Markov's Prize

by Mark Barber

  Sliding his visor back, Van Noor took in a lungful of the midmorning air. His wound to the hip from the previous night was still troubling him, but it faded to insignificance as he watched the troopers of Squad Denne carefully remove the ten dead strike troopers who had fallen to take the critical spot height which centerd the Ghar defense. Up ahead, stood by one of the still smoking bunkers, was one of the survivors of the bloody assault. Van Noor checked the trooper’s details via his shard connection so as to remember his name.

  “You okay, Lian?” He asked as he approached the young soldier.

  The shorter man turned and regarded him with red ringed eyes, his hands still clutched tightly onto his carbine.

  “Yes, Senior,” Sessetti answered quietly.

  “We all saw what you did, son,” Van Noor stopped next to Sessetti. “Without that push, a lot more men and women would have died. I’m sorry about your squad. But it wasn’t for nothing.”

  “Yes, Senior,” the trooper repeated.

  “Who’d you lose?” Van Noor asked hesitantly.

  “We lost Qan on the initial push up the hill,” Sessetti replied slowly, “along with Strike Leader Althern and half of his troopers. Jem died at the top of the hill. We lost the rest of Squad Xath and Gant whilst we were attacking those two turrets. It’s just me, Clythe, and Strike Leader Rhona left. Everybody else is dead.”

  “I’m sorry,” Van Noor said genuinely, resting a hand on the man’s shoulder. “If you hadn’t had the guts to do what you did, we’d all be dead. Go get yourself checked out by the medics. Where’s your squad leader?”

  Sessetti nodded to the smoking gun turret before slumping off back down the hill. Van Noor walked over to the turret, noting with interest the evidence of impact damage where plasma grenades had been used to blow the access doors off. He leaned over to enter through the narrow door, nodding as he saw the armored walls stained with the distinctive shade of Ghar blood. Rhona sat on the breach of one of the guns, her armor removed from the waist up, and her body glove sliced open from her left wrist to her shoulder as a medical drone set about closing a vicious wound which ran the entire length of the limb. Her face was stained black from smoke and a crop of messy hair fell down to obscure most of her features. Her dark eyes wearily looked up at Van Noor as he approached.

  Van Noor opened his mouth to speak, but the words escaped him.

  “We took your hill,” Rhona slurred.

  “I know,” Van Noor nodded, “I know. You did a great job, all of you. Taking the hill was enough, Rhona, why did you push on to the two turrets?”

  “The opportunity was there and I didn’t know how long the window would be open,” the exhausted soldier replied. “C3 Junior Commander’s handbook goes on and on about…”

  “Flexibility and adaptability, I know,” Van Noor interjected carefully. “I’m not criticizing what you did. I expected you to buy a little time, not crack open the heart of their defenses. Look, Rhona, I know we don’t get on. But what you did here… it’s frustrating. To do what you did took equal measures of skill and bravery, mixed in with a lot of luck. That skill and bravery you demonstrated is the frustrating part, because it’s clear you’re far more capable than you like to let on. But the luck part? You can never rely on that, so please take my advice when I say don’t ever do that again. I’m not questioning your ability, not after what you just proved to everyone, but I am questioning your luck. Don’t test it again like you just did.”

  “Yeah,” Rhona nodded, wincing as the drone finished sealing the wound on her arm and set about repairing the scar tissue. “When we got to the top of the hill, one of those suits was pointing a gun the size of a starship right at my face. The thing jammed. I’ve sat here wondering… well, I think you’re right about luck, Senior. But three of us had enough of it on this hill this morning, and ten didn’t.”

  The medical drone completed its work on her arm, leaving it clean and unmarked in stark contrast to her blackened, bloodstained face. Rhona stood up and hauled a plasma lance over her shoulder before dragging her beret on over her disheveled hair.

  “I owe you an apology,” Van Noor found himself admitting. “The caliber of person I thought you were wouldn’t have been able to do what you did. I didn’t order you up here because…”

  “I know. You ordered me because I was the closest to the hill. I never thought it was personal, not for a second. My squad was in the right place. Or wrong place, depending on how you look at it. But I owe you an apology, too, Senior. I’ve been an absolute bitch. I know that.”

  Van Noor walked back out into the morning sunlight with Rhona as the drone flew off to find its next patient.

  “I was angry with you because of the way you spoke about Strike Captain Tahl,” Van Noor admitted after checking no one else was within earshot. “I don’t think you fully appreciate what sort of man he is. To put it in context, he was ordered to take a few days leave to get his breath back, which is why he was away when I pulled you to pieces in my office. Instead of taking care of himself, he dropped everything to travel halfway across infinity and back to spend his entire leave getting to my family to check on them for me. That’s the sort of man he is.”

  Rhona closed her eyes and nodded.

  “I didn’t know he did that,” she said, “but it doesn’t surprise me. I’m kinda sick of hearing the sound of my own voice whining on about my sad life, but I ain’t met many good people. He’s one of them. The best, I think. I wouldn’t want to be fighting for anybody else.”

  “Glad we agree,” Van Noor said. “Another thing – Mandarin Owenne wants to talk to you. About those two drones you took control of.”

  “Say what?” Rhona exhaled angrily. “Seriously? We get ordered up Hell’s mountain, and he’s upset because I took control of a couple of assets we needed…”

  “He’s not upset,” Van Noor held his hands up. “He seemed more curious about how you did it rather than why. Go see him when you’ve got your breath back.”

  “Sure,” Rhona narrowed her eyes and nodded hesitantly before limping away.

  She stopped after a few paces and turned to face Van Noor again.

  “I’ve got a couple of questions.”

  “Go on.”

  “How many will we get back? How many of those ten dead men and women d’you reckon we’ll see again?”

  Van Noor felt suddenly deflated and weary at the thought of even answering the question.

  “I don’t know, Katya. Three? Maybe four if we’re lucky? We won’t know for a while. It’s not what you want to hear, but from my experience, I’ve found it best to assume they’re all gone. Anything we get back is a bonus. I’d let them all go.”

  “Yeah,” Rhona said, “I ain’t looking forward to facing that once the shard assistance in my head backs off.”

  “What was the other question?”

  “How’s the boss?”

  “He’s good. Conscious again, all okay, just under observation by the medics at the bottom of the hill. One of those advantages of being on our team. If he wasn’t Concord and didn’t have the medical support we’ve got, he’d be spending a couple of months in hospital. At best.”

  “And he really did that for you?” Rhona furrowed her brow as her tone dropped to a near whisper. “Just dropped everything to look out for you on that one chance he had at some leave?”

  “Yeah, he did.”

  Rhona nodded slowly. Van Noor watched her as her eyes focused on the horizon, the barely perceptible winces, nods, and shrugs she gave over the next few moments being indicators of the conversation she was clearly playing out in her head.

  “I’m gonna go say hello. With your permission, Senior.”

  “Sure,” Van Noor replied, “but check in with Mandarin Owenne first. Probably not best to keep him waiting.”

  ***

  The palatial country house and its grounds stood impeccably in the glow of the evening suns, the hedgerows of the ornamental gardens casting long, double shadows acros
s the perfectly mown blue grass. The house itself was perhaps five centuries old, its archaic clinical edges and straight walls marking it out as of a bygone era but still possessing a vintage beauty of sorts. Until the Ghar invasion, it had served as a curious mixture of a country retreat for one of the planet’s most prominent politicians, and a local tourist attraction.

  Rhona was, for the first time, glad of her rank, as it entitled her to a room within the grand house itself; what was left of her squad – Sessetti and Clythe – were billeted in what had once been the servants’ quarters. After the mauling at the hands of the Ghar that morning, the 44th Strike Formation had been pulled back further west away from the city outskirts, leaving the rest of the 17th Assault Force to take their place at the frontline. Modern warfare – in the space of a few hours, Rhona had gone from leading a suicidal charge in the face of a murderous enemy, to taking a long bath in her private suite in a stately home in the countryside.

  As ordered, she returned to the ornamental gardens at the back of the huge house and found Mandarin Owenne where she had left him an hour ago. The NuHu had ordered her to ‘rethink her attire’ after she had reported directly to him in her cracked and burned battlesuit, her face still blackened from the smoke of the engagement. She now wore the green trousers and collared shirt of her barrack uniform, complete with her now battered black beret.

  “You took your time,” the mandarin sneered as he swilled the contents of a crystal glass thoughtfully with one pale hand, ignoring her salute.

  “I put a lot of thought into my attire, sir,” Rhona replied.

  “Very funny. Now let’s get to business. How did you order those two drones to help you this morning?”

  Rhona paused. It occurred to her that she had already escaped with one flippant answer and pushing her luck further was ill advised. She realized how intimidated she felt, despite her façade. This was her first ever one-to-one talk with a mandarin, and whilst Owenne’s reputation was that of an individual who did not take himself particularly seriously, the entire race of NuHu still held a high place in society. And a certain reputation.

  “In accordance with the instructions laid down in C3P512 – the Junior Commander’s Field Guide, sir,” she answered after a pause, “chapter five, paragraph four states that…”

  “I know what the bloody book says,” Owenne sank the potent smelling contents of the crystal glass before grabbing a decanter from the garden table next to him and recharging his glass. “What I want to know is how you, whilst running up a hill under fire, leading a squad of strike troopers, and retaining the mental capacity to plan and coordinate a rather brutal assault, still managed to mentally activate a command override on a pair of drones and give them a detailed plan of action, including waypoints and target prioritization. To put it bluntly, that isn’t easy to pull off.”

  “Dunno, sir,” Rhona replied truthfully, “I just did it.”

  “Would you consider yourself clever? By normal panhuman standards, I mean.”

  “Not really. I’ve had two occupations in my life. Take my clothes off for drunk guys, and kill people. Neither are what I’d call academic vocations.”

  “I’m aware of that,” Owenne stared intently at a spot just in front of her booted feet, “but putting aside the fact that you deliberately exaggerate your regional accent in an obvious attempt to hide your academic childhood and near genius level of intellect in certain areas, would you consider yourself a clever individual?”

  Rhona paused. NuHu were certainly not known for their ability to interact with people, let alone pick up on behavior and character. She had been imitating her father’s accent for so many years that it now felt natural, even though the need to mask her academic leanings and put on a show of bravado and confidence were now long gone.

  “Yes,” Rhona said, “I would consider myself intelligent. I spent my entire childhood prioritizing academic pursuits wherever possible. I haven’t had the chance to continue that for nearly a decade now, but assuming I survive my stay in the military, I would hope the Concord would make better use of me once I return to civilian life.”

  “We could make better use of you right now,” Owenne stated, one hand resting awkwardly at the small of his back.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve done your bit with a carbine. I think you’d be better employed at force intelligence. Strike Captain Tahl promoted you early, which looks good for you. Senior Strike Leader Van Noor not only told me that he thinks you have the best data recall he has ever seen, but he also recommended you for a medal after this morning.”

  Rhona paused. She had honestly appreciated Van Noor being the bigger person and reaching out to her after what was the most terrifying ordeal of her life, and she was glad that she at least tried to meet him halfway. But a medal? That, she had not expected.

  “But you don’t approve medals, sir,” Rhona replied, using the opportunity to mask her shock. “You wouldn’t let Strike Captain Tahl have a medal for smashing a dozen of those monsters up with his bare hands. Why would you give me a medal for running up a hill?”

  “You know how the system works,” Owenne looked up distastefully as a large, purple-feathered bird landed on the roof of the house and cawed noisily. “Medals are awarded for individuals who give service in excess of what C3 expects of them. Strike Captain Tahl was the undefeated champion of the most violent and competitive unarmed combat competition in the known universe. I expect him to defeat adversaries in close assault. Given his background, I believe he is achieving mediocrity, perhaps a touch above, but nothing more. You, on the other hand – I wouldn’t expect an individual of your background to lead an assault against a well defended enemy position and then continue an advance to disable two enemy gun turrets on her own initiative, without orders.”

  “We’re not defined by our past,” Rhona argued, “I thought that was the entire reason you’d brought me here to talk.”

  Owenne smirked slightly.

  “Quite so. But the fact remains, I am approving the recommendation that you are decorated. And I recommended you take the opportunity to leave all the mud and blood behind for the Tahls and Van Noors of this universe, and go do something more useful. Come and work with me at force level. My favor will get you far, if you have the ambition.”

  Rhona took a step back and narrowed her eyes. Owenne recoiled in confusion before his pale blue eyes opened wide.

  “You misinterpret my intentions,” he said, his tone possessing some urgency. “I appreciate that you are well used to men making you offers based on your obvious aesthetic appeal. I am not one of them. The thought of… exchanging bodily fluids with anybody makes me want to be sick, quite frankly. No, I appreciate you are about as close to physical perfection as a panhuman will ever get, and I’d quite happily put you on a shelf as one would with an attractive ornament or vase. But nothing more.”

  “Right,” Rhona placed her hands on her hips and continued to eye him suspiciously, wondering if his complete inability to look her, or anybody else for that matter, in the eye was something to read into.

  “You have nothing I want,” the mandarin waved one hand dismissively in the air as he turned to face away from her, “but in your current role, you are a wasted asset. I want what is best for the Concord, so I want you to change jobs. Give it some thought.”

  “Not really interested, sir,” Rhona shrugged.

  “Oh, but I think you are,” Owenne looked up and made eye contact for the first time. “Your current role is to kill people and have them try to kill you. It is patently obvious, even to me, that both of these things are abhorrent to you. The system chose you for military service and the system doesn’t drop the ball. There are no mistakes. How you choose to spend your time in the military is largely out of your hands; but right now, you have a choice, and this won’t happen very often. Go on, you’re dismissed. Think about it.”

  Rhona was thinking of everything but changing roles as she walked back toward the house. Thoug
hts of her brother often forced their way forward, but right now she mainly dwelled on Gant, Qan, and Jemmel. Still lost in thought, she nearly walked straight into Tahl at the foot of the staircase leading up to the accommodation rooms.

  “Sorry,” she managed, taking a step back.

  “I’ve been looking for you for a long time,” Tahl said. “I heard what happened. How are you… holding up?”

  Rhona looked around at the rows of paintings along the walls, their ornate brass frames working well with the gaudy, floral wallpaper. The lack of technology made her feel a little homesick for the times before the Concord.

  “I’m alright,” she forced a smile, “but what about you? I heard you took a few hits. I was meaning to check in but, well, I had to report to Mandarin Owenne and I lost track of time.”

  She realized that she had stepped in and pressed a hand against his elbow, and she immediately regretted crossing the line of formality. However, she felt a warm glow when he allowed it, not even mentioning it.

  “Are you really okay?” He asked quietly. “When thirteen soldiers run up a hill and only three walk down, it’s pretty normal to be… affected.”

  “How can I be affected?” She sighed. “I’ve got drugs running through my veins and C3 controlling my thoughts and emotions. I want to grieve for my friends, but I can’t because I’m really not that bothered. I want to care, but the system won’t allow me to. So yeah, I’m fine, but I don’t want to be. I want to feel something. I owe them that.”

  “I’m sorry you all went through that. As soon as there is any opportunity to get some rest, I’ll make sure that the three of you are the first to leave this place.”

  “I’m not looking for favoritism,” Rhona said, careful that her tone did not sound argumentative.

  “I wish I could promise you that it isn’t,” Tahl admitted, “but if I’m being honest, it’s beyond that now.”

  Rhona stepped up to lay her hands on his chest and look up at him. As she leaned in, a door to her right was flung open and three strike leaders from Cian Company walked into the corridor, engaged noisily in conversation. Rhona rapidly took a step back and failed to suppress a smirk.