by Leo Champion
“Then the rest of us charge in and beat them down. Now what we need is an ambush location…”
Hill hit a key on his laptop and people craned in to look.
He’d planned this out well, Mullins thought as First Squad’s leader went through the game-plan. If the guy had applied similar planning discipline to his actual job, he’d have made rank as an officer long ago.
“Anyone got objections to this?” Hill asked when he’d been through his well-photographed-and-mapped plan.
Mullins raised a hand, feeling like a schoolkid.
“Muls. What’s up?”
“Hill, this is utterly infantile. What have these Army motherfuckers ever done to us?”
Hill laughed.
“They’re Army motherfuckers, you said it in your own words.”
There was laughter around the room.
“Plus, those pampered punks think we’re their bitches. You’ve seen the disrespect they give us when they take over from our shift or relieve us.”
The room filled with nods and agreement. Mullins couldn’t completely disagree; their daytime Army counterparts were jerks, period. Down-their-noses-looking shitheads.
“So,” Hill went on, “you with the plan or you against it? Because you were a solid fighter back on NV. You backed your mates then.”
“And I’ll back my mates any day of the week here, too,” Mullins shot back. “I just think this is asking for shit we don’t need.”
“I say Army needs a beatdown!” declared Hill. “Who’s with me?”
The room erupted in cheers.
Mullins rolled his eyes.
* * *
It had turned out that the wall between the Administrative Zone and the Old City was actually the exterior wall of what in fact wasn’t actually downtown Vazhao. The American-co-opted Imperial City was actually a few miles south of the Administrative Zone; it had itself been segregated as the Imperial Zone.
The Administrative Zone – as opposed to the Imperial Zone and the Military Zone further out of town around the city spaceport, where the Thirty-First and Eighty-Second Army divisions were based, as well as the Thirty-Fourth Marine Regiment – bordered what had been a satellite town of old Vazhao.
Eighteen miles from the Imperial Zone, the Imperial palaces and the ancient Vazhao city, the Administrative Zone’s walls at the gate points were actually exterior gates, originally built to protect the Old City from incursions. That part of the Administrative Zone had been built around the Old City wall like the crescent of a moon, sharing the same wall. On another side of the Administrative Zone, the wide river served as a natural barrier; the remaining two sides were modern American-built walls of razor-wire-topped chain-link fence.
There were plenty of bars inside the Administrative Zone, and some of them even admitted enlisted Legion men. But the drinks were a lot cheaper in the Old City, where local Qing labor didn’t have to pass a check to go. Both Army and Legion soldiers regularly drank at designated bars there.
Now, on a Wednesday night – it was Third Platoon’s Saturday, their night off – Mullins sipped a cheap, very bitter local beer in a tavern two blocks inside the Old City. Next to him were Khaliq and Mandvi, Mandvi focused more on the engineering text on his phone.
“This is bullshit,” Khaliq remarked. “Why are we doing this bullshit?”
Because peer pressure, thought Mullins. Something he thought he’d left behind in high school. But if most of the platoon were going to go for this crap, he felt an obligation to back them, because in a real fight they’d be there for him.
“Solidarity,” said Mandvi, not looking up from his screen.
“Putting the boot into Army,” said Josh Blanket, one of the new men. He was an American from Sydney, a big muscular blond guy. Mullins wasn’t sure of his crime, or even if he had one as opposed to just being an action-seeker; he hadn’t volunteered anything and you never asked. Kid – who was actually, in his mid-thirties, half a decade older than Mullins, but he was an untried rookie right out of training – seemed pretty high-speed though. He definitely didn’t give off a dumb vibe, which was why Third Platoon’s unofficial smart-guys clique was allowing him to hang with them for now.
“Army looks down on us. Army gives us shit,” said Mandvi, looking up from his phone. He took a sip from his own beer before he went on. “And so we’re going to get a bunch of ourselves non-judically punished for starting a brawl with them.”
“If Sergeant Hill has it right,” Blanket insisted, “the Army ones will be the ones getting busted. For swinging the first punch, if he provokes them the right way.”
“Sergeant Hill has been bitten by el picazon,” said Mullins. The itch, a known syndrome of bored Legion troops. It usually led to starting fights with anyone handy, just for the sake of getting some action. “He forgets that the administration isn’t actually fair when it comes to disputes between Legion and Army.”
“We fight harder than they do,” said Blanket. “Shouldn’t they rule in favor of us?”
Mullins traded looks with Mandvi. Fish.
* * *
Regulations in the Old City didn’t explicitly forbid smoking inside of bars and clubs, as they did in the Administrative Zone. But the Army-patronized bars tended to forbid it anyway, which was why there were a cluster of Army men in their grey urban camouflage hanging out smoking outside of the place Hill, Gartlan and Cuyahoga were approaching.
“OK, guys,” Hill told Gartlan and the long-ponytailed Sioux PFC Cuyahoga as they neared the place. “Hands in pockets and get ready.”
Hill shoved his own hands into the pockets of his white trousers and braced himself as the three began to strut past the Army men. A couple of women too, hard-bitten infantry types. He didn’t like hitting women, but so far as he was concerned if you swung at him then you were going to get hit back. He hoped they’d stay out of this, though.
The Army guys, numbering seven, watched the three Legion men pass by, glaring at them. Hill insouciantly met the eyes of one of them, a big shaven-headed man.
“Get your hands out of your pockets, convict shit,” that man snarled. A corporal, by his stripes.
“Your regulations, not ours,” said Hill and spat on the ground.
Tailed by Gartlan and Cuyahoga, he turned around for another pass.
“Hands out of your pockets, assholes,” another man, a lance-corporal, said.
“What you gonna do about it?” Cuyahoga demanded.
“Eat shit, Legion,” said the shaven-headed corporal.
“Figured you’d never do more than talk,” said Hill. “Bitches.”
Suddenly, the shaven-headed corporal lunged at Hill. Who had just enough time to get his hands out of his pockets to meet the man’s charge, taking him around the shoulders and swinging him by his own momentum into the plate-glass window of the bar.
“Army to me! Army to me!” the lance-corporal started to shout as he attacked Cuyahoga, reaching for the machine-gun loader’s long braided hair.
“Legion on us! Legion to here!” Gartlan shouted.
Fuck yeah, thought Hill as the plate-glass splintered under the corporal’s head, but that man got loose and kicked up at Hill. It was on!
* * *
Army men were boiling out of their bar and an adjacent one when Mullins, Mandvi, Khaliq and Blanket showed up, one of four groups of Third Platoon guys coming at the incitation scene from different directions.
But there were a lot more Army than Legion; those had been full bars, it turned out. Hill, Cuyahoga and Gartlan were about to get seriously piled-upon unless their friends did something.
Which, conveniently, they’d been lying in wait ready to do.
The Army men, and a couple of women, who’d been about to pound the crap out of Hill and his two fellow instigators turned as the rest of the Third Platoon men showed up.
There was a momentary, very momentary, pause. Then the Army troops reacted, charging the Legion reinforcements.
A big red-headed m
an swung at Mullins, who blocked the punch. Then Blanket smacked the man across the eye, sending him reeling. A second later an Army woman belted Blanket across the jaw, moved in to deliver further damage with a punch that connected with the big blond man’s cheek.
“Back off, bitch,” Mullins snarled at the woman, putting himself in between them. “Don’t want to hit you.”
“Creep,” the woman snarled and advanced.
Then someone – Janja, it looked to be – crash-tackled the woman from the side. Mullins checked on Blanket to see if he was OK – he was holding his jaw, but it seemed the girl’s blow hadn’t done him too much injury.
“Fuck you Legion!” snarled a man with a Fu-Manchu moustache, and the guy’s blow connected hard on Mullins’ cheek. For a second it was stars, and then the guy’s left fist belted toward Mullins’ eye—
And Dashratha’s gorilla-like paw closed over the man and yanked him back, the rest of his body flying like a whipcord with him. Dashratha’s other hand closed on the man and hurled him through the plate-glass barroom window Hill’s blow had already scarred; the window disintegrated as the man went through it.
“Thanks, Dash,” Mullins said to the massive Rajput.
Three more dudes were piling onto him and Mullins thought it was the least he could do to smack one of the guys with a closed fist on the back – no, the top, as he turned – of his head.
That man turned and Mullins gave him a closed-fist whack across the nose; he sprawled howling and then Mandvi was there, stepping into another man’s incoming blow. He took that clop on the back of his head and then Mullins was with him, ready to belt the nearest Army punk…
* * *
Croft’s ear-comm buzzed. He glanced at his phone, looked over at Lieutenant Nakamura and swore.
Nakamura had gotten the same communication.
“Our night off. Theirs too,” Croft said. “Should have damn figured there’d be trouble.”
“Get over to it?” Nakamura suggested.
Croft sighted. He’d been hoping to get laid; breaking up a fight between Army and Legion hadn’t been much part of the plan.
“Yeah, let’s go.”
He checked his phone as it beeped again.
“MPs on the way – Ortega,” it said.
Good; at last he wouldn’t have to call them in.
Nakamura nodded at him.
“Let’s hustle,” Croft said.
* * *
“Army! Army! To us!”
More Army types poured in, running along the cobbled streets of the Chongdin Old City with their fists up.
“Legion, Legion! On us!”
More Legion men from Bravo Company poured in.
Mullins blocked a fist-swing from an Army woman, used his superior bulk to throw her onto the vending table of a Qing who’d been selling various iron-looking cups and plates.
The table imploded under the soldier. Iron cups and plates went everywhere, and the Qing howled.
“I said I didn’t want to hit you, bitch!” Mullins snarled.
Something heavy collided with the back of his skull and he was thrown forwards.
* * *
“We’ve got trouble,” Master Sergeant Kowalski said to Delta Company’s commander, Captain Olli-Pekka Numminen.
“No shit,” the tall Finn shot back at his company first sergeant. Around the Old City, calls of “Army, to me!” and “Legion to me!” were echoing, and men were responding.
Numminen, newly promoted to captain, had always wanted to command a Legion weapons company. Since the Force 2214 shit had applied to his battalion that hadn’t stayed the case for long, but he was an acting company commander with a rumor he’d probably be given the company for keeps. The promotion – an unexpected one, he’d only been senior lieutenant for a year and hadn’t really done anything spectacular in that time – was a very positive indicator.
“What the hell kind of an idiot scheduled Legion break days alongside Army,” Numminen growled.
“Different units. They rotate. Always going to be some Army taking a day off,” the first sergeant said.
“What the hell did they expect to happen scheduling it like that? Well, get on the line to the MPs already.”
* * *
Giggling a little – there was nothing like a good brawl! – Hill socked an Army PFC in the stomach; the man doubled over and collapsed onto the cobbled street. Nobody new was coming at him, so he took a look at the general situation.
It was pretty good, from a Legion perspective: there were easily three Legion men for every two Army, although the Army people were putting up a good fight. More were coming out of bars along the narrow cobbled street, and street vendors along its length were packing their wares and making themselves scarce.
A few bar windows had been smashed, and a few other store owners were rolling their grates down, those who had them. Not everyone did.
Army people preferred, more than Legion men did, to do their drinking inside the Administrative Zone. They were outnumbered here, but hopefully not enough to keep it from staying a good fight. One-sided beatdowns had their place sometimes, but to Hill they weren’t fights. Hopefully Army reinforcements would show up.
* * *
The soldier in grey camo came running out of the Old City, breathless as he approached the High Gate checkpoint Sergeant First Class Clark was running. The squad turned to see what was going on.
“Legion fucks beating the crap out of our guys. We need help, now!”
Clark nodded. Should have figured that was what the noise was about.
“We’re outnumbered, outnumbered big time, guys!” the soldier pleaded.
Clark made a spot decision. It was six thirty in the evening, and the busy part of his shift was definitely over; incoming traffic through this gate had slowed to a trickle.
As he’d expected, big black Sergeant Leroy was looking at him.
“We can help out. Eight sober men coming in on them…”
Clark nodded.
“Take up to seven others and pitch in,” he authorized. Then to the breathless man: “Get MPs. They’re probably already on the way, but make sure of it. And we need relief at this gate. Four is fine, but not for too long.”
* * *
“Take that!” an Army man snarled and swung a fist at Mullins. But the guy’s talking had given Mullins warning and he was able to turn his head, taking the closed-fisted blow on the forehead instead. It rang his bell but the Army guy was hurt worse; he howled and clutched at his knuckles.
Then Janja socked him in the jaw; the man went reeling back into the remains of a fruit cart. From elsewhere in the roiling street brawl came the sound of glass breaking.
From the direction of the gate came sudden whip-cracks. Sonic booms from M-31 fire.
For a moment, everyone froze. Army men, eight of them, with M-31 railguns had shown up. One had fired a burst into the air.
“Legion fucks back off!” that man shouted.
“Put your damn gun down and make us, bitch,” Hill sneered.
Mullins was fairly sure the armed Army guys wouldn’t use their weapons. Lethal force to stop a brawl where nobody was getting too hurt was probably a good way to wind up on murder charges.
“Maybe,” said the man with the M-31, “we will. Punk.”
“Oh, it’s on,” said Hill. The armed Army types – all men – placed their weapons down on a fruit vendor’s table, leaving one of their number to guard them. Then they charged in.
More Legion men, the first of the reinforcements coming out of the Administrative Zone, came in behind them.
* * *
“Seal the damn gates, to start with,” the Army MP lieutenant was saying. “Keep any more from joining that fight.”
“Yessir,” said the senior Goldneck present, a senior sergeant. Army and Legion grunts didn’t get along – as their constant brawling showed – but their military policemen had learned to work together and had no problem doing so.
“Captain,
” the lieutenant turned to Numminen. Junior Lieutenants Croft and Nakamura, and Senior Lieutenant Gardner, of Bravo Company had shown up. This had apparently started with Bravo men, but a lot of Delta guys had gotten involved. Alpha and Charlie Companies were on the other side of the Administrative Zone and so hadn’t gotten at all involved, so far as people were able to tell.
Right now, though, about five hundred people on both sides were filling the street with their fighting. Brawl management doctrine was like firefighting; first you kept the fire from growing by sealing the area off. Then, provided nobody was getting too badly hurt and civilian property damage stayed within limits, you let the combatants work off their energy. Then you went in to disperse them.
* * *
“Watch out! MPs on their way in!” someone called. They’d been fighting almost a quarter of an hour, and people were hurt and tired.
“From the Admin Zone?” Mullins asked. The direction they were expected to come from.
“Yeah, ours and yours,” said an Army corporal. “In force.”
“Time to split,” said Hill.
They’d planned this. Break up into small groups because the Goldnecks would focus on chasing down larger ones. Chill out for a bit elsewhere in the Old City, then come back into the Administrative Zone through different gates, well away from Bravo Company’s own barracks.
“Kick your asses next time,” said one of the Army guys without any particular rancor.
“Try any time you feel like it,” Mullins shot back.
“Stop! Stop and put your hands in the air!” came authoritative voices from the direction of the Administrative Zone gate.
Yeah, definitely time to make distance. The advantage of planning the brawl was that Mullins and the others had had time to look at maps of the Old City; their escape route was known.