“Yeah, temper got the best of me again,” Dooley said. “Back in training camp, I threatened to kick his balls into the following week if he gave me any more bullshit jobs instead of letting me fight. There was this long pause. Thought I was done for, either booted out or thrown in the stockade. But he just got this strange grin, like a gator smiling at you. Said I was all right. I kinda took him under my wing after that. You know, we have to raise these lieutenants right.”
“Speaking of our esteemed lieutenant and long walks, where is Mush?” Goldy asked.
Branson’ eyes shriveled the grin on the replacement soldier’s face. Meshner was still their commanding officer and Branson’s job was to enforce discipline among the men. “I’ll go look for him.”
Praise be the blood.
The Blessed Sacrament. Thanks to the sacrament, a combination of human growth hormone and nanotech, she remained about the physical age of twenty-seven and in peak condition for fighting. Truth be told, the wars had begun to blur together. She hardly noticed when one ended and another began. Tour of duty after tour of duty, her body repaired and rejuvenated. “Through the blood we have life,” a familiar refrain, never truly aging, only knowing war. She tried not to think about how many test subjects that the church’s science division had gone through to perfect the gene therapy. Or worse, that they had occasionally remanded those burnouts back to the field. Like with Goldy.
“Fishes.” The challenge sounded with a tremble of nervousness. Meshner’s pulse rifle swung toward Branson, who stood in the shadows. “Fishes.”
“Loaves,” Branson said in a low voice, calm and focused. She tried to speak with as little venom as possible, but she couldn’t always hide the distaste of addressing Meshner. “What are you doing out here, sir?”
“Just checking out the Nils’ lines.”
“I just came from there. Everything’s under control.” Branson staggered a little from exhaustion. Her ARM XS monitoring system pumped stims into her system, steadying her.
“War is a grave matter, the province of life or death,” Meshner paraphrased Sun Tzu.
Branson, not impressed by his book learning, finished the quote. “‘War is like unto a fire. Those who will not put aside weapons are themselves consumed by them.’”
Meshner sucked from a small silver flask. He tipped it in obligatory offer to Branson, who waved it off. Meshner continued drinking. “Do you know what the curse of war is?”
“Sir?”
“The loss of tears. The stress. The loss of so many. The things …” Meshner’s thought trailed off. “Most men drift through life unaware of what they truly are. Only another soldier knows how hard it is to keep his sanity doing this dirty business. What did you do before all of this, Macia?”
“This is all I do, Lieutenant. I find it easier not to worry about the person I was.” She preferred war’s clean and uncomplicated emotions; giving into it, leaving behind idle dreams of family or could’ve beens. Her father was what they called an “indigenous leader,” a colony planting novice-in-training, killed in the mission field. After her parents were killed, the church took her in. The church was mother, the church was father. So joining the Service of the Order was natural. The church birthed her, and war made her in its image.
“Because the person you were might not be able to live with the things that the person you’ve become had to do? Or because you don’t remember anything before the war?”
“That’s the life of a soldier, sir,” Branson said.
§
“Weapons on me. We’re moving out,” Meshner shouted. Once again, the men discreetly glanced toward Branson.
“We’re expecting some of the Nils’ best.” Branson slung her weapon to readiness, not meeting the eyes of the men, treading the minefield of leading while appearing to follow. Morale was bad enough without the men wondering who to follow when the shit hit. Technically, Meshner was the ranking officer, but the First Lieutenant’s role was more administrative. A liaison ensuring that the will of the church was carried out through her military arm. First Lieutenants were usually hands off, opting to work more behind the scenes. They knew the theory of war. Branson and Dooley, they were war.
The land itself struggled against them. Mud sucked at their boots as they marched toward the hedgerows that lined the town’s perimeter. Flak lit up the starless night from a town more than 10 miles away as drones passed overhead. The gloomy woods and endless fog followed them. Isolated them. Sound echoed and bounced back, carried oddly by the whims of the hollow.
They tromped along the base of a hill that hid them from the road above. Meshner held up his fist. Branson cocked her head at the distinct sound of biomech marching on cobbled roads. A lone Heathen soldier. Branson kept one eye on Meshner, the other on her squad. This was the dangerous time for green soldiers. She knew how their hearts stammered so hard they might not be able to catch their breath. Trying to maintain their composure as they stared into darkness. Trying to distinguish between normal and abnormal shadows. Praying that their anxiety for something to happen, anything, just to get the nerve-jangling waiting over with, didn’t make them do something stupid.
Goldy had wandered too far from the squad before they could do anything about it. Maybe he figured he had a better angle to see their situation from his position. Slinging his rifle over his shoulder, he was climbing up the hill to sneak up on the Heathen soldier.
“Hey, buddy,” Goldy said, in a mock-conspiratorial whisper.
The Heathen soldier had little opportunity to react before Goldy’s kata slipped between his ribs. His body crumpled to the ground. Goldy turned to them, pleased with his actions, but failed to notice what Branson had: this wasn’t a lone soldier separated from his unit. He was a lead advance scout clearing a path for the entire tactical unit, replete with two biomechs supporting the newcomers. The stutter of pulse fire shattered the night, muzzle fire like angry lightning bugs in the darkness. Goldy dove off the road.
“Get up that hill, or I’ll have your balls for breakfast!” Dooley yelled, above the whine of charges building to fire, focused light spat out as hot teeth. Dooley roared up the hill, the men quick on his heels.
A shot whizzed by Branson, and she nearly choked on the accompanying adrenaline rush. She tumbled into Dooley’s position and returned fire. “You’re going to get me killed.”
“Not you,” Dooley smirked with a knowing grin. “Not today, at least.”
Dooley’s eyes betrayed his attempt at humor. He was reveling in the slaughter. There were no innocents to consider, no waxing on about misguided soldiers. They were all, “Heathen bastards that had to be killed,” and be they men, women, or children, they would die if they stood between him and accomplishing his mission.
There was something monstrous in Holland that night.
One of the replacement soldiers took a bullet right through his mouth, sending his helmet flying and spilling him to the ground. Branson crawled over him to get to a better position. A battle still had to be fought, which left no time to mourn him. She shut down another piece of herself and wondered how much she had left to shut down.
One of the Heathens broke through their ranks. Branson intercepted him. No matter what The Order preached, there was no honor in battle. Fights were not won by adherence to rules of some imagined, gentlemanly engagement. Violence was the most primal language of humanity. Pain was the universal translator. Branson jammed her right index finger through the Heathen’s eye socket. When he recoiled, she punched him in his genitals with her left. She grabbed her pulse rifle and hammered his head with its butt.
§
The shooting eventually stopped. MK-241 incendiary attacks left scorched trees. Holes pockmarked the earth. Branson prayed that they hadn’t wasted these men on a bloody joyride.
All Branson wanted was to reach a command post, get a shower, and feel human again. Dismissed, she went to check on Dooley.
“How’s the leg?” Branson asked.
“Just practicing to be the
dummy,” Dooley winced. He had caught a ricochet, but Branson knew that he wasn’t going anywhere.
“It’s all such a waste.”
“I’ll be patched up and ready to go again before chow time.”
“All for the church to claim another bit of real estate, to justify the use of the sword to fulfill God’s kingdom.”
“Careful. Questions like that might make some think you’re losing your beliefs.”
“The only belief of mine anyone needs to worry about is my belief in following orders. I’m just … tired.”
“Yeah, we all get tired like that sometimes.”
Goldy huddled over a body hidden in the shadows. Branson tried to make as much noise as possible when she walked toward him in order to avoid spooking him, but Goldy whirled at her approach, weapon ready. Branson calmly raised her hands. “A little jumpy?”
“I guess, ma’am.”
“Got anything good, kid?”
“Good?” Goldy demurred, not quite hiding his guilt at being caught. “Souvenirs.”
“I found this.” Goldy pointed to a fallen Heathen soldier. “He’s the seventh body I’ve found like that. Most nowhere near any shelling.”
“Maybe someone’s collecting more … exotic souvenirs.”
Goldy’s face suddenly seemed too young to know the taste of war. “How do you do it, ma’am?”
“Do what?”
“Live with the constant fear.”
How could she explain to him that each day was a struggle to believe that life was worth living? That people were supposed to be created in God’s image, that there was a point to any of this?
“There’s no fear on stage,” Branson said. Goldy shook his head, not understanding. “It’s like an actor’s performance anxiety. Our holo-training, all that rehearsal, takes over. Resign yourself to your own death and you can do anything. Especially live.”
§
Branson watched her breath curl languidly in front of her. The cold air stabbed at her lungs like a swarm of needles. The treacherous, man-made forests had been planted specifically as a defensive barrier. The unrelenting shelling reduced her squad to shadows backlit by burning trees. She could barely feel her fingers despite the flames erupting in the woods. A miserable downpour, closer to sleet than rain, left thick, slimy mud that slowed their every movement. The thick fog rolled in, damp and cold, leaving the men disoriented, isolating them in their own private Ragnaroks. The thought of roads seemed like bedtime stories told to give hope to the weary soldiers. The hours might as well have been days.
Branson heard the Devil’s Whistle, the whine which made every soldier’s blood run cold. Drones gave little warning before their attack. “If you can hear the shells, you’ll be okay,” she taught. She hugged the ground, certain that this time a missile had come for her head. The earth trembled beneath her, spitting dirt in its death throes.
Then the shelling stopped.
War held Her breath. After being fired upon all night, the silences proved just as eerie. The earth stilled. Gold flames illuminated the trees. Like prairie dogs, the medics popped their heads up to scan the terrain. They scurried out of their foxholes to tend to the wounded. With diabolical timing, the shelling started again. Bleeding limbs, shorn to their rent bones, lay scattered on the field, bereft of bodies to connect to. The smell of burnt flesh filled the air.
Branson feared for her men. She eyed every fog-dulled silhouette with suspicion, not trusting any sound. At a branch snap, she whirled, finger on trigger, ready to fire until she recognized the man’s helmet. She breathed a sigh of relief. She’d just wanted to get them on the line and through a couple of days of combat. Then they’d be fine. They were good men, only green. The cries of the wounded filled her ears. But even without translation psi ops training, she understood prayers when she heard them.
When the fog lifted, decapitated soldiers littered the field. Bodies strewn about, half-buried in the mud. Blood from friend and foe alike seeped into the soil. Replacement troops puked their guts out at the sight of mangled corpses. Branson inspected the bodies. A hint of suspicion tickled the back of her mind. Many of the wounds should have left some of the men hurt but not dead.
Goldy stumbled about, sure that the last round of shelling was indeed the last. He was young. And inexperienced. And oblivious to the fact that the Heathens had all night to play in the woods with their special brand of toys.
Like sniper rifles.
“Stay down, kid! Keep your head down!” Dooley yelled.
The blast tore into Goldy’s throat. His hands clasped his neck, a thin trickle of blood escaping through his fingers even as the shot cauterized itself. Men returned fire in the direction of the shot. A medic scrambled toward Goldy, not seeing the tripwire. The explosive device threw his body into the air like a discarded toy. The cloud of dust and smoke made it difficult to breathe. The medic struggled to stand up on just one leg. Dooley was the first to reach the still-thrashing Goldy. Branson dashed over to help hold him down as best she could. The medic was already dressing his own leg.
“Medic!” Dooley yelled. He fumbled about his jacket for his emergency aid kit.
“I’m sorry, Sarge. I goofed up. I goofed up,” Goldy spat through his own blood.
“It’s not that bad. Hang on, kid.” Dooley slapped a bandage over it and injected him with morphine.
“Tell me about Valhalla,” Goldy said in his treble rasp.
“It’s a huge palace, kid. Big enough for all of the warriors. All you do is drink, eat, and tell each other lies about your greatest battles.”
“It sounds great, Sarge. I’m tired of fighting.” Goldy’s head fell to the side in a relaxed beatitude.
A signature dull thrum in the ear signaled everyone to scramble for cover. Branson dove into a nearby hole. Its occupant whirled to face her. Each of them brought their weapons to bear.
“Lieutenant,” Meshner said in a flat voice, not unlike a man sitting down for afternoon tea.
“Lieutenant,” Branson responded, matching his nonchalance. She lowered her weapon, but only as Meshner dropped his.
“We’re on hallowed ground.”
“We are, sir?” Branson ducked down at the renewed thrumming and then fired in its direction.
“Tilled with the blood of our enemies.”
“A lot of our blood, too, sir.”
“War has always been with us. She whispers to me. I try to silence Her, but She continues every night. I hear Her voice in the groans left in Her wake, and She only stops when the earth streams with blood. She whispers to me. She told me all about you. Her cup bearer. Always thirsty. I thought you were the one. It’s in our nature. It’s why we fight,” Meshner raised the kata. “The same spirit in which Cain killed Abel. Where we walk, the earth groans with blood in our wake.”
“Something’s not right with you, Meshner.” War did strange things to people. Sometimes Her whispers simply drove men mad. A glint of light from Meshner’s side drew Branson’s attention. A Nil’s dress kata. Her stomach tightened like a clenched fist.
“We’re both orphans of a sort, no family, no name.” Meshner drained his flask, upturning it completely to capture the last drops. “I wasn’t always ‘Mush,’ the paper pusher. I had skill on the battlefield once. Then, one day, the war was done, and I found myself back home. The white picket fence, the possibility of a normal life, was like ashes in my mouth. I had no interest in family. In friends. In any kind of social mask. What I did on the combat field was what I was. Nothing else mattered.”
“There’s blood on our hands.” Praise be the blood.
“I know. Blood that rivers couldn’t wash away,” Meshner said. “So, all we’re left with are our dreams. Mine are of you. It’s always you. The two of us could …”
Branson shook her head, her eyes wanting no part of whatever it was he offered. She had the feeling that he really wasn’t speaking to her at all. She wondered if Meshner had been a burnout like Goldy. Perhaps, before conversion
he, too, had struggled against an inner darkness, one that clawed at him just under his surface.
“You have many guises,” Meshner said. “You die, you come back. But I can see you now. Cursed to fight and suffer over and over again. Like the others. We have sown nothing but death and blood.”
“Praise be the blood,” she said. Branson had been to the cliff’s edge of madness herself. She knew how tempting it could be to give in and dive off into the awaiting embrace of the abyss. So many nights she thought she was losing that tenuous grip on her humanity. Every night it seemed harder and harder to choose to remain human.
“As you have sown, so shall ye reap. For now is the time for harvest.” Meshner raised his kata.
Too many times she had lain awake imagining someone trying to butcher her. Her rifle blocked his kata thrust, throwing him off balance. In close quarters the rifle was otherwise useless. His strength superior to hers. Meshner continued to drive the blade down. Fueled by desperation, she found the strength for survival. Up close, the only sounds were their gasps as they struggled. He grunted when her elbow smashed into the bridge of his nose. They were reduced to animals as Meshner grabbed her head and drove his knee into her throat. He tried to get her in a stranglehold. She bit through his hand then butted him in the jaw. She jumped to the side and drew him backwards. She caught him by the head, her fingers gouging his eyes. She pulled his head backward. Planting her foot into the back of his knee, she threw her weight into him as he fell. He rolled over, freeing himself of her. His hand fished about, retrieving his kata. He stood up slowly, his head above the foxhole. A mad, feral smile glinted in the wan light. His blood stained his teeth. His mouth twitched as if itching for a drink.
His head exploded. Shrapnel of bone, brain matter, and blood sprayed her. The sniper round, more missile than bullet, had shattered his skull. His body dropped to its knees, and he fell forward.
Waump. Waump. Waump.
She recognized the sound as well as she knew the sound of her own heartbeat. The Heathens were launching mortar bombs their way.
The Voices of Martyrs Page 20