A Brother's Secret

by Andy Graham

  As the approaching footsteps got louder, Ray could feel the tension spreading amongst his colleagues. Prior to the Second GTC, the government had spent many years trying to clamp down on the problem of tradition and regulations vying for superiority in the military. Changing both had been a bold thing to attempt, possibly the only way to get the desired results. Chester had managed it.

  “That’s the one,” Nascimento whispered, “the one who gave us planks for mattresses and took the heaters out of our barracks.”

  “Word is it’s even worse in the mountain bunkers,” Orr said. “There’s a roaring smugglers’ trade in blankets. Mate of mine—”

  “You have a friend?” Brooke asked sweetly.

  Orr glared at her. “Give your hole a rest, woman. My mate,” Orr continued, “knows a guy there who taught himself how to knit. He scrounged old socks off people to make himself a jumper.”

  “A man knitting?” Nascimento let out a low whistle. “Didn’t think it could get that cold.”

  “‘Embracing deprivation is the key to winning the battles of attrition which have made up warfare throughout the ages.’” Orr quoted General Chester’s well-worn phrase. “I grew to hate hearing that shit as a rook.”

  “Shut it, you two.” Ray hissed. The squad snapped to attention as General Chester’s entourage got closer.

  The squad lined up inside Conference Room One. It had been upgraded again. Four large screens hung off the walls. There was a low drinks cabinet at one end, stacked with heavy tumblers and glass jugs. Gleaming steel fixtures and fittings framed white walls, grey floors and various shades of brown. Heavy high-backed chairs stood around the large circular table that dominated the room.

  The edge of the table was lined with a layer of lights, currently giving off a dull green glow. Ray had seen school parties stare open-mouthed at the carefully choreographed demonstrations, the lights cycling through the colours as they played war games. In his twelve years in the military, he’d only once seen it on blue. When parties from the Towns were here, it was the kids who got excited. When the parties came from the Gates, it was the male teachers.

  The table was divided into two concentric circles. The outer one had screens and sockets set into it. In the inner circle, twelve swords pointed towards the emblem in the centre, where a winged lizard clutched a thirteenth sword. Fire streaked from its mouth and the scales seemed to ripple on the tabletop.

  “Good morning,” Chester said. “I think we can dispense with the chairs to begin with.” The general gestured to a corner. “Standing meetings are so much more empowering. It appears the scientists have caught up with what the real thinkers have known for a long time.”

  They stacked the chairs in the corner, Ray wincing as he picked his up.

  “Just your chair, Sub-Corporal, not all of them,” Chester said.

  Nascimento winked at Ray and put the three he’d been carrying down, managing to fly the eagle at one of the Praetorians as he did.

  “Congratulations on your recent mission to Mennai,” said Chester. “I understand it was a great success. The 10th often works deep in the night, but what you do makes the day a brighter place for us all.”

  Success? Ray thought. Maybe for Chester the death of only one person was a success. For him, losing a friend seemed like an abject failure.

  The general pulled out a small disc. “The country has need of you again. Given your impressive record and the particular make-up of your squad, you were considered the obvious choice. These orders come from the VP himself. As always, operational secrecy prevails. However, this will be high profile, at least once it has been completed. Somewhat unusual for you, no? There may well be commendations to follow. What say you to that?”

  The squad shuffled under Chester’s expectant stare. The man standing to Chester’s left beamed, his chest swelling. The General waved Aalok’s thanks away and inserted the flat disc into a slot in the table.

  Pulses of light flashed along the swords. They rose into the air, letters and symbols appearing on the blades. The creature spread its wings, claws clamping down on the sword it was holding. Blood trickled down the edges, as bright and glorious as its eyes were dark and malign. Chester looked on eagerly. Cracks even appeared on the faces of the stone-like Praetorians. Ray risked a glance to his left and saw Nascimento rolling his eyes. The images revolved in front of them, then disappeared in a shower of pixelated confetti. As it fell, it rearranged itself into a ruggedly detailed picture of a mountain range.

  The 3D image sped along the mountain peaks, across sprawling forests that insulated the snow-capped stone. It tracked along rivers, crashed through valleys and dropped down slime-covered rocks. There were settlements scattered throughout the terrain. Some were no more than the dot of an isolated hut, others collections of cottages huddled facing each other, protecting each other against the harsh elements and unforgiving surroundings. A few of the larger settlements had encircling walls, a couple of the smaller didn’t have roofs. The image soared up a mountain face and hovered over a massive plateau taken up by a large town. The picture spun slowly, showing the palisade and giant statues surrounding the town. There were indistinct images of people on the ground. They would occasionally disappear in a buzz before reemerging some distance on.

  “We’re working on the definition,” said Chester, frowning. “Permanent objects aren’t a problem but we still can’t track moving objects accurately enough in the detail we’d like. There have been some problems in Sci-Corps, which have had a knock-on effect.” The general’s gaze flickered towards the man standing to one side. Brooke was staring at the images, her blue eyes wide.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you—”

  “My home,” Brooke finished. She reached out a hand to the shifting green picture floating in front of them. The images warped under her fingertips, melting into a mess of scintillating colours. Brooke pulled her hand back.

  “Thank you, Corporal Brooke,” Chester said stiffly, retaking the moment. “I give you the Cloud Forests of the Donian Mountain Belt and the Angel City.”

  16

  Everyone Should Lift

  Nascimento pushed his plate away and reached for the second he’d hassled out of the rook behind the counter. Waving away Brooke’s comments with a soup spoon, he spoke between mouthfuls of food. “Say what you want about Chester, at least we get food now rather than various shades of slop.”

  “A pay rise would be nice,” said Ray.

  “Never gonna happen,” chipped in Orr, “but your partner will get a nice little package now when your luck runs out, that’s something at least.”

  “She’s only ever gonna get a little package from what I heard,” said Nascimento. “Anyway, Franklin’s single. Again.” He nudged Brooke in the ribs. “Put him out of his misery, will you, ma’am? I reckon that’s why his back is hurting. Too much inner pressure.”

  “Drop it, Sub-Corporal,” Brooke said. “Or I’ll volunteer you for one of Chester’s new punishments.”

  Nascimento shrugged. “As long as it’s not knitting.” He rapped his cutlery on the table. “Anyway, d’you hear Chester? I’m gonna get me some more fruit for my salad: shiny new medals. Just wait till the old boy hears that! Piece of. Zero risk, maximum gain, ’part from maybe a few bumps and bruises.”

  “Didn’t some other big dog promise us the same before the mission Hamid died?” Ray asked. His voice was lost in the clatter of cutlery and banter. Brooke shot him a glance as she pushed her cold food around her plate with a fork.

  “No way, dude,” said Nascimento seeing Orr eyeing Brooke’s plate. If anyone gets that, it’s me. I’m pulling rank.”

  “We are the same rank.”

  “Age then.”

  Orr shook his head.

  “OK, beauty, brains and balls. I trump you on both.”

  “That’s three things,” Orr said.

  “Glad you noticed. At least you can count past two, unlike Franklin here. ‘Just a couple of the heavy ones’,�
� he whined. “I still haven’t got all that pink paint off my barbell, Brooke.”

  She flew him the eagle.

  “Now, pass me the plate, Orr. There’s a good little rook.”

  A sudden chorus of mocking hoots from the next table drowned out Orr’s reply. Ray shifted on the hard plastic bench. Aches and pains were fine, but this was taking on a life of its own. Nascimento had insisted on naming the pain but hadn’t explained why.

  The rest of the meeting with General Chester had been routine. Next to no information about why they were going and next to no time to prep for it. They were to be the advance team, a larger team would be following them a few days later. Other than that, there had been sketchy details about a civilian scientist from Sci-Corps, who may have found a solution to the looming energy crisis, and then a whole load of everything and not much of anything. More time had been spent talking in grandiose language about respecting the traditions of Donia than the mission itself. Brooke’s face during the speech had remained far too serene. She pushed her plate away and tossed the cutlery down onto the table.

  “You ok?” Ray asked.

  “Like I said in the Kickshaw, it’s going to be odd, that’s all. Doing this,” she gestured to her uniform, “there.” She pulled out her phone and tapped something into its screen. “I’m fine, Ray. Drop it.”

  He watched her scrolling through the pages until a groan of pain distracted him. Nascimento and Orr had settled their argument over the plate with their version of paper-scissors-stone. It had a free shot penalty. The big man was rubbing his shoulder and Orr was wolfing down his spoils.

  Talk turned to the emblem they’d seen illuminated on the table earlier. Nascimento dismissed it as an angry worm, another one of Chester’s crazy ideas, and the eye rolling and finger pointing started again. More so, when Orr realised his colleague hadn’t actually known the dragon and the sword had symbolised the post-Flood country of Brettia before it had been renamed Ailan. It didn’t seem like the stocky man was going to forget it any time soon.

  Sarcastic comments were being flung across the table. Brooke threw barbed jibes at them both, winding things up to the point that Ray thought one of them was going to boil over. Just when the brooding bubble threatened to engulf them, Nascimento’s oversized laugh would burst it and they’d start again. Ray listened quietly, rubbing his back.

  Stella had told him it would take a while before he felt 100 percent again, that it wouldn’t be a straight-line recovery. What if she was wrong and he never recovered? The thought left him cold. He couldn’t do anything else. He had been in uniform since he could shave. The fate of vets was mixed: revered or reviled. Not everyone got lucky like Martinez in the Kickshaw. Ray could go back to the Towns. Lenka could use the help, but after what he’d seen and done, could he spend the rest of his life on a smallholding? He chuckled. That had the makings of a fantasy cliche straight from the stories Lenka had read him — the ageing farmer with a military past who is forced back into action to save the world, and whose death would galvanise his young student into action as the chosen one. All he needed now was a dragon or two. Maybe he should ask Chester if she had any spare.

  Nascimento threw his head back in a barking laugh that brought nervous grins from the surrounding tables. Ray snapped back to the present. “You’re a dick, Nasc,” Orr said.

  “Dude, I am the dick against which all other dicks are measured. Ask any of my lady friends. Got pictures, if you want to see them?” He slapped his biceps. “This dude’s got all the moves.”

  “Like picking up heavy stuff?” Brooke said. “You gonna brag about your squat, too?”

  “Barbells need skill, just like anything else,” he retorted. “Anyway, everyone should lift. We could all use a little bulk in the bank before Old Man Winter comes knocking and the wither sets in.”

  Ray felt a kick under the table and shook his head. He wasn’t going to play this game, not this time.

  “Pound for pound I will outlift you, and you know it, Jamerson Nascimento,” said Brooke.

  Nascimento held out his hand. “The lift of your choice. Orr can judge while Sick-note takes Sophia to rehab.”

  “Who’s Sick-note?” Orr asked.

  “Franklin.”

  “You’re on.” Brooke stalked off, oblivious to their shouts.

  “Who’s Sophie?” Orr asked.

  “Sophia, S-O-P-H-I-A, Franklin’s pet back pain. Don’t you learn anything in the Towns? Maths? Spelling? Listening?”

  “A fuck lot more history than you silver-spoon brats.”

  As the men bickered, Ray watched Brooke go. Graceful and volatile, in many ways she was the worst of the group. Orr’s sneer seemed welded to his face and Jamerson ‘Nasty’ Nascimento had a temper to match his physique when he was riled. Brooke was different, a more subtle, unpredictable type of violence.

  “The sit-in’s tonight,” Ray said to the men.

  They stopped arguing.

  “Like I was going to forget,” Nascimento replied.

  “I know but keep it quiet. Remember Aalok’s warning, we won’t get away with more than a few of us.”

  He started gathering up the trays. As the ranking officer on the table, this was his duty. It was one of the traditions of the 10th he would be happy to see changed. Be grateful, he told himself. At least they could eat with both hands now rather than just the left like in Basic Training. “I’m going to check Brooke’s OK.”

  “‘Just’...” Orr repeated. “Is that like Sub-Lieutenant Grunndul just wanting wrestling classes from her?”

  Ignoring the lewd comments from behind him, Ray gave the table one last wipe down and left the others to their games.

  17

  The Sit-in

  Early the same evening, Ray walked down the stairs towards Hamid’s room. It still hadn’t been cleared; his next of kin would do that after the funeral. The military had only just finished processing his body. As the bodies of fallen colleagues were never seen once they returned to base, there were rumours the ‘processing’ was a little more grisly than anyone wanted to know. The morgue being located next to the canteen didn’t help matters.

  The small foyer of the barrack complex was covered in heroic posters. Most were dominated by a tall, improbably muscular soldier in full battle dress with a lightning bolt emblazoned across his chest. Captain Electric. The biggest picture showed him clutching a small child in his arms, one foot on a man’s crumpled body. Unlike the victor’s uniform, there was no blood on the fallen soldier.

  The rest of the squad was waiting in full dress uniform, pressed to pin-point perfection. The leather and brass gleamed in the harsh lighting. Brooke pulled a non-existent hair off Ray’s shoulder and turned so he could check her back. Orr adjusted Nascimento’s hat, taking care not to touch the polished peak with his white-gloved hands.

  Nascimento was strangely subdued. Fatigue from a day’s training wasn’t enough to keep his mouth shut; only sleep, food and women did that. Hamid’s death had hit him harder than he was going to let on. Buddied up in the early days of training, they had hit it off straight away. Hamid had got Nascimento through his tech exams. The squad were going to have to talk this out to stop it from festering. They were long overdue a visit to the Kickshaw anyway, and too many glasses of ‘cure-all, clean-all’ would do them good.

  The desk sergeant and guards snapped to attention and, without a word, the legionnaires fell in behind Brooke. They pulled up short as the double doors into Hamid’s corridor swung closed behind them.

  The walls were lined with people. Pressed in shoulder to shoulder stood Rivermen, the Iron Clad, the Eagles and other legions. Bulls, wolves, claws, tridents and all manner of emblems were visible on sleeves and hats. Other people dotted the lines. Specialist Master Sergeant Olivia with the curly hair from Tech-Corps, her pale cheeks wet with tears, stood between men from Hamid’s previous unit. Even cooks and cleaners from the Pastoral-Corps were there.

  The four members of the squad who had bee
n with Hamid the night of his death marched half-time through the unofficial honour guard. As custom dictated, spaces had been left around the door to the room of their fallen colleague. They stopped, marked time and pivoted. Facing them, the faintest of smiles ghosting across his face, was Captain Aalok.

  Corporal Karlyne Brooke lifted her rifle, one hand level with her shoulder. She squeezed the weapon as if she were trying to wring it in two and stood immobile. Eyes shining. The dead silence of the corridor was split by the twin noises of Brooke’s rifle butt and heel hitting the floor. The sounds hung in the air before being drowned out by a thunder of boots and wood on stone. Ray fixed his gaze at a point just behind Aalok’s head and began the long silent vigil which would take them through the night to Hamid’s funeral.

  A fresh round of drinks rattled on the table. Ray sank onto the bar stool, thankful to be off his feet. He’d had his dress shoes on more in the last twenty-four hours than in his entire military career. The rest of the quartet looked marginally better than he did. Brooke had a little make-up on, but the black puffy rings under the men’s eyes matched his own.

  He slammed his drink down a fraction behind the others. The empty glasses were refilled by Lynn, the Kickshaw’s manager, an understanding expression on her face. The first round was free - the hanging shot, paid for by the public when they could stretch to it. The last was free after a sit-in, on the house. That wasn’t the only reason the 10th came here, but it helped. He hoped it would also do something for his back. The cut-glass feeling had come and gone again, it was more of a dull throb now. It had been sheer stubbornness that had kept him upright through the night but he had refused to be the second person to fail a sit-in. Skovsky had been the first. The taunts hadn’t lasted long. A few weeks, later the vigil had been held for him.