The Blood Service

by Allen Ivers

  He'd seen it flow so smoothly before, with compassion and gravitas for the task at hand. He'd witnessed kindness.

  But his own court had seemed to share the same contempt as Aaron's attacker. What other explanation could there be for the brutal speed of his trial, the urgency behind Blind Justice’s dispensation?

  It was one thing to kill, but to kill someone important -- well, that just won’t do. Aaron was doomed from the moment that little bastard thumbed the safety. And how fast he was in doing so, so casual and dismissive in his execution. Aaron could only act on reflex.

  Quinn shivered, “I’m not cut out for this.”

  Aaron blinked away the memories, smiling past bitterness he had put behind him. “One thing you’re forgetting, little man,” he said, “You’re not doing this alone. We’re all gonna be here, every step.”

  “You don’t really think that’s true, do you?”

  Yeah. They were all probably going to die in pursuit of this impossible promise. And Quinn was no fool.

  “Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Aaron lied right to his face.

  “You gonna stare down a Jergad with me?” Of course. The kid wanted to know about the enemy, what he’d be asked to kill.

  “Damn right I will,” Aaron responded, with more of a pause than he intended.

  “I heard they’re ten feet tall and eat the dead. You’re gonna stand up to that?”

  Aaron smiled, “You’ll stand a lot taller when you’re standing with us, Quinn.”

  “You’re in my bed.” A new voice, cold words loaded with a familiar malevolence.

  Quinn’s head snapped around. A half-circle had formed around Quinn’s bunk of raggedy men, all torn cloth and unkempt beards. Their jumpers bore mostly tags of machinists but there was one Gearmaster at their center: Michonne.

  His shaved head was knobbly and dented, an aesthetic result of genetics and old injuries alike. This was a pit fighter, an attack dog, who knew little else.

  Aaron remembered him from the Pits, but he lived in an entirely different wing of the Capital apartments. Most of those assembled with him were Dwellers -- curious. Michonne should be over with his own folk. Instead, he had put together a little clan all of his own and set out to stake territory with cracked knuckles and stern glares.

  They must’ve excommunicated him and recently. And now he had brought his brand to the Fifth Floor crew, to carve out a space for his own.

  Border disputes, even here. Fantastic.

  “You light in the head, Skel?” Michonne spat at Quinn, referring to Quinn’s light frame. “I said ‘that’s mine.’”

  “Strictly speaking,” Quinn’s voice quivered, but it’s not like he could flee, “That’s not what you said. You said ‘You’re in my bed.”

  “You correcting me now too?” Michonne couldn’t let that challenge, however minor, stand. Men like him never could. Could’ve just rolled his eyes and pressed on, but this tribal bestial bullshit would have its day.

  "Move it along, Michonne," Aaron said, loud enough to draw attention from those nearby, "I'm not in the mood today."

  Michonne ignored him, choosing to kick at Quinn's good leg, "Get up. Now."

  Aaron cocked his head and blinked a few times, almost amused that Michonne had yet to acknowledge Aaron’s presence, almost as though the kid was alone. Bullies have to single out their target for it to work, after all. If the target has a posse, it’s just a brawl.

  Cue the meat brigade, answering the summons.

  “How’s everybody doin’?” Jensen sidled up to the conversation, hanging off the top bunk’s footrest. The five to one odds didn’t seem to concern him at all.

  “Go do some more push-ups, Jensen,” Michonne retorted, “It’s about all you’re good for.”

  “Oh, ho ho ho - this is gonna be funny.” Jensen popped off the bed, immediately stretching out his taut and veiny forearms, “Yo! Carmona! Eyes up!”

  Carmona rolled over on his hard-won top bunk, grasping a lead pipe between his palms -- where the Hell did he get a lead pipe?!

  For all his machismo and muscles, Carmona bore a consistent cool head, with piercing brown eyes that made him the most suave and full lips that he had somehow protected from splitting in the dry air of the Pits. His shadow of a beard had already grown in on his face, spackling the debonair man with even more handsome. He rolled the pipe in his fingers, feeling its every detail as he eyed his targets.

  It was pure peacocking, trying to illustrate to Michonne -- and specifically his goon squad -- why this was about to be a very bad idea.

  Jensen smiled, warm and broad, as though he wasn’t about to make a bodily threat, “Michonne, I need you to scurry along now before my friend over there has a chance to a rearrange your teeth.”

  Michonne bristled, muscles coiling up. He knew how to posture too. “Your friend moves, and I will put that pipe right down his throat.”

  What Aaron noted, was Michonne’s hand sliding into his pocket. Quinn saw it too.

  It was all talk, it had to be. Disorderly conduct amongst Capitals wasn’t generally tolerated; it reduced work efficiency.

  Aaron threw a glance at the cameras overhead, the tiny lens tracking on the standoff -- a computer somewhere automatically picking up on body posture, lip reading threats, tracking increases in body temperature. It could even detect the battle lines being drawn, as two groups squared off. The guards would know exactly who, where, and how to respond within seconds.

  So where the Hell were they?

  Through all that bluster, he didn’t notice that Solomon and Keira had swung around behind them, cutting off Michonne’s escape. This had all the ingredients for a disaster.

  Solomon threw a wink in Aaron’s direction, as though the risks of the moment were completely lost on him. Was no one else seeing what Aaron was? Or did they not care?

  “We’ve been more than polite, Michonne,” Jensen affirmed, “Move along.”

  Michonne boiled over, “Maybe I make you move!” And he pulled a cement shard from his pocket: a shiv. He dove for Jensen.

  Aaron gripped the bed frame, bracing himself against the ground as he swung his leg up, kicking at Michonne’s hand as it lanced forward. The brutal sideways strike was rewarded with a meaty crack, the fragile stone dagger shattering. Michonne’s cry was more of surprise than pain, but Aaron was certain pain would take over when he had time to take stock of his bent fingers.

  Jensen shoved Michonne backward into Keira, who snagged the injured hand and cranked it around into a wrist lock. The curious blossom of dislocated fingers could almost touch his shoulder blades.

  Keira leaned in, “Situational awareness. Saves lives.”

  Aaron watched the barracks doors, waiting for them to swing open. Guards would pour in, armored and armed, ready to reinstate discipline and fear amongst the population.

  But it never came.

  Quinn let out the ragged breath, his nerves almost making him giggle.

  The Dwellers looked about, waiting for instruction.

  Carmona sidled up, pipe in hand, “It seems about time you all soldiered on elsewhere.”

  They agreed with his assessment and scattered into the shadows like a morning fog against the sunlight. Michonne watched them go, in too much pain to countermand that order.

  Carmona stepped up to Michonne, crushing the shards of the shiv underfoot as he advanced. He leaned in close, “I believe you had some plans? They involved you, me, my discipline stick? And things you wanted to do... to me... with my discipline stick?”

  Somehow that fire in Michonne’s eyes had not abated, fed by an unseen and endless kindling. His eyes burned the only response Carmona would get.

  Carmona nodded to Keira. She let go and Michonne whirled away from the group, eager to get all of his attackers in front of him. It was only then he took stock of the swollen thumb and twisted index finger. And that fire consumed some kind of a fuel, glowing brighter and hotter. Simple distaste had grown to actual hatred.

/>   “Go away now,” Carmona instructed with a flick of his wrist.

  Swearing some silent curse or blood oath, Michonne slunk away to lick his wounds and find easier prey.

  Nora flopped onto her bed, “He’s gonna be a problem.”

  “Nora the Oracle!” Carmona chuckled with a grin, “Are you looking forward to that problem?”

  “He’s got such a punchable face,” she chirped back.

  Jensen offered Aaron a hand up from the cold floor, and with one bicep curl heaved the smaller man to his feet. That wide, diplomatic smile swept from ear to ear, “Thanks, shortstack.”

  “Should I even have bothered?” Aaron asked, “Or were you just going to flex and bounce it off?”

  Jensen snorted at that image, before softening again, “I owe you one, boss.”

  “Oh,” Aaron cringed, “You start keeping score for the next year and everybody’s going to be in trouble.”

  “Yeah,” Eden beamed from her distant bed, perched on the edge like the cat that ate the canary, “Would you guys like to pay me up front or...?”

  In fairness, the resident medic may not have the more glamorous saves, but her every day was going to be founded in rescuing idiots and heroes alike. Stitches and antiseptic may not be as sexy as sharp shooting or load-bearing, but they were quite a bit more clutch.

  Jensen clapped a final thank you onto Aaron’s shoulder, before giving a comfortable nod to the motionless Quinn, “You want to get a game going, or you just giving those cards a lover’s touch?”

  Quinn burped the stomach acids back down his throat, “We… we could play. Yeah.”

  5

  Riley

  Defense Minister Caldwell took the news about as well as predicted: he cursed, he fumed, he threatened total annihilation. It was his theme song at this point.

  He claimed Riley had deputized himself as Monarch of his own little world, something far and above his mandate. The promise made to Capital prisoners was wholly unacceptable and would never be honored by Sol. The Capital Militia was to be disbanded immediately, and Riley’s troops were to obey their Consul and board a transport bound for the front.

  And after all of that, he listened. Riley was not about to leave these people defenseless and he would use all tools at his disposal to protect them.

  He would always bend the knee to the Consul and the Empire and would bend that same knee before a Military Tribunal. As for the Capitals, he promised to keep detailed logs of their performance -- the Minister of Defense may do as he likes with it all. Riley’s sole mission was to preserve and defend his Empire’s borders and the lives of its citizenry.

  Riley found value in the call, despite its sour tone. The temperature of one Minister was rarely reflected in his peers. They were all too commonly feuding with one another for dominance in the Cabinet and for the ear of the Consul.

  Perhaps the Ministers of State — or even Energy — might be valued allies. Vanguard was a mining colony, after all. In any event, the primary military forces were occupied, and it would be some time before Riley was relieved.

  Or arrested.

  The Capitals were to made ready as soon as possible. As soon as they could be trusted to hold a rifle, they would be posted to the Wall.

  Riley had toured the fortifications just the night before. The Wall itself stood thirty feet high, with alternating Repeater watchtowers and gun-nests every few dozen yards. The foundations ran deep, dropped down below the clay -- halting any subterranean advance by the locals. The burrowing little bastards didn’t like to work in the slate and sandstone below that.

  A few previous surges had been caught at that depth by the tectonic sensors and snuffed out with ‘thumpers.’ The giant stationary hammers were designed to stun incoming burrowers, but field units discovered they also collapsed the deeper tunnels networks, blocking the secretive advances in their tracks.

  The multiple crossing fields of fire prevented any one failure from opening a hole in their lines. Explosive charges planted in the ground thinned the oncoming horde. And on top of all of this, the Wall was hot with electric current.

  It was an efficient defense that the aliens had learned to respect. There hadn’t been a push that made it to the Wall in over a year.

  Riley had come to observe the Capitals’ morning calisthenics – he didn't need to, but Bray had reported that his very presence caused the Capitals to throw their engines into overdrive.

  Riley didn't mind terribly much; it was good to get out of the confines of his office and this sight brought back many fond memories for him. Despite their status, they were pounding dirt like proper fighters. The air was thick with their salty sweat, and the chorus of atonal grunts was music to his ears.

  For a blissful moment in that ear-piercing cacophony, Riley really felt at home. This was a base full of real soldiers in a real battlefield. It quickened his blood and lifted his heart. A commander needed soldiers, a battlefield, and a cause worthy of their efforts.

  It was all very poetic.

  Sergeant Bray had designed an impressive regimen. The Capitals began with a crash course in basic tactics and movement, as well as an attitude adjustment. They worked mostly at instilling teamwork under physical duress and lack of sleep. It was modeled it after Basic Combat Operations for the Imperial Jump Troopers, albeit watered down.

  They awoke the Capitals at 0200 Hours Local Time. Many had only gone to sleep a few hours before, having been celebrating the first step on their journey out of perdition; the intelligent few among them had secured their spaces and grabbed the sleep that was available, something of a commodity even during their labor camp days.

  Pre-dawn physical training taxed focus, but the aim was not to break them. The new troopers had to be acclimated to sudden demands on their system.

  They had proven their physical aptitude. Now to mold their minds.

  The first day had surprised no one with its terrible results. No amount of shouting or threats would break through the haze. Repeated instructions twisted about between ears and brains. Simple calisthenics taxed the Capitals to their limits.

  Bray’s growing anger was on full display, but mostly for the show of it. This was all expected. Motivating the Capitals would come with time and investment.

  Even under ideal conditions, new soldiers took months to grow into the demands placed upon them. Citizens who selected this path out of desire and patriotism failed in the face of these challenges.

  Being thrust into this environment, even by choice, could not hold a candle to those that trained for it from birth.

  Morning PT was supplemented with marching, but unlike their qualifier, they were drilled here for coordination. The distance in question was longer and further than anything they’d experienced. But now, every footfall must match its neighbor and beyond. If the snare drum of their march slipped even a little, their march was extended.

  Whinging and bitching increased the march again. Bray denied the cattle prods any access to his recruits. These were not Capitals any longer; they were soldiers of the Empire and would be treated as such. Even if that rise in status meant more marching.

  It was a good while before anyone in the regiment noticed that Bray was not setting the pace -- they were. As the march dragged on further and further, Bray instructed them to observe their comrades. With practice, they would almost feel their friends fading, and could adjust to match.

  Riley allowed himself a smile when he read the brief: he was teaching the little criminals how to be a team. Any skepticism soon vanished, as leaders soon cropped up amongst the crowd to help motivate.

  Some of the Capitals led from fear, and they didn’t last very long before they themselves were pleading mercy from Bray. The Gunnery Sergeant nourished himself from those moans, filling his cup and drinking readily.

  The afternoons were given to the Capitals to recuperate, but at different times each day, they were assembled again for the evening’s activities – they were never allowed to develop a habit and
were often worked long into the night. Bray and his team assembled obstacle courses, with muddy waters and rusty razor wire coverage.

  This particular evening had been promising.

  The Capitals were given surrogate gear -- backpacks loaded with stones and weapon analogs -- to carry through their trials. At first, they were to simply complete the course. Crawling under barbed wire while beams of cauterizing light and deafening gunfire sawed the air above them. Climbing uncooperative nets and stomping through hostile terrain.

  If their gear was perceived as too dirty, often from the Capitals’ own sweat and blood, they were instructed to run the course again. Generally speaking, Bray made whoever he wanted to run as many times as he felt appropriate. An extra run could be assigned simply for having a foul look.

  After the teams had grown comfortable with the course, Bray started timing them. If even one member of a fire team ran the course too slow, the whole group had to run again. It was a whole new metric to teach unity.

  Some started to help each other along during difficult hurdles. Others grew to hate the weaklings dragging behind like an anchor.

  The haters got more running. They would stamp that out like a stubborn ember.

  Bray paced down the line, as the tired recruits climbed a rope wall, “Let’s go, Jensen!” Bray shouted at a lumbering giant, who was struggling to even get started, “Tiny Tim over here is kicking your ass!”

  The skinny little boy — no more than fifteen — had swung hand over hand up the rope, hopping up on his one good foot. He grinned from ear to ear like he was back on the jungle gym.

  Despite a busted leg from the qualifier, the kid was downright rocketing through the course.

  Jensen huffed and puff with each movement, face red and neck strained. Bray was half the man of this big one but the Sergeant loomed over him just the same, “You know why he can do that, Hercules?”