by Jack Hanson
“Oh it was good, and I’m sure we’ll hear all about what we did later, but right now,” Salem said as they hit the stairwell, “I think we need our breathe to jog.”
Deftly cut off, Sand nodded glumly. “Oh. Right, of course,” he agreed as he trailed her down the stairs and jogged out onto the parade field.
Chapter Two—Suicide Silver
Fear and pain are universal languages.
—Saying of the Assault Janissaries
Sand followed close behind Salem, ducking around teams that had already formed up with stern senior sergeants at the head of each one. Two Old Bloods loomed over the formation. One was a towering Bladejaw, known more commonly as a Tyrannosaurus Rex, brightly colored with bits of plumage along the ridges of its head. It lacked the battle chassis it would wear to war, only bearing the vox amplifier along its throat that allowed it to communicate.
Sand almost crashed into another team, but caught himself at the last minute, only brushing shoulders with another cadet. Both stumbled, and the larger boy took a good look at Sand’s face before pushing him away, leading him to stumble on all fours on the wet grass, staining his uniform. At this level, Sand could see another Old Blood, a Triceratops that snorted and snuffed impatiently, the lancer’s great tusked head swinging from side to side from where it stood next to the bladejaw. Sand noticed one of the lancer’s horns was broken in half, only a stump remaining.
Shaking himself from his reverie, Sand managed to catch a flash of Salem’s unique hairdo, and sprinted after her, catching up in short order and falling into formation at the last minute. Leaning forward, he tried to catch a glimpse of their class advisor, yet saw only a nervous-looking Jane standing at the head of the formation. Going back to parade rest, Sand wondered where their advisor was, but not for long. The reveille had begun. A trumpet, played by an actual person, blew out the timeless notes.
Jane’s eyes cut around as she stood at parade rest, hands crossed right over left in the small of her back. She had been surprised to see the Old Bloods. Partially because they were usually excused from formations, except on special occasions, due to the sheer logistics involved in having them around, but doubly so because they were placed in the cadre section, meaning they were academy instructors, which was odd. The Old Bloods generally didn’t involve themselves too heavily with the administrative side of maintaining the Empire’s war machine, only coming to battle when asked and otherwise staying occupied on the lush worlds they preferred.
More shocking to her was a Khajalian, standing proud in full thrombium armor, black and yellow scales shining dully. Its crocodilian head was covered in a helmet made of the same dull, grey metal, and it wore full vambraces, greaves, and breastplate. Jane knew without looking that the breastplate would be marked with the crossed claw marks of the Bastard’s Splinter, the sect of Khajalians that had sided with the Terran Empire against their own people. She wondered what had driven the Bastard Prince, Ianviur, to leave everything he knew behind and embrace something as mundane as monogamy with the fervor his followers had.
Paris listened to the speech droning on with one ear, lots of talk about how they were an example to the younger students and they would be taking their vows as janissaries at the end of this year. Standard fare for anyone who’d spent a year at Ganymede. He looked over at the Khajalian. The way the warrior wore his armor and the half cloak of silver and blue meant that he was considered an ar’bakh, an elite soldier, of the Sky Caller Sept. His eyes focused on the rai’lith that the Khajalian held stiffly at his side. The heavy blade was made out of thrombium as well, which was a holy metal to the Khajalians. They viewed it as their protection and part of the reason for their dominance in war. Below the cleaver-like head was a firearm barrel, tucked back a bit to allow the blade to sink its full length into the enemy. That cannon, Paris knew, would punch through a shield like a rock thrown through wet paper, and most likely have enough force to kill whatever unfortunate in the way.
A Khajalian was expected to guard his rai’lith with his life. The weapon was the physical manifestation of his soul, they believed, and another to touch one without permission was to invite death.
Khajalians didn’t need a rai’lith to be deadly, in Paris’s mind. He had seen what happened when they sparred with claws and teeth, and the massive yard his parents had been so proud of had looked like it was hit by a bomb after an hour of ‘practice.’
Suddenly, one of the Khajalian’s eyes rolled over to where Paris stood, and the Rillik jumped, not wanting to be noticed by him of all creatures.
Salem sighed, bobbing her head absentmindedly as she listened to Commandant Welton welcome a new third-year commandant. She could see an older figure walking across the stage to take the much younger commandant’s hand. He carried a cane in one hand, but it seemed more for show than anything, as he walked upright and with a purposeful gait. She thought she heardthe name Archer.
Rather than listen to the final minutes of the ceremony, she was trying to figure out where their advisor was, so she could ask if they would have pass this weekend so she and her other two friends could go into Alarius. She didn’t have any issue with her other teammates, but she certainly didn’t see herself having anything in common with them. The Rillik seemed unfriendly, Jane couldn’t take a joke, and Sand was helpful but she had enough boys tripping over their tongues to keep her happy. She hardly needed to have one living with her.
Her last advisor had been a young corporal, and while he’d been fair and stern, Salem had managed to charm a weekend pass out of him when she needed it. Nothing as base as sexual favors, no – that was twenty lashes at the least if she offered it, and sixty for him if he accepted, plus a court martial. Salem just managed to be her charming self, and excel just enough so that he didn’t have a real reason to deny her because of her academics or combat training. It didn’t hurt that she was an excellent runner, and had won several competitions while at the academy.
There was a sudden call to attention, her automatic reflexes kicking in as she stood up sharply, hands to her side and chest out, and waited for the ranking non-commissioned officer to call “fall out.” When he did, Salem took a moment to look at the other members of her team, confused.
“Was our advisor here when you two arrived?” she asked.
The Rillik only shook his head.
“No, we just formed up where we were supposed to be,” Jane mumbled.
Salem frowned, turning at the sound of approaching footsteps. This must be our advisor, she thought, until she saw the other team a little ways away, standing at ramrod attention.
“So, what’s this soup sandwich you call a formation?” snapped the chief sergeant. He was a tall man who seemed to be all wiry muscle, his face tanned and weather beaten. He wore three chevrons and two rockers on his left sleeve with crossed swords in the center.
“Who’s in charge of this gagglefuck?” he demanded. His name tag proclaimed him as Donovan, and he had a red stripe along both legs from hem to knee, the sigil of a blooded artilleryman. “Any of you fucksticks going to speak up? You’re senior cadets, aren’t you? Who’s in charge? You,” he pointed at Sand. “What was your class ranking last year?”
“Ninety Eight, Chief Sergeant, sir,” said Sand.
The man snorted.
“Well I guess finishing in the top quarter is something if you’re all of five feet, but what are you going to do when a Khajalian comes charging in at you? I’ll tell you what you’re going to do… you’ll shit your pants and die and be a liability, that’s what!” Donovan went on, looking at Salem next and doing a double take before snatching the soft cap off her head. “What the fuck are those?” he hissed.
Salem looked straight ahead. “They’re called ox horns, Chief Sergeant, sir,” she replied.
“Yeah, well they’re outta fucking regulation is what they are, so I’m not even going to bother asking what your class rank was sin
ce you’re already wrong. Bun, ponytails, or braids are what’s authorized for human hair styles, not whatever the latest fad is in whatever part of the galaxy you hail from,” he informed her. “Better enjoy them for the next few minutes you have hair,” Donovan added ominously before moving onto the Rillik.
“Your ranking, halfbreed?” Donovan asked Paris. There were no theatrics in how Donovan sneered the question; it was filled with a loathing the team could feel.
“Fifty nine, Chief Sergeant, sir,” replied Paris blandly.
“That’s great, I see your parents paid to have a croc breathe on you so you could be a janissary, so you must have been one fucked up child if they were that desperate,” the chief sergeant retorted.
Paris didn’t say anything, only stiffened slightly, and Donovan leaned in to draw more blood.
“What? You want to hit me?” he asked the mass of muscle that was Paris.
“No, Chief Sergeant, sir,” said Paris in the same bland tone.
“Save your ‘sirs.’ If you give me that crazy eyeball again I’ll fuck you up so badly that no amount of croc blood will let you walk again,” he snarled before moving on to Jane. He cocked an eyebrow at the girl.
“Three, Chief Sergeant, sir,” said Jane without any indication of how prestigious that was.
“Fucking three? Well if you’re so damn smart, why is your formation all fouled up like a monkey fucking a football?” inquired Donovan. “You’ve got the shortest man in formation with a filthy uniform – yes I saw those grass stains – don’t worry, you’re about to get much dirtier, a combat princess who thinks the rules aren’t for her, and a croc-blood playing human. So what is your malfunction?”
“Sir… Chief Sergeant, I… I… Don’t… I… I…” Jane stammered, unable to come up with a response to get this man out of her comfort zone.
“Well, Mumbles, give it to me, why are you all so fucked up?” he demanded, leaning into Jane’s personal space and baring his teeth.
“That’s enough,” rumbled a different voice, causing Donovan’s head to snap around in surprise.
Salem breathed a sigh of relief at the interruption.
Jane’s first impression was mass. The man was roughly the size of Paris across the chest and a little shorter, but moved with the grace of someone who was comfortable in his body. It was hard to see his face underneath the brim of his cap, but she saw a number of thin, faint scars along his hands. He wore the same grey, utilitarian outfit that most janissaries wore, rank insignia on the left sleeve and no differences that Jane could make out.
Donovan began to stalk over to the man, but stopped short, catching the differences about the same time Jane did. First, his rank insignia bore three chevrons and three rockers at the bottom, meaning that he was a master sergeant, which outranked a chief sergeant. However, rank was a curious thing in cases like these, and if Donovan had the salt and thought he could get away with it, he might press his luck in giving a master sergeant a piece of his mind.
It was the skull in the center of the rank insignia, the sword hilt over one shoulder, and the silver cuffs that let Donovan know that he didn’t have enough salt to push this janissary around. All were marks of an assault janissary, the first troops into any combat, over the top, through the breech. Pick your expression, but they were known for taking little enough gruff without a violent response. The cuffs were even called ‘suicide silver,’ since you needed fifteen assaults to earn even one band, and the attrition rates were horrendously high. Jane did a quick count, and saw this man had five.
“Master Assault Sergeant Black,” Donovan said, standing at parade rest. “Is this your team?”
“It is, Donovan,” replied the man, casually. He let the duffle he was carrying fall to the ground with a dry thump.
“Well, you’ve got some deficiencies to work out,” Donovan began, and started in surprise when Black silenced him with a curt gesture of his rough and scarred hand.
“I don’t need a chief gun bunny telling me how to run my team, Donovan,” Black replied calmly. “I heard you chewing some ass when I was coming up the hill from the spaceport, and yeah, there are some issues, but nothing fatal. Nothing that deserved that level of acrimony.” Black’s voice didn’t rise above a conversational tone as he spoke.
“Look, if you’re not here…” Donovan began again.
“At ease, Chief. If you interrupt me again I’ll take off the blade and my hat and there won’t be any rank between us,” injected Black.
Donovan’s eyes grew hard at that.
“If you’d like that, just say the word, Chief,” said Black, “and we can go find a treeline somewhere around here. We don’t need the kids to watch mom and dad fight, unless you’d like that, too.”
The moment hung thick in the air.
“No, Master Assault Sergeant, that’s not necessary. I apologize for interrupting you,” Donovan said grudgingly.
“That’s fine, chief. Two things though,” Black said, taking off his hat, running a hand through blonde hair close cropped in a regulation high fade. “If I ever hear you disrespect one of my cadets again, or I hear you refer to another race with a slur, you and I are going to find that treeline if I have to drag you to it. Am I clear?” Black replaced his cap.
“Crystal, Master Assault Sergeant,” replied Donovan woodenly.
“Good. I appreciate what you were trying to do, but there’s ways to go about it. You run your team how you want to, and I’ll run mine how I want to. And Daniel?” asked Black, addressing the chief by his first name, odd enough that it made the chief quirk an eyebrow.
“Master Assault Sergeant?” asked Donovan.
“Be a big enough man to leave this on the field. If you carry it with you out of here, it’s only going to end poorly for you. I promise you that. Do you believe me?” Black inquired, nodding down at Donovan.
The chief frowned, and then nodded for a second. “Good,” said Black, patting him lightly on the shoulder. “Dismissed.”
Without a word, Donovan turned an about face and marched back to his team, who had stood at attention this entire time. Quietly, he right faced and marched them out.
Black watched them go..
Chapter Three—Black Nights
We must surely stand together, or we will hang separately.
—Benjamin Franklin, American statesman
Black turned, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly to clear his thoughts, and then began to speak in the same conversational tone he had used the entire time with Donovan. “You will meet many people like Chief Sergeant Donovan in your time in the janissaries. In his favor, he is actually quite skilled as an artillerist, and earned every inch of his red stripe. That being said, I don’t agree with his particular style of instruction, but if that’s how he wishes to train his team, so be it.”
He adjusted his brim so that everyone could look at his face, and see another network of fine scars that ran across it, incredibly faint and only visible in a certain light on that tanned and craggy face. “At ease,” he began, and the team relaxed slowly, seemingly unsure how their new advisor was going to proceed.
“As you know by now, I am Master Assault Sergeant Alexander Black, formerly of the Sixth Regiment of the Imperial Shock Dragoons. According to my orders, you bunch are Epsilon Team. I was recalled here by the new commander of cadets, who was just introduced,” he said, and pointed at Salem. “Cadet Winchester. What’s your new commander’s name?”
“Commander Archer,” Salem said.
Black nodded. “Yes. He’s an old friend of mine, and asked me as a personal favor to come instruct. I won’t go into a long winded narrative of my service record – but combat is a dynamic situation and while the instruction here is top notch, things change more rapidly than a committee can push out doctrine. So I have some leeway in giving you unorthodox instruction. Cadet Winchester?”
&nbs
p; “Yes, Master Assault Sergeant, sir?” she asked.
Black shook his head. “That’s a mouthful, isn’t it? In more informal settings, just use Sergeant Black. Anyway, Winchester, what did you call that hairstyle? Ox tails?”
Salem paused. “Ox horns, Ma… Sergeant Black.”
Black nodded. “Alright, Chief Donovan was right on that point. Those aren’t authorized. You and Cadet Harper over there help each other out. If you’re going to keep long hair, it needs to be uniform. Pick a regulation style and one should do the other’s hair to keep it up, the two of you.”
Salem’s mouth quirked open, and Black’s eyebrow inclined.
“Problem?” he asked.
“Ah Sergeant Black, do we have to do each other’s hair?” she asked. “Could we get another cadet, or go into Alarius?”
“Did any of you know each other last year, outside of a very informal sense that you were all in the same class?” Black asked. It took a moment before the team realized he was addressing them as a whole.
Of course, everyone knew who Salem was, and Jane had been recognized as ranking third in her class. Rilliks were rare enough that Paris would stand out, and they all remembered that Sand had been taped up and left to hang out a window as a prank for the last three years running.
A chorus of “No, Sergeant Black,” answered him.
Black nodded again. “Okay… well, Winchester, think of it as a bonding experience. You help her, she helps you. Also, since you’re all strangers to each other, and strangers to me, I want each of you to bring me a new fact about one of your teammates. Something specific, outside of ‘Cadet Falconer’s favorite color is green,’ for example.”
Sand gave a little jump at that – his favorite color was green.
“You cadets are going on live patrol this year. It won’t be just war games against your fellows, you’ll have live rounds and be expected to shoot to kill. Pirate scum, renegade Peacer factions, and the like will be the foes you face. Our list of enemies is long and varied, and you need to care about your teammates, and have them care about you. This is a way of doing that... Cadet Harper?” he asked, catching the minute flick of the head as Jane attempted to catch his eye.