"So we have some time," Lord Krenshaw said with a confident nod.
Lady Atzi stood and walked out of the room. Some of the other Dukes stood as she exited, while others regarded her with a scowl.
"Have you seen the drone feed fragment?" Lord Darcy asked.
A few of the Dukes nodded, most did not.
"Time is not something we have. This will be decided in weeks, not months. I implore all of you. Go! Go now! Before it's the doom of us all."
Lord Darcy turned and walked out before the Dukes could babble at him any more. The chamber doors creaked shut behind him.
Lady Atzi waited in the entry hall. "Fools! They don't understand how serious this is."
"No," Lord Darcy said and caught himself before he agreed with her. "But see it from their standpoint."
"I do, and they are worse men because of it."
Lord Darcy wondered where he fell in that judgment.
#
Chapter Fourteen
Vasilov Prime - Penal Holding Facility #5
"We've got about twenty straight up civilians, those will be the tough ones," Commander Arap said. "We don't exactly have a crack core of NCOs to drill them."
Colonel Clarke marched beside his XO. He was wet through, but he didn't much mind. There was a certain feeling to being wet and active. Though he didn't look forward to stopping. "I want a full tally once we move to the camp. We'll have to find the good NCOs and set them to work. The Sigg will supervise, they can make one hell of a trooper in a few months."
"What would they normally do in a Penal Battalion?" Umi asked.
"Learn to dig for mines, or lay barbed wire, or wash dishes, or whatever no one else wants to do," Commander Arap said.
"If they survived," Colonel Clarke added. "That's our job, we're investing good knowledge in these soldiers. I want them trained right."
Commander Arap gave a crisp nod. "Consider it done."
They reached the entrance to the prison building.
Colonel Clarke stood at the main door and glanced to either side. A well worn track circled the building, worn right down to the glacial gravel. "Sergeant, key us in, please."
The doors opened and a chubby Sergeant stomped out of the guard shack. "Hey! Who are—" He stopped and snapped to attention. A pack of guards followed out of the shack a moment later and they too snapped to attention.
Colonel Clarke marched in at the head of the pack without a single look to any of the staff.
The chubby Sergeant, the moment the Officers passed, waddled back into his shack. He snatched up his commset and leaned out to watch the procession march past. "There's a Colonel here!" he blurted into the handset.
They marched into the prison complex. Crowded cell blocks ran along the walls. The prisoners stood up from rubber matted bunks and moved to the barred doors. They didn't just watch, they gawked.
The faces that looked out were worn, drawn out, pale white, and cold. They sported bruises, drunken tics, and the gauntness of addicts. But beneath that they wore tattoos that spoke to deployments, time spent on Lishun Delta, the names of wives, girlfriends and children. Beyond the tattoos was marks that only combat produced. Scars, shrapnel pock marks, and stitch marks. Most missed ears, tips of noses, or at the least had the permanent suntan that came from being frostnipped and wind burnt.
Guards raced on the walkways above, not quite sure how to proceed.
"Open them up," Colonel Clarke ordered. He passed through the space quicker, picking up speed as he walked. His stride was almost a run, a tromping stomp. He'd walked in with a plan to show some bravado with a touch of charisma. Get them smiling, then lead them out. But now, after seeing them all like this, he felt nothing but anger.
A Lieutenant halted on the walkway above. "Colonel, well, I can't—"
"I said open them up! Open these cells or I'll smash them open." Colonel Clarke stood with clenched fists and stared down the line. They were his men, and by god he'd judge them himself. "Open this god damned door!"
"Is that an order, Colonel?" a voice said from above and behind Colonel Clarke.
Clarke spun and glared above him.
A Captain stood on the walkway. His posture put him at the position of attention, but just barely. There was a hint of a smile just hiding on the edge of his face. "This is my facility, I have no orders to release these convicts."
"Commander?" Colonel Clarke said without taking his eyes off the Captain. He didn't like the little bastard. "Provide the Captain with our orders."
Commander Arap stepped away from the rest of the Officers and climbed up a service ladder. His muscled arms rippled at every rung. At the top he pushed past two guards and snapped the orders to the Captain.
The Captain stared at Commander Arap for a few hard seconds and took the orders reluctantly. "A Commander then?"
Commander Arap spat at the feet of the Captain.
The Captain looked down at the spit and slid his foot back an inch. He glared back up at Commander Arap. "An Officer, but not a gentleman."
Commander Arap grinned, spun about, and slid back down the ladder.
The Captain read through the orders. He flipped through each page and then went back to the front. "Very well, Colonel. These orders cover the prisoners, but this is my facility. As such, I still retain command."
Colonel Clarke simply smirked and gave a nod to the Officers behind him. "In ranks, if you please, Commander."
Commander Arap sprinted down the length of the hall and shouted into each of the cells. He assigned each group a letter. "Get ready to move! Highest rank to the front, everyone else line up. Go, go!"
The other Officers followed suit. They ran to each cell and leaned in close. Only Colonel Clarke and the Sigg mercenaries remained in the center.
Colonel Clarke glanced up at the Captain and gave him a wry little smile.
The Captain glared down with his arms crossed and watched. His face showed nothing, but a little tic started on his cheek. He turned his head and spoke to a guard. The guard nodded and spoke into his commset. Alarms blared out and guards poured out of the halls and lined the walkways. Guards with assault rifles.
In each of the tight cells the soldiers quickly lined up into two ranks. At the rear of each line the soldiers propped up those who couldn't walk.
Commander Arap sprinted down the center of the hall and snapped to attention in front of Colonel Clarke. "Battalion ready to embark!"
"Thank you, Mr. Arap." Colonel Clarke looked up to the Captain on the walkway. "Open the cells, Captain."
"The prisoners will riot!"
"Open these doors, Captain. There will be no riot."
Commander Arap spun about and shouted down the hall, "Battalion, prepare to embark!"
The Captain spoke into his commset. He shook his head at Colonel Clarke and frowned. "Rifles ready!"
The guards with rifles raised them to their shoulders and stared down into the hall. The sound of falling rain clattered onto the warehouse and the air felt thick.
A mechanical shudder ran down the length of the cell block. The doors slammed open.
Colonel Clarke held his breath and stood at the position of attention. He could feel his hands sweating and he hoped, no prayed, that the prisoner would behave like soldiers. This was part of his plan to treat them as soldiers and not as prisoners. He didn't want a wall of meat shields, he wanted those who sought redemption. And for that he had to show trust.
No one stirred inside of the cells. A cough echoed down the hall and someone swore. The sound of the rain hammering on the roof cascaded through the hall.
"Battalion!" Colonel Clarke said.
"Alpha Company!" Commander Arap echoed a moment later.
Colonel Clarke waited a moment, eyed the Captain on the walkway, and spoke. "March!"
"Alpha Company, march!" Commander Arap said.
The first row of prisoners marched out from the cell. A woman led them. She wore an eye patch and had an alcohol-stained nose. Her thighs were
like tree trunks and she stomped alongside the soldiers next to her.
And then they streamed out, rank after rank, company after company. They marched, as best they could. The sound of shuffling feet had half a rhythm, but nothing like a disciplined group.
Colonel Clarke watched. He studied the Officers that led each group as they marched past him. They had fallen the furthest and, he hoped, would work the hardest.
A man stumbled past wearing only socks. As he stepped, Colonel Clarke saw that the bottoms were red with blood. The man didn't look like a soldier at all, too thick in the middle with a swagger more than a march. He almost stopped the man, but this wasn't the place.
The last company marched past and the Sigg mercenaries followed behind. The Captain on the walkway was almost red with rage. Colonel Clarke snapped a crisp salute and marched out with Commander Arap at his side.
When they marched out of the main hall, Commander Arap spoke. "They need some polish."
"I'm certain they need a good deal more than that."
They marched out into the rain. The entire battalion stood in ranks, nearly a thousand men and women. They stared ahead with locked eyes. The rain smashed into the ground in cascading sheets, the low mountains in the horizon were totally obscured in cloud.
Colonel Clarke marched in front of them and pointed to the thin road that wandered away from the prison. "You'll march as soldiers, not prisoners. Commander Arap, the Battalion XO will lead you out."
With that, Colonel Clarke stood in the rain and watched as his battalion marched into the distance. Once the last group marched off, he stood next to Umi. They were both beyond soaked.
"What do you think, Umi?" Colonel Clarke asked as he wiped the rain off his face.
Umi shook his head. "I think we better start walking."
A man raced out from the prison and shouted after them. "Colonel!"
Colonel Clarke halted and waited for the man.
The Corporal snapped to attention and handed a thin dataslate over.
"Thank you," Colonel Clarke said and glanced at the tablet. The rain beaded up on the screen and he tipped it so he could read it better.
The Corporal saluted and sprinted back out of the rain.
"Documents?" Umi asked.
Colonel Clarke read faster, his heart beat quicker and he looked up at his battalion marching into the distance. "No, Umi, orders. The Kadan are about to capture the Mackinof Front."
#
Chapter Fifteen
Vasilov Prime - County of Essen, Training Camp
Tomi was at least thankful that the rain stopped. With every step his aching feet squished on the gravel. They were beyond sore. The medic, Kallio, had told him that he'd be okay, but to try and stay off them. Fat chance now, he thought. On one arm a gorilla of a man named Hutchins held on, while Corporal Mick held the other.
They climbed a low ridge in silence. The paced slowed even more until they finally crested the ridge. Then came the order to break ranks and take a ten minute break. All at once they spread into the soggy grass and squatted in clusters. The Sigg stood in a pack at the rear, with the Vasilov Officers huddled tight.
"What they talking about?" Hutchins said.
Corporal Mick turned his head and squinted. "I bet we're lost."
Hutchins squinted at Mick and glanced around. "But we're on a road."
Corporal Mick grinned and Hutchins huffed.
Kallio squatted in front of Tomi. "Show me dem feet, eh?"
Tomi winced and straightened his legs out. The cold, wet, grass drained even more energy out of him.
Kallio snatched up one foot, and turned it from side-to-side. Then she grabbed the next and poked at the heels.
Tomi cried out and tried to pull his feet back.
"Psht!" Kallio hissed and shook her head. "Toughed up gascon, but eh? Mick? Hutch? Give him a hand, eh?"
"I need boots," Tomi said.
"Yah?" Kallio said and walked away.
"Don't worry, Private Tomi, we'll get you boots soon enough," Mick said. He stood and stretched his back. "Get up and stretch a bit, we'll be moving soon."
"But I—"
"Shaddup," Hutch said.
They help Tomi up and braced each of his arms. Then, like a pack of geriatrics, the battalion rose. The order came and they hobbled off, even slower than before. It was a sorry sight, but slowly they walked along.
They marched through a valley that was filled with waist-high colony grass. The next hill was topped with a line of signs spaced a hundred meters apart. Each sign was a red diamond with a black star burst on it.
"Artillery range," Mick grunted.
"What?" Tomi asked.
Mick said nothing until they crested over the ridge. There, on the other side, was a landscape of hell. Shattered trees and low scrub lay in divots and craters. It stretched to the next ridge, fresh craters, old craters ringed with moss, and shattered stones. The road ran parallel and curved away at the ridge.
A low row of a dozen tents and ready fabricated buildings sat in the distance on the edge of the crater field. The ground was sheared clear of any grass around it. Bulldozers, a portable reactor, and several staff cars were parked in a row at edge. A single flagpole rose up at front with the Vasilov flag flapping lazily.
"Home sweet home," Corporal Mick said.
Hutchins grunted and shifted Tomi on his back.
"Make it sharp!" a Lieutenant in a prisoner's uniform yelled as he marched past.
"I should have stayed in prison," someone grumbled from the ranks.
Tomi said nothing and focused on how much his damn feet hurt. Now that he'd been off them, alternating between Hutchins's back and hobbling with Mick, the nerves flared. It was like a thousand hammers drove tacks into his soles. Now he stared at the rows of tents. "Where do the rest of us stay?"
"Eh?" Mick said.
"There's, like, a dozen tents and some funny looking buildings."
"We'll set up our own," a woman with a shaved head said.
"Who are you?" Mick glanced to the woman.
"Sergeant Nikov." She was taller than Mick, almost as tall as Hutchins. She leaned forward like she bore a weight on her back. Her brown eyes were sunk into her head and a kaleidoscope of bruises around her eyes. On her left hand were only four fingers, the pinky was but a stub.
"Yes, Sergeant!" Corporal Mick replied with just enough enthusiasm to keep himself out of trouble.
Tomi tried not to stare, he could tell she was once beautiful. He could also tell she was addicted to Kettle. He shook his head, she'd be lucky to survive.
They marched onto the gravel flat next to the tents. The battalion stood in ranks, not at parade rest, but as a mob. Some sat in the dirt, others leaned on their mates. Everyone looked dog tired.
"There goes the good spots," Sergeant Nikov said.
The Sigg mercenaries broke ranks and walked into the low tents. They didn't even look tired from the march. Three of them broke into a flat-out run and raced into the nearest tents.
"Huh," Hutchins said.
"Words of wisdom," Mick added.
A Lieutenant in a prisoner's uniform stopped in front of Sergeant Nikov. "You, get two soldiers, send them to the supply Officer over there." He pointed toward a large stock of equipment and containers.
"Yes sir!" Sergeant Nikov replied and pointed at Hutchins and Mick. "Go."
They stood with a groan and trotted off toward the supply depot. Dozens of other men and women ran toward the same spot.
The Lieutenant continued. "My name's Lieutenant Juhl, for the time being I'm your platoon leader." He stopped and coughed and looked around uneasily. "First thing, get tents set up. They go there," he said and pointed to a line of blue tipped steel posts. "Make 'em crisp."
"Lt?" Sergeant Nikov said.
"What?"
"I got a man who needs medical attention."
Tomi shivered and his feet burned. He wasn't sure who, or how, to ask for help. It seemed any time he spoke before
it ended up in running or beating.
"First inflatable hab, but get back quick. We've got tents to set up."
"Sir," she replied and helped Tomi to his feet.
They hobbled across the gravel.
"I, uh, well, thanks."
"Listen, there's a chain of command. If you have a problem you start at the bottom. Ask me or Mick or whoever is your squad leader. Then we work it out, if it can be worked out. For now just keep your damned mouth shut and do whatever you're told."
Tomi nodded and winced as he struggled up the low steps. They walked into the hab and the air felt a dozen degrees warmer. He wanted to sit down and fall asleep.
A combat medic stepped over and stuck a number patch onto Tomi's chest. He scanned it with a tablet. "What's the issue?"
"Feet," Sergeant Nikov said.
The medic squatted down and poked Tomi's feet. "Ouch, yah, we'll get ya fixed up. Doc is getting the Arnault set up."
"Arnault?" Tomi asked. He had an intense dislike for anything medical.
"ARNLT, Automated regrowth and liquid tissue," the medic said.
"Can he get some painkillers?" Sergeant Nikov said.
The medic gave her a glance and shook his head. "There isn't any."
"The man’s in pain," Sergeant Nikov said, louder. "And you don't have anything?"
"Hey," the medic said and jammed a finger at her. "I don't take shit from an addict. We don't have any, otherwise you dirty fuckers would just steal it all."
Sergeant Nikov stood and balled her hands at her side. The bruising on her face flared and a trickle of blood rolled out of a nostril.
The medics face softened. "Listen, its going to be bad here for a while. You, I mean, a lot of people have to detox. Painkillers ain't gonna help, Sergeant."
Sergeant Nikov stormed out.
The medic left Tomi. The room filled up with a line stretching outside. Tomi's eyelids drooped and he stifled a yawn.
The door snapped open and the medic helped Tomi inside. There was a clutter of equipment with a large vaguely medical looking cylinder in the center of the room. Attached to it was paddles, a tub on the floor, and a full trauma bed in the rear.
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