"Took your time, General," Lady Atzi said. Her voice was strong, clear, with just a hint of age. In sharp contrast to the creases that ran through her face.
"Lady Atzi," General von Aster said. "You look—"
"Cut the shit," Lady Atzi replied, and stepped past General von Aster. "You Clarke?"
"Yes, ma'am," Colonel Clarke said. He felt the full weight of the old woman’s gaze on him. He knew the Iron Lady by reputation alone: she suffered no fools and delighted in shredding them when she found them.
She walked up and stood before him. Her lower jaw jutted out and she scowled at him. "You stirred up a nest of hornets, Colonel."
"Ma'am, I had no—"
"You can't just bring in a load of foreign armored vehicles. The contractors called in every council member and noble they own."
Colonel Clarke didn't know how to respond. Of all the issues he thought he'd have, an argument about procurement was not one. He felt relieved and his shoulders dropped a little. He glanced at General von Aster and saw the same look of surprise as he wore. "Ma'am, pardon me, but this is because we didn't go through proper channels for vehicle procurement?"
"Damned right it is. Colonel, if you plan on going any higher in this army, learn who not to piss off," Lady Atzi said. She snapped her gaze to General von Aster. "Nod, smile, and be polite. Understood?"
"Yes, ma'am," General von Aster said. He stepped behind Lady Atzi.
"Follow me," Lady Atzi said. She turned and stomped off through the crowded entry hall. The crowd parted like a bull had stormed through the room. She stopped before a group of men and women in suits.
"Hiram Kolben," Lady Atzi said to a wire thin man in a gray suit. "Grab that vulture, Martinez, and have a little chat with General von Aster and Colonel Clarke here. I expect you gentlemen to come to an agreement. I'm going inside to meet with the council. Understood?"
"Yes, ma'am," Colonel Clarke and General von Aster said in unison.
Hiram grew a pained smile. "Of course, Lady Atzi."
Lady Atzi didn't wait for anymore of a reply and stomped her way into the council chambers. The atmosphere in the entry hall changed as more of the council left. Only the staffers remained and idle conversation popped up everywhere. Everywhere except where Colonel Clarke stood staring at Hiram Kolben.
Hiram was several inches shorter than Colonel Clarke, but his shoulders were massive. In college Hiram had played rugby, lots and lots of rugby. It was said that his tactics on the rugby field translated quite well into the defense industry.
"Those should have been Vasilov tanks! You can't just buy equipment from another nation and ship it in!"
"You don't have the armor I need," Colonel Clarke said.
"Then we make it, my family has been proudly serving the Vasilov military for—"
"Enough," General von Aster said. "It's done, can you supply us with ammo and spares?"
"My offer stands, just the ammo. I'm not retooling my factories for this, this circus!" Hiram's hands flexed and his cheeks burned a rosy red.
Another voice spoke from behind. A soothing, cooling tone with a touch of an accent. "Martinez Group will supply the spares, but such a retooling will be expensive."
"Pablo," Hiram said with evident scorn.
Pablo Martinez stood like an aged matador. His jet black hair was oiled tight to his skull. Hard cheek lines jutted from his face and his brown eyes were the only soft thing on his face. He walked gently, leaned in while listening, and spoke with his hands and his voice. "Hiram," he acknowledged.
Hiram's posture changed. He placed his hands behind his back. "We too will have to charge tooling fees. This can, uh, be waived provided the order is large enough."
"I'm sorry, General, but we cannot waive the tooling fee, so much to be changed over for the Sigg designs." Pablo took on a hint of smugness.
"Call off your dogs," General von Aster said. "Colonel Bresowitz will conclude this."
Hiram looked to Pablo. Pablo glanced between all three.
"Very well," Pablo said. "But don't expect parts next week."
"Or even next month, there's a good deal to be retrofitted," Hiram said.
"You have plenty of time," Colonel Clarke said.
The four men stopped speaking and became aware that most of the crowded hall was silent and watching them.
Colonel Clarke shifted uncomfortably and waited for the General to take the lead out. He never felt comfortable with the politics and the wrangling. He'd watched his father through the years and disliked everything about it. For that matter, he disliked his father, too.
General von Aster gave a crisp nod to the two contractors. "Gentlemen." He turned and walked away.
Colonel Clarke followed suit.
"Colonel?" Pablo Martinez said.
Colonel Clarke halted and looked over his shoulder.
"How did you acquire a division of armored vehicles?"
"The old fashioned way," Colonel Clarke said, and continued after General von Aster.
Five minutes later they both sat in silence in the car. Colonel Clarke watched the city pass by and marveled at how little it had changed. The mist parted from time to time and revealed the deep brown hills that rose around the city.
"That was close, Cole, damned close."
"Am I over my head here, General?"
General von Aster turned and looked at Colonel Clarke. "No, this just isn't a fight you're used to dealing with. Leave the politicians to me, we've just stirred up a nest of hornets, is all."
"Lady Atli owed you a favor?"
"No, Cole, now I owe her one."
"Thank you, General," Colonel Clarke said sincerely. He knew how screwed he'd be without a good commander.
"Colonel, how did you acquire those vehicles?"
Colonel Clarke leaned back. "I bought them for scrap value."
General von Aster opened his mouth and shut it again. "What?"
"The Sigg are doing what they call a force reduction. They decided to keep the newest vehicles and are scrapping the rest. I cashed out my retirement, sold my holdings, and, well, bet it all."
"Scrapping?"
Colonel Clarke sighed. "Yes, sir, scrapping."
"You should have bought more."
"One more favor, General."
General von Aster looked up suspiciously.
"Can we find some room in the budget for some, uh, Sigg consultants?"
General von Aster relaxed. "That's it? Not an issue. But are they consultants or...?"
"As long as they don't fight, no one can call them mercenaries."
General von Aster shrugged. "Wouldn't bother me a bit, rumor is the 13th Army hired some Caledonians."
"Thank you, General."
"But Cole, no more surprises?"
"No sir," Colonel Clarke replied, and sincerely hoped the surprises were done.
#
Chapter Eight
Vasilov Prime - Northern Industrial District
Tomi Morgan shivered in the rain at the end of a line of prisoners. The shackles on his wrists reminded him that this wasn't just another train ride. He stared at the man in front of him and watched the rain run down through the man’s buzzcut hair.
A chubby-faced Sergeant stepped out from the control room. "Ten more minutes!"
"He said that ten minutes ago," someone said.
"I'll give him ten minutes of my foot in his ass," someone else remarked.
Chuckles broke out through the crowd.
"Shut up! Who said dat? Shut up!" a Corporal stalked down the line of prisoners. He wore standard issue rain gear and carried a stout club.
No one answered. The Corporal stalked in between the rows with the club leading the way. He passed by drunks, drug addicts, old men, women, the young, and those that just looked broken. A few stood in finer clothes and they, like Tomi, seemed the most distressed by it all. Tomi stood at the end of a line of uniformed men and women. The soldiers before him stared at the ground in silence.
Now a clatter broke out down the tracks and the screeching of steel on wet iron announced the movement of the train. The portly Sergeant stepped out of the control room with the rail crew close behind. He waved to the Corporal and stepped to the edge of the track. The engine pumped past with a hum of electric motors. Behind that came cargo car after cargo car. The screeching rang out again and the cars stopped.
The track workers slammed open the aluminum doors, then the march began. They shuffled in slowly, each line of prisoners into a car, and the doors closed.
Tomi walked slowly, hesitantly, and felt the tug of the shackles on his wrist. The cargo car loomed ahead like the dark maw of a beast. He took a breath, put his head down, and entered. The sound of the rain clanged above him and he was thankful that, for now, he was dry. Then the door closed and he was surrounded by darkness.
Someone sighed in the car and another man started to sing.
"Gonna brave the line—to do our time—so that we can dine with duke. Gonna brave the line—so that we may find—the better hangman's noose." The voice was just above a mumble, but loud enough that it echoed through the car.
Tomi pushed his back against the cold metal wall and tears ran down his face in the darkness.
The train clattered and sang. At every junction a bang woke them. At every stop the train car came alive with the cargo peering out through the tiny slits at the side of the door. The air grew colder, they ascended, then descended. They stopped once and offloaded the civilian prisoners.
Tomi shivered the whole time and kept to himself.
They finally stopped. Light exploded into the car and the soldiers streamed out in a line, with Tomi at the end. He rubbed his eyes and squinted hard. The others shuffled around him and groaned.
They stood on a white gravel siding. Low hills rose in the distance. They were topped with craggy rocks, and seemed to be just tall enough to keep the grass growth down. Closer, at the base of the hills, stood a massive structure.
Tomi squinted at the building. Warehouse? Yes, he thought, it is, a warehouse for people. He'd spent the trip thinking about what a penal soldier was. He had no idea of his duties, his tasks—what did it mean? He assumed fighting, but this, well, this wasn't what he expected. Not that he knew what to expect.
The train pulled away. Finally the last of the cargo cars passed by. Then only the wind stirred in the valley. A dozen men stood in body armor and wielded long armed clubs. Their faces were set and they observed the prisoners.
A Lieutenant stepped up to one of the prisoners and spoke in a low voice. The prisoner turned around and nodded. He held out his arms and the Officer released the shackle. The prisoner walked down the line and released the rest.
Finally he reached Tomi. "Where's your uniform?"
Tomi looked up at the man. His lapel was missing any markings, but the rip in the fabric showed that he was once an Officer.
"I, uh, I don't have one."
The Officer shook his head. "Lost it? They'll dock you for that."
"I never had one."
The Officer stopped and looked back at Tomi. "Civilian?"
"Yes."
"Yes sir."
"Yes sir," Tomi replied quickly.
"They'll get you gear issued once we're inside. At least they should."
A thin mist dribbled out of the sky, almost too light to be felt, but soon the prisoners were wet. With the mist came the wind, and then the day grew worse.
Tomi shivered again and fell in line behind the rest of the prisoners. They set off down the rough cut gravel road. The guards—he assumed they were guards—walked a few meters to the side. The guards didn't seem bothered by all the prisoners. Where could they go? Run, to where? Tomi wondered why they bothered with guards at all.
A man stopped and retched hard. Vomit sprayed onto the ground. The smell of raw alcohol wafted through the air. Others retched down the line. Tomi stopped and grasped the man under the arms.
"Get up, Corporal!" a guard said.
The Corporal heaved again and his entire body shook. The guard cracked Tomi across the back with the club.
Tomi almost dropped the retching Corporal but just managed to hold on. The Corporal stunk so bad that Tomi could hardly stand to hold him.
"Thanks," the Corporal mumbled and heaved once again.
And so went the march through the mist. Tomi marched with the sobering Corporal leaning on him. Half of the column was afflicted with some sort of withdrawal. Men shook and shivered, a woman stumbled and cried, and one man shook like gripped by a terrible palsy.
The gate opened and a chill air blew out. It smelled of soap. They marched inside and directly into a receiving room. More guards stood idly, above on iron walkways, and at the doors. Finally they broke them into groups, men went one way, women the other.
Tomi stood in front of the Corporal and looked up at a set of guards on the walkway. One cradled a rifle and the other held an electronic amplifier.
The Corporal slouched against the wall. His eyes were bloodshot and rimmed with tears. Strings of yellow bile ran down the front of his uniform. He was stout like a little barrel with legs. "Fuck," he mumbled and spat.
There was a screech and the soldier on the walkway adjusted the amplifier. "Sanitation in one minute."
The men grumbled and started stripping off the dirty uniforms.
Tomi followed suit and then marched into the next room. There they were sprayed with lukewarm water, then doused in foam, ordered to wash, and finally sprayed once more. The sanitation ended with a mist that was scented like oranges but tasted like rancid meat.
Tomi shivered the entire time. It reminded him of a summer he spent working at a slaughterhouse. The sides of beef rolled on an assembly line and were blasted with water. Blood and dirt sprayed everywhere but, at the end, the meat was clean. Then it hit him: this was just the same, he was the meat being prepared for the butcher.
"Out, out!"
They streamed back into the room and the clothing was gone. Only the boots remained. They shivered in the cold air until a man pushed in a cart. He wore a plain set of khaki fatigues without any rank or identification. He didn't speak, but walked out again immediately.
A man stepped to the cart and started calling out sizes. One-by-one the men retrieved uniforms. Tomi stepped into an odd-sized medium. The socks were warm and he hopped around the wet room trying to find his boots.
He didn't see them anywhere. They were his boots, earned in the mines. By damned some dirty son of a bitch wasn't going to steal them. His eyes darted around the feet of the other men and he realized they were gone.
"Someone took my boots!" he said. He looked around, expecting someone to say something.
"Hey!" the corporal he'd helped earlier said loudly. "We've a man with no boots, can we have a pair?" He turned to Tomi. "Size?"
"But, my boots!"
The corporal looked down. "Size, uh, 46!"
"Someone took them, they were mine!" Tomi protested now, angrier. The rough treatment and lack of sleep hit him hard. He was downright ornery.
The corporal stepped close and laid a hand on Tomi's elbow. "Calm down mate, it ain't worth it. Just a pair of boots."
"But they're mine! Someone took them. A thief! Thief, I say!"
And then, faster than he thought possible, two guards rushed in and thumped him. It wasn't personal, or even particularly violent, just an impersonal beating. He staggered to his feet and shook his head.
The corporal steadied Tomi. "Stick by me now, eh? I gotcha, mate."
They streamed out and walked into a cell filled with bunks and low tables. There were no chairs. The bunks were covered with a red rubber mattress and at the head of each was a pile. Wool blankets, a crisp white pillow, a set of sheets, and a small toiletry kit. Tomi sat on the edge next to the corporal.
"I'm Mick."
"Tomi."
"Not army are ya, mate?"
Tomi shook his head. Thanks Mr. Obvious, he thought.
Mick sigh
ed and shook his head. "That was one hell of a drunk."
"You drank and got tossed in here?"
"Mickey boy got drunk three weeks ago, left his duty station, got into a fight with the police, knocked out a woman, lit a train car on fire, then came to in the back alley of some Vasilovian shithole," a man sitting on the table called out.
"And I don't remember a single bit of it!" Mick added with a touch of pride.
The soldiers laughed a grim sort of humor. They started trading offenses. Some wouldn't speak of the charge, others did. Drunkenness, fighting, and vandalism topped the list. One man was accused of bribery, another for skimming off the supply depot stocks. Tomi kept his mouth shut, this wasn't his place. He didn't fit in. The uniform was like someone else's glove.
"What, uh, what do we do?" Tomi asked Mick.
Mick looked up at Tomi with bloodshot eyes. "If we're lucky, they'll have us dig ditches, or load things. If we ain't, we'll go to Lishun and dig up explosive mines in the permafrost or run out and clip razor wire."
"Is this a punishment or a death sentence?"
"It's the Army boy!" a man replied and laughed. "It's always a punishment with a chance at a death sentence."
"Form up, two minutes!" a guard called from above.
Tomi did his best to imitate everyone else. He still didn't have boots.
Two minutes later two guards and a Captain walked in. The Captain wore a high collared jacket and a low brimmed hat. His face was crisp with a clean nose, and full ears.
"The Army has found you incapable of functioning within a proper unit." His voice was loud, with a hint of a crackle in his voice. "Your time here will begin with re-education. You are animals. Stupid animals. Animals to be retrained."
The soldiers stood with impassive faces. Tomi shifted uncomfortably, no one had ever talked to him like this. He felt the weight of the man’s voice and felt an urge to correct him. He certainly wasn't an animal.
"You!" the Captain said to Tomi. The Officer stomped across the room with the guards close behind. "Where are your boots?"
"Captain, he—" Corporal Mick said.
The Captain focused his eyes on Tomi and pointed a finger at Mick. "I asked this man. Where are your boots?"
Steel Breach Page 5