Markov's Prize

by Mark Barber

  “Who the hell do you think you are?” Van Noor hurtled around the desk to stand by her side, shoving his face aggressively into hers. “Sauntering into my damn office and casually dropping into conversation that you’re threatening your commanding officer?”

  “I…”

  “Shut up! I’ll let you know when you’ve got a speaking part!”

  “Yes, Senior!” Rhona stammered.

  “What’s running red? Well? Answer me!” Van Noor boomed.

  “A condition of physical and mental fatigue considered by C3 to be when a soldier is no longer able to be relied upon to carry out rational acts and reasonable decisions, Senior!” Rhona recited, her tone betraying her fear.

  “Did the strike captain touch you?” Van Noor demanded.

  “No, Senior!”

  “Did he proposition you?”

  “No, Senior!”

  “Did he act in any way which could be considered inappropriate in the eyes of the C3 Code of Military Conduct?!” Van Noor screamed.

  “No, Senior!” Rhona screwed her eyes up tightly as the interrogation continued.

  “Your commanding officer was running red as a result of utter dedication to his duty! Over a year of frontline combat duties without a break of more than two days! You have no idea what that is like, no idea! None! And you dare to come strolling in here and judge that man? Who the hell do you think you are?! What does the C3 Code of Military Conduct say about errors and mistakes committed whilst running red?”

  “Errors and mistakes are part of being panhuman!” Rhona recited. “Panhumans are far more susceptible to making errors whilst fatigued or stressed! Running amber or red is to be considered justifiable mitigation for minor transgressions and, in the case of major transgressions or offenses, will still be taken into account as potential defense in the event of…”

  Van Noor held up a hand to silence her. He had to admit to himself that he was impressed with her ability to connect with the shard and instantaneously filter through reams of rules and regulations to recite policy whilst under pressure. He had never seen that done before by anybody other than a NuHu.

  “I’m here to make sure this company is ready for war with one of the most dangerous forces mankind has ever faced,” Van Noor seethed through gritted teeth. “Not to talk utter nonsense about the sort of crap I’d expect to see in a teen romance movie. The man made a mistake. One mistake. And he came to you to be open, honest, and apologize. If you ever talk disrespectfully about your commanding officer again, you won’t have to fear the Ghar. The Ghar are nothing next to me when I’m angry. Understand, Trooper?”

  “Yes, Senior!” Van Noor was finally rewarded for his shouting with the first signs of tears in her eyes.

  “That’s all. Get out.”

  ***

  “The trick,” Gant explained as he ran the diagnostic scanner over one of his battlesuit arm plates, “is to hit the most obvious areas. The maintenance droids are bloody good, but they’re programmed to really emphasize the difficult to see areas. The couple of times I’ve found a fault they’ve missed have been right in the center of a plate, not down in the joints.”

  Sessetti and Clythe sat either side of Gant on the floor of their communal area, their battlesuits spread out into component parts around them as they picked up part after part to double check the servicing had been carried out properly: not a mandatory check but something which Gant assured them was well worth taking the time to do.

  “You think our suits will stop one of these Ghar bomb guns?” Clythe asked, a little fear evident in his tone.

  “I think the senior hit the facts square in the face,” Gant replied. “Don’t go near ‘em, don’t get in the way of ‘em. Stay well back and blast ‘em.”

  The door to the communal area slid open and Rhona walked rapidly across to her cubicle, her face pale and her eyes red. Sessetti watched as she sank down to the floor next to her bunk and ran her fingers through her hair.

  “You okay?” He called out.

  She nodded without looking over.

  Sessetti stood up and walked slowly over to her. “What’s happening?”

  “I haven’t got time for this,” Gant sighed, standing and walking toward the door. “I’ll catch you punks later.”

  “It’s nothing,” Rhona whispered, “just had a chat with the senior, that’s all.”

  Gant stopped dead in his tracks and then turned to face Rhona.

  “You just got Van Gnawed?”

  Rhona nodded.

  “Aw, hell,” Gant’s features softened as he walked into her cubicle and sank down next to her, putting an arm around her shoulders.

  “I’m fine,” Rhona managed slowly. “I’m not crying.”

  “Doesn’t matter if you do,” Gant said softly, “I’ve known plenty of guys reduced to tears by him. No shame in it.”

  Rhona stared rigidly ahead, tears welling in her eyes. Clythe looked awkwardly across at Sessetti. The doors slid open as Jemmel walked in, taking her beret off and tossing it with unerring accuracy across the communal area to land on her bunk before she threw both fists in the air in celebration.

  “What’s up with combat fashion accessory?” She asked as her eyes fell on Rhona. “You break a nail or something?”

  “Van Noor,” Gant winced up at her.

  Jemmel’s smile faded.

  “Oh, hell. Nobody deserves that. Alright, Katya, let me get you a drink and you tell us all about it. You’re with friends now, girl.”

  Rhona wiped her eyes and took a few deep breaths before composing herself enough to form a longer sentence.

  “Should we forgive every mistake?” She finally managed. “Is it always okay to screw up?”

  “Depends on why the mistake happened,” Gant offered.

  “And who made it,” Jemmel handed Rhona a glass of water and sat on the edge of her bunk. “Some people are just pricks. What mistake did you make?”

  “I… I don’t think I did,” Rhona said quietly. “I don’t understand what just happened. We were talking and then I was stood to attention with him right in my face, screaming at me. I don’t know what just happened.”

  “If I order you to die, you will damn well die - did he give you that line?” Jemmel asked.

  Rhona shook her head.

  “He can’t have been that mad then. I’ve had that one. Twice.”

  “I knew a guy who made a mistake once,” Gant started.

  “It was you, wasn’t it?” Jemmel asked.

  “No, no. Let’s call him… Grant.”

  “So it was you,” Jemmel confirmed.

  “So, Grant was on his final live fire exercise of training,” Gant continued regardless. “His squad’s Duke pulls up and the boys and girls all run out, bombs going off everywhere. In his haste to do a good job, Grant trips up and drops his plasma lance. The poor guy…”

  “You,” Jemmel interrupted.

  “…the poor guy picks up his plasma lance but somehow ends up with it facing the wrong way. In his panic to turn it around, he hits the trigger with his thumb and manages to fire his plasma lance under his own arm and into the Duke behind him.”

  “How the hell did you fire a gun under your own arm?” Jemmel exclaimed.

  “Fortunately, only superficial damage was done, but poor old Grant was now under the spotlight. Anyway, they made him re-do his entire final term of strike trooper advanced training. Now, that sounds like a punishment, but if you think about it, the chain of command has got to make sure this guy is fit for combat, because if he isn’t ready, they’ve got to get him ready before it’s for real. Where was I going with this? It’s like the big book of C3 telling people off says.”

  “C3 Code of Military Conduct,” Sessetti corrected him.

  “Yeah, thanks Mandarin Lian,” Gant snapped. “Anyway, point is that we all screw up. The conduct code book says we should be judged on a case by case basis. There’s no right or wrong answer, but I think we should always try to look for the best in peo
ple. People aren’t genuinely bad.”

  Jemmel wiped an imaginary tear from one eye.

  “That was… beautiful,” she whispered.

  “Piss off. I’m trying to help here.”

  Rhona raised herself to her feet and nodded.

  “It’s alright. I’m alright. Thanks for the talk, guys, but I’m cool. Look, I’m gonna go get some fresh air. I’ll catch you later. Thanks again, really,” she said before leaving.

  A few moments passed before Jemmel spoke.

  “You did well there, ‘Grant’, you got your arm around her and everything. Good eye for exploiting the vulnerable woman.”

  “Shut up, Jem, she’s not my type,” Gant said as he wandered over to his cubicle and swung himself up to lie across his bunk. “Even a bastard like me is capable of trying to be a good guy once in a while.”

  Chapter Six

  Station RL503

  Central Eastern Border

  Concord Space

  Another small group of Concord traders materialized on the transmat pads, their luggage fading into view next to them a moment later. Tahl watched as the four merchants in their brightly colored clothes gathered their belongings and then walked toward the terminal stores, talking excitedly as they walked. He sometimes envied their existence – moving from one world and one civilization to the next, seeing new things and meeting new people, but all without any threat of violence. Sat alone at a circular table in the window of one of the terminal bars, Tahl watched the comings and goings of civilian life as he waited for the next connection in his journey.

  The cavernous space station was relatively quiet, which was to be expected in this area of Antarean space. Situated next to an Antarean Gate, the station sat on what was once a prime trade route. But now that the Concord had advanced eastward and taken over this region, there was no exchange of currency; and therefore very little trade resulted in the once thriving station now seeming vacuous and lifeless. Lines of what had once been shops were now simple restore points where travellers could take what they wanted, just so long as they were plugged into the Concord shard. Even the bar, which could happily have catered for a hundred patrons, now provided drinks for only Tahl and four small groups of traders.

  Nearly halfway through his journey, Tahl was a little behind schedule and beginning to feel slightly concerned that he would be late returning to his unit. Given that his direction from Mandarin Owenne was to find a system just behind the frontline and relax, and he was now three days gate-jumping away, he knew he was setting himself up for trouble. He had at least taken the time to maximize on sleep, meditation, and practicing his kerempai forms. The opportunity to take several days away rarely presented itself, and he intended to put it to good use. The initial plan was to try to get all the way home and visit his mother, but after a day of travel, another idea had materialized and, as much as he wanted to do the right thing by his mother, there were other responsibilities he felt he had to address.

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  Tahl looked up.

  Two young soldiers stood by his table, both wearing the crimson beret of the 3rd Drop Formation. An elite unit trained to use anti-gravity chutes for surgical strikes ahead of a main Concord assault force, the drop troopers were never short of volunteers to join their ranks, but few made the required grade.

  “I couldn’t help but notice your badge,” the shorter of the two troopers pointed to the Anti-Grav Qualification Badge above the left breast pocket of Tahl’s uniform. “Which unit were you with?”

  Tahl smiled slightly as he saw the devil’s head badge on the trooper’s sleeve.

  “3rd Drop Formation,” Tahl replied. “Devil’s Own.”

  Both men grinned broadly.

  “You’ve got to come and have a drink with us, sir,” the taller man said enthusiastically. “Once one of us, always one of us. We’re just on a quick stop off on the way to the front. It would be great if you’d join us.”

  Tahl checked the time.

  “Certainly,” he replied, standing and grabbing his kit bag. “Very polite of you. Thank you.”

  The two drop troopers led Tahl down the station’s main trading promenade toward another bar at an adjoining terminal.

  “Where are you headed?” Tahl asked as they walked, threading their way through a growing number of traders and soldiers.

  “Place called Markov’s Prize,” the short trooper said. “Ghar inbound, we’re told.”

  “I’ve just come from there,” Tahl replied. “At least the place is sunny.”

  “Who was in the formation when you were in?” The trooper asked. “There might be some familiar faces still with us.”

  “I doubt it,” Tahl replied hopefully. “I left eight years ago.”

  “Eight years… Do you know Zhen Davi?”

  Tahl felt a gnaw in his gut at the mention of the name.

  “Yes, I knew Davi.”

  “He’s our senior drop leader now, he’s around here somewhere.”

  The trio turned a corner in the terminal to find another bar, crammed with some fifty drop troopers around tables seemingly fortified with their kit bags. Tahl’s eyes immediately picked out Davi. The short man sat with three drop leaders, engaged in an animated conversation. Tahl winced as memories came flooding back. He regretted so much about that part of his life, so many mistakes and so many things he wished he could take back. Davi had been a quiet, earnest, and hardworking drop trooper. An easy target for a violent bully like Drop Trooper Tahl.

  “Senior!” One of Tahl’s escorting troopers hailed Davi as they drew near. “Look who I found!”

  Davi looked up and his rounded features turned to stone. He muttered an apology to his comrades before slowly standing and walking out to meet Tahl.

  “Hello, sir,” he said coolly, “it’s been a while.”

  “Don’t worry about the ‘sir’,” Tahl risked a slight smile. “It’s good to see you again, Zhen. It’s been too long.”

  Davi folded his powerful arms.

  “I’ll stick with the correct marks of respect for your rank, sir, given the present company,” he nodded to the drop troopers who flanked Tahl.

  “Of course,” Tahl said, “my apologies. Your guys say you’re heading to Markov’s Prize. We’ll do far better with the formation looking out for us.”

  “It’s what we do, if you remember,” Davi said. “We look after our own.”

  “Could you give us a moment, please?” Tahl said to the two troopers who had found him.

  Both men walked away quickly, leaving Davi and Tahl alone at the edge of the drop company.

  “I owe you an apology, Zhen,” Tahl said. “I was a terrible guy to work with back then and…”

  “I wondered if this day would come around,” Davi interrupted. “It’s been nearly a decade and yet still there’s things which remind me of you from time to time and leave me wondering why you went to such utterly extraordinary lengths to make me feel like a worthless piece of crap.”

  Tahl nodded, searching for some words which might put across the sincerity of his apology. He tried to look up to meet Davi’s accusatory stare but failed and looked to one side.

  “I was the worthless piece of crap, Zhen,” he offered. “I was a screwed up kid who was angry with the entire universe and just looking to take it out on anybody and everybody. I don’t have any excuses, only apologies for the way I treated you. I really mean that.”

  “If you’ve got time for apologies, she deserves them even more than I do,” Davi pointed over Tahl’s shoulder. “So go tell her. But you are right about one thing. It is you that’s the worthless piece of crap. And I’m glad we met so I could tell you to your face.”

  Davi barged past Tahl to walk away. Tahl turned to look in the direction Davi had pointed, just at the same moment that Abbi Mosse turned to face him across the crowded bar. Tahl’s jaw fell. Her uniform pressed immaculately and the toecaps of her boots polished to a mirrored finish, Mosse was the very picture of the profes
sional soldier. Fiery red hair tied back in a ponytail complimented her attractive face as she leaned back against the bar, a bottle of beer in one hand. Tahl walked over to meet her, taking advantage of the few seconds to prepare his next wave of apologies. He was not surprised to see her rank badges as he drew closer: drop captain, boss of the company.

  “Give us some room, guys,” she commanded her nearby troopers curtly. “I’ve got an old friend to catch up with. Hello, Killer.”

  Tahl stopped a few paces from her. Mosse stepped forward and offered her hand. He took it, and she shook his firmly.

  “Hello, Abbi.”

  Mosse smiled and another bottle of beer revolved up to the bar from the carousel underneath the counter as she mentally ordered it for him. She waited until her troopers were far enough away before handing it to him.

  “It’s good to see you again, Ryen,” she smiled. “Eight years is a long time.”

  “I spoke to Zhen. And he’s right. I should have contacted you sooner, Abbi. To say sorry.”

  “Cut that crap out, Trooper!” Mosse drawled. “We were both kids back then. We didn’t know any better. It’s all in the past, so don’t let it get you down. I’m not holding onto anything from back then and neither should you.”

  “It’s gracious of you to say,” Tahl said, realizing that his hands were shaking.

  “So how’ve you been?” Mosse leaned an elbow against the bar. “And what are you doing still slumming it in Strike? You never thought of coming back here on the pointy end?”

  “I’m fine where I am,” Tahl answered, looking down at the beer bottle. “I think I’m where I’m supposed to be. How about you? Things look to be going very well.”

  “I’ve been told I’m being looked at for command of my own formation at the end of the year, just got to get these boys and girls through a Ghar assault and out the other side in one piece, and then I should get my drop commander’s epaulettes.”

  “It suits you well.”

  “I’m happy,” Mosse said, “I’ve worked hard for it. But this is me, I’m married to C3 and that suits me just fine. We’ve both been there before, we’ve both done some time as commander of a formation.”