colors of the world were quite different when only one sun was above the horizon. Alone on the long stretch of beach between the jungle and the purple sea, Sessetti risked thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets as he kicked his way through the sand, content that no strike leaders would be on hand to reprimand him for an unmilitary bearing.
A gentle breeze brought the scent of the sea to Sessetti’s nostrils as he walked. Thoughts of his parents and sister, his life back home, and his music forced their way to the fore. Music seemed ridiculous, now that he had taken life and seen it wither and die beside him. The stretch of beach was more beautiful than the lush pastures and steppes back home, but that beauty was tarnished beyond repair by what he had done, been forced to do, over the past few weeks. He momentarily considered penning some song lyrics, but it seemed pointless now. Almost childish.
Up ahead of him on the beach, a lone figure stood motionless in the sand, a long silhouette cast to his left. The figure stepped left into an uncomfortable looking, long stance and held position as steady as a rock before turning and bringing a kick up to the face of an imaginary opponent with clinical precision. Sessetti watched as the man linked a series of powerful strikes and kicks into a regimented pattern in the sand before coming to a halt, back on the same spot he had started. Sessetti walked closer and was not surprised to discover the man was his company commander.
Tahl dropped down to his knees, his back upright and his eyes closed as he faced the ocean. Clad in loose trousers of white, a faded black belt around his waist, and a form fitting white t-shirt, his physique reminded Sessetti of images from biology classes which depicted a body whose perfection was only possible through surgery or decades of training.
“Morning,” Tahl greeted, his eyes still closed.
Sessetti immediately yanked his hands out of his pockets.
“Good morning, sir!” He said clearly, bringi
ng his heels together to stand to attention.
“Don’t worry about that,” Tahl opened his eyes and stood, turning to face him. “You’re up early.”
“Not getting much sleep, sir,” Sessetti admitted, “some of the other guys talk about the gravity or the hours in the day. I don’t mind that. But I still don’t sleep.”
Tahl nodded.
“Might as well get outside and see something of this place, I guess. If the Ghar had to keep us locked in combat on one planet, at least they did it here. I’d rather be stuck on this beach than getting covered in that acid rain we had on Prostock.”
Sessetti gave what he hoped was a polite smile and nodded. Tahl stepped closer and folded his broad arms, looking him dead in the eyes as if assessing him.
“Things not so good in Squad Wen, then?”
“We’re good, sir,” Sessetti said, “nothing we can’t sort out between us.”
“You’re in good company, Lian. You’ve got a good strike leader and two of the most experienced troopers in the company. I’ve got no concerns over any of you. You’re a good squad.”
Sessetti mumbled his gratitude and looked out to sea for a second before turning back.
“How do you do it, sir?” He asked suddenly. “We’ve all watched the footage from the spotter drones showing the Ghar suits you’ve taken down. How do you take out a machine twice our size with just your hands and feet?”
Tahl raised a fist to his chin and paused before answering.
“Practice. And luck,” he finally responded, “the C3 Unarmed Combat Program you learned at the academy is a one size fits all, simple technique to give you the skills you need to kill an adversary in hand to hand combat. Kerempai is very different. It’s the difference between a martial art and a fighting style. You’ve learned a fighting style and you can now fight. Martial arts are only partially about physicality; just as much if not more is about the mind. It’s all about being the best person you can be, body and soul. A fighting style is about tearing a guy apart.”
“So if martial arts are better, why don’t they teach us one at the academy?” Sessetti asked.
“I didn’t say they’re better,” Tahl replied calmly, “just different. A fighting style is quicker to learn. If you’ve got somebody who needs to learn skills fast – like an academy recruit – kerepai is no good. It takes too long, years until it suddenly clicks and falls into place. You need something simple and accessible, and that’s where the C3 UCP excels. It’s a very good fighting system.”
“But not as good as kerempai, sir?”
“Given enough time, no,” Tahl said, “but that’s just my opinion, not fact. I’m biased.”
Sessetti nodded. He found himself only mildly interested about the differences in fighting techniques and the physical aspect. The spiritual side, the mastery of the mind, that fascinated him.
“Would kerempai teach me to be calmer, sir? If I learned any, would I panic less in combat? Would I deal with how bad it feels afterward any better?”
“Yeah,” Tahl nodded, “yeah, you would.”
“How do I learn?” Sessetti asked.
“I’ll teach you,” Tahl replied.
Sessetti let out a breath. It was not the answer he expected.
“When… when do I start, sir?”
“Now,” Tahl shrugged, taking two steps back away from him. “Drop to your knees, the left first and then the right. Place your hands flat on the ground in front of you, thumbs outstretched, to form a triangle. Left first then right. Bring your forehead down to your hands to bow.”
Sessetti followed the instructions, kneeling and bowing to Tahl as the older man returned the gesture and bowed back to him.
“Kerempai is governed by twenty principles,” Tahl explained, “the first of which is that keremai always begins and ends with respect. You will respect me as your teacher. In return, I will always respect you as a willing student. That’s why we always start and finish by kneeling and bowing to each other. This might not be for you, Lian, you might find it boring and give up. But if you don’t, if you stick this out, this might just make a few little changes in your life for the better.”
Chapter Eleven
17th Assault Force Force HQ
New Wryland
Markov’s Prize
L-Day plus 54
The city hall building was, in Owenne’s opinion, the perfect place for a C3 Headquarters. Now that the Concord had taken over, there was no need for politicians and bureaucrats, so the building was obsolete. The structure would be a waste if not employed in a fitting role, and acting as one of the Assault Force HQs was just such a role. He floated absentmindedly along the broad corridor on the second floor, his booted feet skimming the thick, crimson carpet. Paintings hung on the wood paneled walls to either side of him; depictions of famous historical events from the city and even the very square outside the building where apparently a famous coup was staged a few centuries before. Owenne normally found himself abhorring a lack of technology, but the archaic building with its cavernous hallways, marble pillars, sculptures, and intricate wooden furniture was somehow pleasing to him.
Owenne floated swiftly into the building’s main conference room, another traditionally designed area with vast, wooden tables whose smooth surfaces were illuminated by sunlight which poured in through a long line of tall windows that ran along the front of the entire building. Some fifty military officers were assembled in the spacious room, grouped together in pairs, trios, circles of six, all of the little social habits which panhumans adopted and still confused Owenne. At the top of the tree were two commander-in-chiefs – Hawess and Deitte – who commanded the 12th and 17th Assault Forces respectively. Each assault force was made up of three formations, led by a strike commander. Each of those strike commanders had six companies, led by a strike captain. So whilst on the battlefield the strike captain was king, here in the upper echelons of planning and management, the captain was merely another pawn, a low ranking officer whose job was to implement strategy, not to devise it. The participants were dressed in a bewildering array of colourful uniforms upon which almost all wore merit ribbons, campaign badges, and bright citizenship pins.
Today’s selection from the utterly bewildering array of attires open to Concord military personnel was the Number 3 Uniform; smart trousers and a shirt and tie, with a single breasted jacket, all in pale green. Medal ribbons and qualification badges were arranged neatly over the left breast pocket. Owenne’s eyes were drawn to Drop Captain Mosse, something of a local celebrity due to her rather aggressive antics behind Ghar lines with various surprise attacks. To add to the confusion, the military insisted on keeping alive with their different uniforms for different occasions, thus Mosse wore a thin skirt instead of trousers. Owenne found it completely unfathomable that different regulations existed for men and women regarding haircuts, let alone a woman’s right to wear a skirt if she chose. In Owenne’s mind, it should just be short back and sides and trousers all round. And one uniform. Cut down on the ceremony, the confusion, and the unnecessary logistical burden.
“Shall we get started?” Commander-in-Chief Hawess raised his voice from his position at the head of one of the long tables. Hawess was a man with a reputation for brutal efficiency; although at nearly two centuries of age, his physique was not what it had been in his youth.
A mandarin could easily take command of a company, or even a formation, if needed. But not a force. The regulations did not allow that. This was perhaps why commander-in-chiefs were happy to start command briefs without consulting Owenne first. It irked him.
The assembled soldiers seated themselves around the table as a holographic projection of Markov’s Prize illuminated in the center of the room. Intelligence Commander Zann, the 17th Assault Force’s tall, thin intelligence officer, stood to begin the brief.
“Sirs, ladies and gentlemen. As of this morning, the main Ghar advance in the Nienne Desert has been halted by the 44th Strike Formation. However, the Ghar fr
ontline is spreading to both the north and south, which threatens to outflank us or, even worse, push past our defensive positions and threaten the civilian populace.”
As Zann spoke, lines animated along the ghostly globe in the center of the room, showing exactly where the fighting had been taking place.
“The 12th Assault Force is currently holding the line until the 17th is in a position to be able to return to the front. Naval Intelligence has detected two further Ghar fleets moving toward this system; one of which they believe is intended to reinforce Ghar forces here on Markov’s Prize, whilst the second is most likely heading for the Banaab System. In short, we’ve halted the advance, but it won’t take much for a Ghar advance to find gaps in the line to break through.”
“And our reinforcements?” Strike Commander Van Wellen, the commanding officer of the 48th Strike Formation, asked.
“Nothing can be spared at the moment, Thom,” Commander-in-Chief Diette replied. “We hold with what we’ve got. That was why it was imperative to get the force back away from the frontline to recover, because it looks like we’re in this for the long haul. We’ve still got a trickle of replacements coming in straight from the academies, but no actual units on route to us. We dig in with what we’ve got.”
“There’s more,” Owenne cleared his throat, standing up and pacing slowly around the edge of the table with his hands clasped behind his back. “For those of you who don’t know already, the cruiser Agility detected a shuttle landing on the far side of the planet two days ago. It appears the shuttle is from the Freeborn House Selestov, a rather large and aggressive house with a track record of selling their mercenary services to anybody wishing to oppose the Concord. It would appear at this point that their most likely reason for visiting the planet is to sell their services to the local rebels who are still holding out against Concord care.”
