Markov's Prize

by Mark Barber

  Gant, Qan, and Clythe all sat on sofas in the communal area, attempting to kill each other on a holo-game which was projected into the center of the room between them. Rae sat on her bunk, reciting a letter to send back home; whilst Jemmel stretched out against her bunk in her own alcove, having just returned from a lengthy gym session. Ignoring the shouts of victory and despair which streamed from the trio of gamers in the communal area, Sessetti returned to his article on innovative musical compositions.

  “Hey, Bo!” Rae called from her alcove. “I’m sending a letter to my brother. What kind of music is it that you play?”

  “I dunno what you’d call it,” Clythe replied as he stood up from the sofa, disconnecting from the game. “Lian? What do we play?”

  “I don’t like to give it a label,” Sessetti shrugged.

  “Don’t be so pretentious!” Jemmel shook her head. “Just tell us what kind of music you play. Better still, play some and we’ll decide.”

  “Now there’s an idea,” Qan grinned. “Come on, we’ve been a happy little family for a few weeks now. It’s time we heard your tunes. Come on, put something on!”

  “Promise we won’t laugh!” Gant grinned.

  “I don’t,” Jemmel gave a more sinister smile.

  Clythe dashed enthusiastically across to his alcove and rummaged through his possessions to find his datapad.

  “Leave it, Bo,” Sessetti said, “these guys are just looking to take the piss.”

  “I’m not!” Rae exclaimed.

  Clythe prodded a few buttons on his datapad, selecting a song which they had played live only a few times before leaving home to join the Concord Combined Command. ‘Your Rose,’ a song about Sessetti’s first girlfriend, filled the room. Qan began tapping his feet and nodding his head as the percussion kicked in. Sessetti closed his eyes, inwardly cursing Clythe’s naivety.

  “The last time we met, you promised me forever,

  I never saw your face again, my pain still shows,

  You moved on from me so easily,

  You left me only with your rose…”

  Sessetti cringed at the lyrics he had penned, which seemed so deep and meaningful a year ago, but now sounded immature and contrived. It was made worse by hearing his own voice singing, something he never enjoyed. After a few minutes, the song ended.

  “Well, that’s ruined my entire day,” Jemmel spat. “I really, really wanted you guys to be crap.”

  “Eh?” Clythe cocked his head to one side.

  “This jackass,” Jemmel nodded at Sessetti. “You can actually sing. You’re wasted here. Sod off back home and get famous, you’re upsetting me with your talent.”

  “What about me?” Clythe protested.

  “He’s the front man, you’re an optional extra,” Qan nodded sympathetically. “That’s why he’ll always get the first pick of the girls. And you, Jem – I resent your allegations of the rest of us being talentless. I can burp the entire alphabet.”

  “And I can fart it,” Gant added seriously.

  “To answer your original question,” Sessetti turned back to Rae, “in a non pretentious manner, I’d describe our music as sonic visualization of emotional harmony.”

  Rae laughed.

  “You tell jokes?” Jemmel raised her brow at Sessetti. “There’s hope for you yet. I was thinking it’d be another year until we even had you speaking.”

  “He doesn’t need to speak,” Gant said. “You’ve got that covered for all of us, Jem.”

  “Somebody has to take charge of you guys,” Jemmel shrugged, “especially since our illustrious leader isn’t here. Again. Still, we’ve got her own, unique method of command to look forward to next time we’re getting shot at.”

  To emphasize the point, Jemmel sucked in her stomach and pushed out her chest exaggeratedly, tilting her hips to one side and running one hand through imaginary locks of long hair.

  “You boys better follow ma perfect ass into the fight,” Jemmel gave a fair imitation of Rhona’s distinctive accent, “because y’all got you here a born leader before yo very eyes! You hear?”

  Gant erupted into laughter.

  “What’s your problem with Rhona?” Qan said seriously. “You two wanna spell it out, or shall I say it for you?”

  “My problem is that she couldn’t lead her own way out of a fix’n’tan cubicle, let alone lead a squad of strike troopers in a firefight,” Gant narrowed his dark eyes.

  “Is that why we haven’t taken a single injury, let alone fatality, in this squad since she took over?” Qan folded his arms. “You’re talking crap. Both of you. So here it is – Gant, you’re jealous because she’s got the job you think you deserve, and Jem, you’re jealous because she’s a lot better looking than you. That simple.”

  “If a guy is gonna judge me on what I look like, I don’t really care about his opinion,” Jemmel said.

  “Qan, you’ve got some time served, but you haven’t been doing this for as long as me and Jem,” Gant said. “You haven’t seen what happens when poor leadership takes hold of a squad. It’s like a disease.”

  “I’ve been around long enough,” Qan said. “I was there at Prostock and so were you. So was my buddy Varlton. He was in Rhona’s squad when their Duke got hit by artillery and blown up. Three dead, one guy screaming with his legs blown off, and one serious casualty. Varlton loses the plot and panics. Rhona has already been blown out of the Duke by the explosion – she goes back in three times to recover her survivors, knowing the thing will blow up any second. She gets them all, gives a blood transfusion to the guy with no legs to stablize him, and then grabs Varl – her only combat capable guy – and runs back into the fight. So tell me, heroes, how would you have done that better?”

  Gant sat down. Jemmel looked away.

  “I… I’m fine with her,” Rae admitted. “Don’t you guys remember Rall? He lost half his squad last week. The guys say he was trying to get a medal. And us? We’re all still here. I’m not complaining. I’m fine with her.”

  Sessetti sat up, considering his words carefully before speaking.

  “She’s trying her best. I have no idea what it takes to lead a squad, but I’m sure it’s not easy. But I can’t ask for anymore from her.”

  Jemmel nodded slowly.

  “Okay, guys,” she said, “okay. I’m sorry. I’m being a bitch. I’ll… try to give her more of a chance.”

  Gant shook his head and remained silent. The silence lasted for several moments until Clythe spoke.

  “And she’s got massive boobs. You can even tell when she’s in armor, and that’s not easy to pull off. I’m told she’s got a beautiful face, but to tell you the truth, I’ve never got that high.”

  Sessetti joined in with Qan as he laughed. Gant silently returned to his alcove whilst Rae stared at Clythe.

  “Is there some way I can put in a complaint about you?” She said, her tone indicating to Sessetti that she was only half joking.

  ***

  The C3T7 Duke shot smoothly across the purple waters as the midafternoon suns glinted and sparkled across the gentle waves, the foamy peaks breaking out in soothing shades of lilac. Van Noor leaned forward in his small seat, as far as his safety belt would allow, pressing his elbows down on his knees and idly tapping one clenched fist into an open palm. Returning to his company from several days with the formation intelligence cell, he had at least had some time to refresh; although the news he had learned whilst away was certainly disturbing. That was where the transport drone’s other occupant came in.

  Sat opposite from Van Noor was Mandarin Owenne. The New Humans, or NuHu, were the next stage in the evolution of the panhuman being. Tall, slender, hyper intelligent, and possessing a detached clarity of thought which very often led to the impression of callousness, the NuHus’ connection with shards was so strong, that they could effortlessly control several dozen drones with but a mere thought, and even manipulate their own nanosphere to allow them to levitate.

  Mandarin Owenne was not a typ
ical NuHu. An individual who Van Noor had worked with in the past, Owenne was only a little over average height with thinning, off ginger hair which added only a little color in contrast to his pale skin. Whilst Owenne certainly possessed the intelligence one would expect from a NuHu, Van Noor had always found the man to be very different from the rest of his race.

  News from Firebase Alpha was that the area was secure enough for barrack uniform to be worn instead of armor. This would no doubt be of some relief, as even with the most modern ergonomic design, battlesuits were fatiguing and also required careful maintenance which necessitated their removal and surrender to service drones. As a result, Van Noor wore the daily dress of a Concord trooper away from the frontlines – simple trousers and a shirt of olive green, with combat boots and his badges of rank on epaulettes on his shoulder. A black beret tucked into his left epaulette marked him out as a strike trooper. Owenne’s dress was slightly more flamboyant, as was befitting his status of Mandarin – a long, double-breasted coat lined with white piping covered his green and white uniform.

  The Duke began to slow as it approached the firebase. Van Noor briefly considered attempting conversation with the pale mandarin, but experience with Owenne dictated silence to be the better course of action. The transport drone turned onto the beach, came to a stop, and then gently sank down to come to rest on the sand before the doors slid open. Owenne’s seat belt unbuckled and stowed itself without any physical interaction from his hands before he stood and clamped his hands behind his back, leaning forward and walking rapidly out of the drone with his pensive eyes staring down at the floor only a few paces ahead. Van Noor unbuckled and walked out into the sunshine, glad of the sweltering heat that still felt like a novelty after so many days of the sterile air conditioning of his battlesuit.

  Firebase Alpha had changed. Lines of semi-opaque kinetic barricades, each standing head height, ran in a perimeter around the firebase, including off the beaches and out to sea. Whilst most of the base was built underground, there were still lines of shelters constructed out of locally acquired vegetation. Ranks of combat and transportation drones sat in neat rows along the tree line, where they were serviced and maintained by engineering drones and their own invisible nanospheres. A group of troopers had laid out a batterball court at one end of the beach and were noisily enjoying a game, whilst other smaller groups socialized along the beach or by the trees.

  His hands still clasped behind his back, Owenne stomped purposefully up the beach and toward the wood and leaf huts. As with all NuHu, he could quite easily use his superior connection to his field of nanites to simply levitate instead of walking, but for some reason Owenne chose not to. Van Noor wondered briefly why he did not take the easier option of hovering from one place to the next; if it were any other mandarin, he would have guessed at it being out of manners, common courtesy to ensure that those who could not levitate did not feel patronized by the act. But not Owenne. From what little experience Van Noor had of the short, eccentric NuHu, Owenne had no such qualms.

  Guessing at who Owenne was looking for, Van Noor followed him wordlessly, picking up his pace to keep up with the stone faced mandarin. Near the tree line, in the shelter of one of the huts, Rall was crouched over the tubular form of an x-launcher – a magnetically powered weapon used by strike trooper support units to lob explosive shells up into the skies to fall indirectly onto their foes. Tahl stood to one side and watched as Rall delivered refresher training on the weapon to his squad, including a few new faces who Van Noor had never seen. As they approached, Tahl looked across before his eyes opened wide, startled at the sight of the NuHu.

  “Hello, Killer!” Owenne beamed, stopping a few paces short of the strike captain.

  “Owenne,” Tahl nodded a greeting, “it’s been several years since I’ve heard that nickname. Hello, Bry, welcome back to the fold.”

  Van Noor moved forward to shake Tahl’s hand warmly.

  “Glad to be back, Boss,” Van Noor said. “It’s probably best the three of us go for a walk.”

  Tahl obliged, following Owenne and Van Noor along the tree line and away from Rall’s squad.

  “What brings you out here to a backwater little offensive like this?” Tahl turned to the mandarin as they walked.

  “It might not be that backwater for long,” the NuHu kept his eyes locked on the ground in front of him as he walked. “We may need to bolster this position. A Ghar battlefleet was detected in the Zolus system, and judging by what little data could be gathered, there is a chance it is heading this way.”

  Tahl’s smile faded instantly.

  “How likely is it they’re heading to this planet, and what sort of size force would we be expecting to face?”

  “The intelligence people think there’s a better than even chance they’re coming here,” Van Noor added. “There’s at least two capital ships, so we’re looking at significant opposition if we are the target.”

  “Our entire assault is built around a single planetary assault force with mediocre support,” Tahl exclaimed, folding his broad arms across his chest. “We can defeat a planetary defense force, but a Ghar battle group? Owenne, we’ll be ripped to shreds! Half of my company has never even fought against a foe with modern equipment! What do they even want with this planet?”

  “Don’t panic, Killer!” Owenne flashed a sarcastic smile. “It’s all under control! Reinforcements are already en route. I made sure of that. However, the state of this force and in particular this formation and, for that matter, this very company is of concern to me. Somebody hasn’t been rotating their troops out of frontline assignments in accordance with C3 orders. Tut-tut indeed.”

  “I never knew you cared, Mandarin,” Van Noor smiled.

  “Do not confuse affectation with efficiency, Senior Strike Leader,” Owenne waved a thin hand theatrically around his head as he spoke. “You standard panhumans can be somewhat… fragile. To operate at peak efficiency, one must acknowledge that adequate rest and relaxation is required. Gentlemen, you should not require me to lecture you on troop fatigue management.”

  Van Noor glanced across in an attempt to meet Tahl’s gaze. The younger soldier stared impassively at the NuHu, his eyes narrowed.

  “C3 has calculated every individual soldier’s fatigue threshold,” Owenne continued, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his thin lips. “If this threshold is exceeded, then a soldier enters the amber zone; reduced efficiency, but operations are tolerated in this zone in extremis. If this is left unchecked, a soldier enters the red zone. Massively reduced levels of arousal and efficiency, with poor judgment exercised on a daily basis. Not fit for combat. Gentlemen, seventy nine quantum of your men and women are running in the amber zone. Seventy nine quantum. Why has this been permitted to happen?”

  Tahl looked across at Van Noor and held both of his palms out in defeat. Van Noor shrugged.

  “I reported this up my chain of command,” Tahl said. “We’ve been promised leave on several occasions. It has yet to materialize.”

  “So what, you just… carry on?” Owenne spat.

  “Of course we carry on!” Tahl growled. “We’ve got a job to do! You expect these men and women to throw down their weapons and refuse to fight because they haven’t had a good night out in a while? They’re professional, they’ll do the job to the best of their ability, to the bitter end! We haven’t been given time off, so we carry on! It’s what we do! We carry on!”

  “Poor decision, Killer,” Owenne remarked coolly, “but I would not expect any more from you. Because, old friend, your company has one soldier, in a position of authority I might add, who has been running red for over four months. Red! For four months! I think you know who this is.”

  Tahl let out a long sigh and turned away.

  “I’m fine,” he muttered.

  “You think you are fine because you’ve lost the ability to assess yourself with any degree of accuracy,” Owenne said, before turning to Van Noor. “And you, Senior, you should have been
monitoring this. Your job as company second in command is to check above you in the chain as well as below. Just in case your strike captain were to do something ill advised such as, I don’t know, activate a command override to mask his fatigue state from the paternal care of the C3.”

  Owenne turned to face Tahl, standing a little taller and straighter, but still not managing to bring his his eyes up to meet Tahl’s.

  “Strike Captain Tahl, effective immediately I am relieving you of command and sending you on leave. Two weeks, that’s all. Best you go get it out of the way now, old chap. You never know when you might be needed. Go get some rest and then you can have your soldiers back.”

  “Two weeks?” Tahl exclaimed. “What the hell do you want me to do for two weeks?”

  “I’d thoroughly recommend drinking alcoholic beverages until you can’t stand up anymore,” Owenne offered as he walked away along the beach. “Only custom I’ve trialed which makes absolutely perfect sense. See you in two weeks.”

  Tahl took his black beret from his head and ran his fingers through his brown hair. Van Noor watched the eccentric NuHu stomp off toward the accommodation block and shook his head.

  “I’m sorry, Ryen,” he offered. “I had no idea this was his plan when he said he was coming back with me.”

  “Never mind that,” Tahl said after a brief pause. “How are you? I’m more concerned about how things were after I last saw you.”

  Van Noor folded his arms and bit his lip in contemplation. He, too, knew he was only days from being in the red with fatigue, even after a break from the frontlines, and it was seriously affecting his ability to deal with his problems back home. Not that it was his home anymore.

  “I’m good, mate,” Van Noor lied. “I just needed that little bit of time to straighten my head out.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Bry,” Tahl said seriously, “you owe it to yourself and the guys here who are depending on you. If you’re not up to this, you need to flag it up.”