by Leo Champion
Then they were down on the ground, engines whining to decelerate further as the shuttle bumped along. Outside now were the flat concrete expanses of every spaceport, with a chain-link fence topped with coils of razor wire visible. On the other side was a street busy with cars and trucks. A bright sun shone down from a clear, pale-blue sky; it looked to be about midday local time. Ship time had been three pm an hour ago, so it wasn’t too much of a time-shock.
“Welcome to Vazhao,” came the voice of Senior Lieutenant Gardner across the shuttle’s speakers. “Company will disembark and join battalion formation.”
* * *
It was about eighty degrees out, and fairly humid. Lieutenant-Colonel Hall hadn’t spoken for long, and it was all pretty generic stuff; honored to take charge of you soldiers, I look forward to working with you all, I’m a reasonable man but don’t get on my wrong side, blah blah and so forth.
Then a tall, thin black woman in a good civilian suit addressed them, using the microphone that the new battalion commander hadn’t bothered to pick up. On behalf of the Department of Colonial Affairs, she said in a clipped Midwestern accent, she welcomed Fourth Battalion to Dinqing. Thank you for your service and your presence is appreciated. My aide will give your officers your assignments.
The woman and the handful of aides or bodyguards tailing her, at least a couple of whom did wear military uniform, conferred with the battalion headquarters people. Mullins saw messengers heading out to the company HQ sections, then company commanders – or acting commanders, in the case of Senior Lieutenant Gardner.
Soon Gardner shouted out to Bravo Company, pointing.
“Board the buses marked 4B,” shouted acting Weapons platoon leader and company guide – acting first sergeant – Ortega. “Buses marked 4B, to the right as you leave the terminal. To the fucking right people, do I have to draw you a map! Move!”
The nearest terminal was much like the one on Adam’s World, or the similar places Mullins had seen on New Virginia; functional but not pretty, waiting spaces with a few franchise-type restaurants around for the hungry. Men in brown uniforms and peaked caps, slouching with submachineguns slung in front of them, eyed the newly-arrived Legion troops as they hustled with their packs and duffels through the place.
Colonial Guard, Mullins didn’t need further identifiers to spot them as. He wondered if they were as worthless, corrupt and incompetent as their locally-recruited counterparts on New Virginia.
Likely yes, hopefully not. He wasn’t especially hopeful.
Outside the terminal Qings were everywhere, more eaties than Mullins had ever seen in one place. Well, it was their world. Most of them wore pouch-laden sashes and kilts, and a few had gold epaulettes on their right shoulders and carried revolving shotguns or rifles. They hustled back and forth on their own errands around the spaceport busway; some of them had blankets laden with goods out, calling in a hissing language Mullins didn’t understand as the men passed by them. Others pulled carts laden with boxes, or just moved around on their own business.
The buses Gardner and Ortega had told them to find were city buses painted brown and silver; they were the same type of bus you saw doing local routes in NYC and other cities and they were probably the same buses, given a ten-year lifespan on Earth and then retirement to the colonies. Mullins took a double-seat, his luggage taking the other half, and soon they got moving.
It took them a bit over an hour, moving through crowded traffic. For most of the time they were on a road that seemed to be exclusively intended for motor vehicles; buses and older-model cars, a goodly number of trucks, for a while a streetcar line that shared space with the non-streetcar traffic. Motorbikes, scooters and a lot of probably-illegal-on-this-road pedaled bikes, almost all ridden by Qings, zipped between the bigger vehicles. Blocky concrete apartment buildings towered five or six stories up above them, mixed with factories and lengths of busy storefront.
Every so-often the highway, if it was that, halted so that local traffic could cross; pedestrians, mostly Qings but a few humans too. Pushcarts, some of them with bicycles in front; a few sedan chairs, four of the stockier lower-caste Chongdin Qing bearers carrying each. So damn many eaties, although there were a goodly number of humans as well.
After a while they crossed a massive cantilever bridge over a wide green river that was thick with boat traffic, barges and junks and what looked like steam tugs. Then the line of buses – Mullins was in the lead one, but there were eight or nine closely-packed ones carrying Bravo Company in its entirety – took a left turn and painstakingly drove for a while through what was obviously an older area.
The buildings were more densely packed and the architectural style was very different; wood and stone instead of steel and concrete. From the feel of the road under them, smooth bitumen had changed to bumpy cobblestones. There was no discernible sidewalk; foot and unpowered traffic mixed evenly with the buses and everyone moved at a crawl. There was a lot of honking, bell-ringing and shouting.
They passed through a gate in a wall, inspected by Army soldiers in grey urban-camouflage uniforms, toting their sleek M-31 personal railguns. They waved the Legion buses through without inspection, and very shortly after that they pulled over in front of a couple of three-story buildings that stood at right-angles to each other, with a blockier two-story building making up the third part of a C. The three buildings and a chain-link fence topped with razor wire, with a gate the buses had driven through, enclosed a big square yard.
“Here we are, guys!” Croft shouted. “Your new quarters. Make yourselves at home, you’ve got until 1730 local to settle in. Second floor, B Building is Third Platoon.” The lieutenant pointed.
* * *
Inside was air-conditioned, of all things; central air and good lighting. The floors were made of some pale hardwood and it turned out that most of the rooms were two-man, one-man for sergeant and above. There were happy noises from the men as they realized this.
Mullins pushed in the door of the room whose door-plate said ‘Signals/Medic’. It was a decently-sized room, ten by twelve feet with a bed on either side; hell, he’d shared a smaller one than this with three guys on New Virginia. Large windows on one side gave a good view of the parade ground, of the buses that were now departing from it.
There were real beds and instead of foot-lockers, actual multiple-drawer dressers made from a similar pale wood to the floor.
Jorgenson appreciatively tested the lights, then probed a door in one side.
“Shit dude,” he said to Mullins. “We got our own bathroom!”
“Entirely our own?” Mullins asked skeptically.
“Yeah – nah, there’s a door on the other side. Still, check it out.”
Even a bathroom shared with just two other guys, beyond Jorgenson, was good news. At the old One-Four-Four Home the entire platoon, below Croft and Williams, had shared a large common one.
These were by far the most comfortable quarters he’d seen so far in the Legion. From the pleased exclamations the other, more experienced men were making as they settled in, they were the most comfortable quarters anyone in Bravo Company had seen so far.
From a look at maps on his phone, they appeared to be directly inside a walled security zone of government buildings, business headquarters and more advanced industry. Names and icons on stores in the commercial district not too far away indicated cafes, bars, even a damn library. All inside walking distance.
And the mobile internet speed was faster than anything he’d seen since leaving Earth.
This was awesome. From a quality-of-life standpoint, Mullins decided he liked Vazhao.
* * *
Walking around with Mandvi and Reuter, it turned out that the upper floors of each three-story building were barracks. Mandvi had been detailed to help carry the lieutenant’s bags upstairs and it turned out that if the enlisted housing was nice, the officers’ quarters were really nice; Croft had a three-room suite including his own bathroom.
Each buildin
g had a weights room; on the ground floor of one building was a small but nice mess hall run by Qings in brown kilts, boots and sashes. It was from those guys that they learned why these barracks were so nice: they’d originally been built for Army, not Legion.
The mess happened to be open, serving lunch. Mullins, Mandvi and Reuter took what was on offer, a spicy fish-and-rice dish that didn’t taste half bad. There were soda machines and a salad bar. Damn, Army people lived well.
At four in the afternoon, having eaten and explored inside the gates – no passes had been issued, although someone had asked the acting skipper about it and said they were likely to be, so they hadn’t left the compound – the company stood in formation to be assigned tasks.
Third Platoon’s third squad, under Kalchenko, was sent off with Williams to ‘bridge duty’; apparently intelligence had indicated a possible threat against the big cantilever bridge they’d crossed over not long before reaching the barracks. Extra men were being sent to watch it.
First and Second squads, under Croft and with Mullins and Jorgenson tagging along, were assigned to ‘gate duty’.
That turned out to be guarding the gate they’d come through on their way in. It was a fifteen-foot-wide way through a thirty-foot high stone wall. The same Army soldiers in grey urban camouflage were standing around, checking the vehicles that came in. On their left shoulders they wore division patches – Legion men wore battalion patches in the same place, in 1/4/4’s case two upwards-facing dice showing sixes – showing a black hammer diagonally across a halved red and blue shield.
“Thirty-First Division,” Reuter commented. “The Iron Hammers.”
The man in charge was a sergeant first class, an E-7; in the Legion E-7 was master sergeant, but they wore the same insignia of three stripes and two rockers. You could see the reluctance in his body language when he came to attention and saluted Croft, an officer but from a service the Army invariably looked down on.
“You’re early. Sir. Not scheduled to relieve us until seven, when the busy period’s over.”
“It was suggested we observe your procedures for the next hour and a half, Sergeant First Class” – Mullins could see Croft reading the man’s nametag – “Clark. My men had some familiarization training on the way here, but they could stand to learn more.”
“Figures,” said a female Army corporal. “Blueshirts being a step dumber than goldfish.”
Someone took an angry step toward her. Croft, who probably didn’t have eyes in the back of his head but had been around long enough to guess the reaction to a remark like that, raised a hand and shook his head.
“Very well, sir. Have your men stay out of the way, then. We know what we’re doing.”
“You heard him,” Croft addressed the two squads. “Watch them, but stay out of the way. And keep your mouths shut. Sergeant First Class, I’d appreciate your people keeping their mouths shut if they don’t have anything constructive of their own to say.”
“Sir,” said Clark.
* * *
An hour and a half passed, Dinqing time, with the Legion troops observing the Army squad at work on the roadblock. The Dinqing day consisted of twenty-three hours, nineteen minutes and thirteen seconds, Earth time. As happened with the slightly longer-than-Standard New Virginia and Chauncy days, the duration of each hour was changed; a Dinqing hour consisted of fifty-nine Earth minutes, with the balance of the seconds applied every day at midnight.
Croft’s watch happened to be an expensive auto-synchronizing model that configured itself not just to a given planet’s clock but to the individual timezone of where he was on that planet. Most of the men had phones with apps that could do the same thing, but he made a mental reminder to himself to make sure everyone got Dinqing-configured wristwatches.
The last thing you wanted in a combat or pre-combat situation was to have to fish out a cellphone whenever you wanted the time.
Still, this work didn’t seem too hard. The Army guys only had a single squad on the gate, entirely checking inbound vehicles. More, at this hour, were heading out.
“We have two squads during morning rush,” the sergeant first class remarked to Croft. He’d gotten warmer after noticing Croft’s West Point ring, a reaction Croft had had before from Army officers but not enlisted men.
“Doesn’t seem like rocket science. You search the vehicles, check human IDs, check the Qings’ bracelets for tampering.”
Because Qing faces differed a lot less than human ones, at least to human eyes, Qings authorized to enter the Administrative Zone had parolee- and probationer-type tamper-resistant bracelets. The things didn’t track their wearers like the ones issued by Earthside criminal justice systems – at least they didn’t track them outside the Administrative Zone, there was some reason to think they might do so inside – but they did send an electronic signal when removed or messed with. Their scanread also changed. Any Qing whose bracelet bleeped was to be detained, and shot if they resisted.
“And your men show the civilians some respect,” Clark added. “Don’t forget that.”
“My men are as disciplined as yours are, Sergeant.”
Chapter Five
Wednesday October 18th, 2215
Mom, Dad,
So we’ve been on Dinqing a few days now, and I have to say it’s easy duty as far as it comes. Best quarters I’ve ever seen in the Legion, and I don’t even have much to do. In theory I’m perimiter security and translator for one entrance to a human quarter of Vazhao called the Administrative Zone.
In practice the Qings allowed into the Administrative Zone know English anyway, or at least understand it. I’m getting used to the interlang but I’m maybe called on twice a night to translate if that, and that’s usually just to tell some merchant that no, he can’t bring his stuff in here, he has to apply for a pass and an access bracelet.
Third Platoon is responsible for three gates, a squad on each; we have the night shift from seven in the evening to seven in the morning. An Army unit, because they’re apparently considered better-disciplined and more presentable than us – so far as I can tell all they are is better-equipped and better-armed – handles things during the day.
We have the same three entrances and I’m getting to recognize a few regulars – there are some cute women, got to wonder what they’re even doing out here in the colonies – but the Army guys tend to switch things up. You see the same guys, but not regularly.
The nice part about duty during the night, twelve hours at a time apparently six days a week, is that I have time off during the day. And the commercial district of the Administrative Zone – well, it’s not Boylston Street, Fifth Avenue or Harvard Avenue, but it’s as nice as I’ve seen in the colonies.
I’m actually writing this to you on my laptop at a coffee-shop table; Janja’s sitting across from me trying to chat up a nice Indian girl, by the looks of her a C-visa. They’re talking away in Hindu and she’s smiling at him. There’s decent internet.
All in all, not a bad place to be stationed. It’s not completely without action – Vazhao is a huge city, and a Legion patrol – from Delta Company – was shot at the other day in one of the industrial ghettos. Someone apparently made a 911 call, then opened up with an automatic weapon from a rooftop on the guys responding. A Qing cop and one of our guys were wounded, nobody killed. Oh, and someone attempted to set off a bomb outside the Imperial Palace a few days ago. Nobody knows who, but the bomb-maker screwed up; ignition charge, basically a big firecracker, went off just fine. But for whatever reason it didn’t detonate the main charge, and nobody was hurt.
According to the barracks staff it was probably feuding between rival factions of their Imperial family, probably the guys who rose up in the Insurrection – and who we de-legitimized after that – trying to go after the third cousins we put in their place. But at any rate, it didn’t do anything.
There are harder postings than Vazhao and we’ll probably be rotated out to one of them eventually; there’s a bush war
going on in the southeast, and constant bandit troubles across Chongdin. But word is that we’ve got this job for the next couple of months. It could be worse.
Yours,
Paul
* * *
“So I’ve been watching those Army guys,” Sergeant Hill announced to the barracks rec room full of Third Platoon men. The virtual-reality gaming consoles were shut off and men were sitting around on the sofas and carpeted floor, listening to what he had to say. “They work in double shifts. Six hours a day frisking cars; one squad on and the other squad backup at the wall. Then they switch.”
There were a few grumbles. The Legion men on the same duty, at night when there was less traffic, worked a squad at a time for twelve hours straight. That the Army types got only six hours out of twenty-four on active work and two days a week as opposed to just one completely off? Yeah, that didn’t sit well.
“So when do we beat them up?” someone asked.
“Shut the fuck up, Murdoch,” Hill said. “I’ll get to that.”
Mullins lay sprawled on one of the sofas, watching and listening. He didn’t like where this was going, himself.
The fireplug First Squad sergeant, at the center of the room in front of the main virch console, kept going:
“So the pocket walk we learned on Adam’s World. Gartlan, Roccio, you were there when they told us about it.
“We were!” Roccio put in.
Mullins traded eyerolls with Janja, on the sofa next to him. Nobody in Third Platoon respected Roccio much.
“We provoke them. But they swing the first punch, so if any trouble comes down on us, the Goldnecks or the MPs give it to Army first for swinging first. You all got that?
“But Army cowards ain’t gonna start shit they don’t think they can finish. So we have four guys, three or four, provoke them. One of their going-off-duty squads. Twelve on four, they can take us. They think.
