Five years after the events of "Cry Havoc!", animal hybrids are more common but no more respected. Arnold Tindall, a young human captain in the Colonial Defense Authority, is given his own command — which turns out to be rather less glamorous, and rather more fuzzy, than he'd expected.

This is the first chapter of a new novel set in the same universe as Cry Havoc!. It takes place about five years later, after Julie Verne's contributions have made moreau participation in the service a little more palatable. Captain Arnold Tindall, a human soldier, is given command of his own company — which turns out to be a group of human rejects and moreaus, taken seriously by approximately nobody. This is somewhat less smut-focused than even that last novel was, and this chapter is anyhow appropriate for all audiences. I'm curious to see how you all take this — if you like it, just like Cry Havoc!, the rest of the novel will follow in installments. Other than that, read and enjoy — and as always, please chime in with criticism and feedback!

Released under the Creative Commons BY-NC-SA license. Share, modify, and redistribute -- as long as it's attributed and noncommercial, anything goes.

Steel and Fire and Stone, by Rob Baird — Ch. 1, "The strength of the pack"

---

Now this is the Law of the Jungle — as old and as true as the sky;
And the Wolf that shall keep it may prosper, but the Wolf that shall break it must die.

As the creeper that girdles the tree-trunk the Law runneth forward and back:
For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf, and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack.

— Rudyard Kipling, "The Law of the Jungle"

She watched the tapes on the control panel spin up carefully, listening to the whine of the machinery beneath them. "Lasers armed and operational; standing by for command sync to targeting computer."

Corporal Avalos, in the seat next to her, tapped a few buttons, and they were rewarded with healthy green lights from the control panel. "Targeting computer power on test is... complete. I have code 0x00A3."

Corinna nodded, typed in the code, and waited for the soft chime of the laser module announcing a successful link. "A3, copy. Link is good. Lasers are charged. Set launch command override in arm."

"Set, impulse clean."

She cracked the knuckles of long fingers. "Okay, let's wrap this up. Inverters?"

Juan Avalos leaned up and pulled two heavy switches down. "Operational."

"APU?"

"Spinning down. Five seconds to lock. Three... two... one... APU secure. Starboard bus good. Port bus good. Aux good. All voltages nominal."

"NAVCAS?"

"Powered and aligned, zero-zero."

Everything was going smoothly. "Energizing the main drive..." Corinna pulled one of the big levers forward, slowly, listening for any abnormalities. With a deep hum, they lifted off, hovering in place; she brought the lights up, revealing an empty hangar. "We good to go?" Juan gave a thumbs-up, and she switched on her headset. "Control, this is Tarvos Kilo Two-One, outbound Callisto with sierra. Ready to depart."

The controller's voice sounded dull, and bored; it was late at night, after all. "Uh, Kilo Two-One, roger. You're the only traffic. Take lane Alpha to, uh... Alpha Six, and I guess, uh, don't worry about checking in. Looks like you're good all the way to Callisto, guys. Have fun."

Eighty tons of precision engineering responded smoothly to her touch on the throttles. When they were clear of the hangar doors, she swung the vehicle over; "ALPHA - DEPARTURES EAST" glared back from the cone of light that lanced forward into the darkness.

By the time they left the base, Juan Avalos had settled back in his seat and had a thin computer propped on the control panel. He was reading a comic book, but when she asked for a systems check he responded quickly, setting it aside to scan the control panel while the figures of his book fought and shouted silently, unwatched. "Temperatures are good. Fuel flow's good — we're running light today, sarge. Shouldn't need much power."

"We're coasting," Corinna agreed. "Two hundred and eighty knots indicated." The Tarvos was gliding in ground effect — a cushion of air formed by the shape of the vehicle that left their transit smooth and swift. The road between the fort and FOB Callisto was improvised, but kept well clear of any debris that might impede their travel.

Juan checked a few more instruments, distractedly. "Hey, boss? Would it be a problem if Carver took my place tomorrow?" She turned, arching an eyebrow and lifting her ear. Juan, being only human, was at a disadvantage when it came to body language — but he caught her curiosity easily enough. "Uh. Gilded Cage is playing a show in town, and Carver owes me anyway. He already agreed to it, if you're okay..."

Really, Corinna guessed it didn't matter. "Alright."

"Thanks, sarge."

"Just make sure he's here on time. He can be... lax. And we don't want any delay on getting these vital supplies to the Authority..."

Juan nodded. "'F course, boss." Then, a few seconds later, he turned back to her. "What are we carrying, anyway?"

"You've got the manifest, don't you?"

"Yeah, I guess." The corporal reached down to pull out a ruggedized computer, paging through it until he found what he was looking for. "Uh. Let's see. Six palettes of spooled hygiene maintenance product, type 82. Two palettes of soup, condensed, chicken or safe equivalent. Four two-hundred liter tanks, water, distilled. Five gross profil... proflactis? Pro-phyl-act-ics," he finally sounded it out.

"Condoms, corporal."

"Gross ones?" He made a face.

Corinna grinned, her long muzzle flashing teeth. "A gross is twelve dozen."

"Oh. Okay. Five of those, then. Batteries... mosquito repellant... ten five-liter drums of mark 530 peanut butter."

"Keeps the Authority going," she grunted. "Glad we're putting the transport corridor to good use, though."

Juan snorted, and tossed the manifest back under his feet. "Hey, boss, cheer up. It could be worse, you know."

"It could?" A hundred kilograms of toilet paper seemed, to her, rather unglamorous.

"At least we're safe, right? You know, I heard the Kingdom's launched an all-out offensive on Nova Galatia. One of my friends in the 55th said the whole division's packing up to try and stop 'em. They shipped out yesterday."

Corinna knew that the war was not going well — they were outmanned and, in many cases, outgunned as well. She did not know how poorly it went, and of course, neither did Juan; the lower ranks ran on rumor and scuttlebutt just as surely as peanut butter. "Well, at least the boys at Callisto will get their bog rolls in on time. Confed's gotta have priorities."

"Look, I'm just saying y'oughta be happy for the truck, sarge. Last I heard they were trying to gather up you, uh... you know, you guys" — by this he meant the moreaus, animal stock like herself. "For actual combat. Damned sight less comfortable, that."

"Actual combat?"

"They're getting desperate, yeah. There was a flyer up about it, though, outside the major's office. Fortunately, I think you're safe here."

Corinna Benjamin, who had not seen anything like combat since her enlistment, nodded her long muzzle. "Safe," she echoed. Safe to play cards with the others in the logistics company; safe to sign personnel reports and drive the big Tarvos hoverdyne six hundred kilometers through featureless valleys from Fort Garrison to the forward operating bases scattered through the desert.

The Colonial Defense Authority was engaged in low-level counterinsurgency operations on the continent; in prior years, mortars had occasionally landed in the fort, but now there was nothing. It was a far cry from what, so far as she was concerned, she had signed up for. Nova Galatia, a hundred light years distant, might as well have been in a movie, or one of Avalos's comic books.

It was not what she had bargained for. Corinna Benjamin was unique, even among moreaus. A thylacine — a striped, wolfish beast long extinct, brought back through the magic of engineering. The only one of her kind... consigned to this, a faceless cog in a slowly reeling machine.

As she mused, the truck's sensors picked up something on the road well ahead of them. "Contact, twelve o'clock, four thousand meters. Thirty seconds."

"Got it," Avalos said, a moment later. "I have a solution."

From the image generated by their LIDAR set, the obstruction was almost certainly a tumbleweed, dancing in the cooling night air. But it might be sucked into the engines, or blind one of the sensors it hit at more than five hundred kilometers an hour. "Okay. You're cleared hot." She checked dutifully to make sure the master arm switch had been set.

Avalos thumbed the trigger-guard up to expose a worn red button, and stabbed it down. Two lasers stabbed invisibly out; there was a burst of light as the air where they met flashed into plasma. Six megawatts of energy, engineered by the finest minds in the Confederacy, burst the tumbleweed into flame and flung it violently off the road. "Good hit," she heard Avalos confirm; the glow of the fire slipped by in their peripheral vision a few seconds later. 

Yes, they were very safe.

Safe to watch the war on the news, and wonder what it was like out there. To let down the promise she'd made to herself, and the ideas she'd had — about service, and self-worth. Safe to watch the road unroll before their humming steed, never changing. She turned to Avalos with a raised eyebrow:

"You think they're still looking?"

*

Lieutenant Arnold Tindall waited with some nervousness for his name to be called. He had a thin, disheveled mustache, and he stroked it distractedly — trying to think of what he had done this time to brook Command's ire.

It wasn't that he was a fuck-up, he told himself — merely someone with a pathological inability to play the political games required of officers. In particular he had not permitted Colonel Giles to take credit for a narcotics interception five weeks prior. This had elevated the status of Tindall's boss, Captain Paxi, in far corners of the Colonial Defense Authority — and sunk Tindall's own amongst those who truly mattered.

"Tindall." Giles' voice was a flat, booming declaration; Arnold stood, straightened his uniform, and marched into the office. 

"Sir! Lieutenant Tindall reports as ordered." 

"At ease." 

There were two seats in front of the metal desk; one of them was already occupied by Major Cason, battalion XO. Tindall nodded politely to her, and settled into the free chair Giles indicated.

"How's it going, lieutenant?" The sweetness in Ada Cason's voice bordered on venomous.

"Well, thank you, ma'am."

"Ready for more drug work?"

Tindall frowned slightly. "Well..."

"Don't look so nervous, Arnie." Giles was smiling, too, and Tindall realized with a sinking feeling that, whatever they had planned, it was far worse than he had initially suspected. "It was a friendly question."

"Yes, sir," he muttered.

Shankar Giles, whose own mustache was regal and lent a distinguished air to his countenance, leaned back in his seat, his grin widening. "You know, we're not your enemies, lieutenant. No hard feelings about the bust — you did the right thing. And you interviewed well in the press."

Which he had done without the supervision of the battalion public affairs officer — another mistake. The journalists had been very insistent, and he'd given a few quick answers. Hardly an 'interview,' to his thinking, but then he shouldn't have said anything at all. "If you say so."

"I do. So there's nothing to worry about. In fact, there's good news for the both of us, if you want to think about it that way..."

"Sir?"

Cason reached out to hand a small box to the Colonel. He took it, and held it open, so that Tindall could see its contents. Two silver-colored bars flashed in the light, sitting on a bed of fuzzy cloth. "Congratulations, captain."

Tindall's performance evaluations had been above-average, and he was slightly overdue for the promotion — but he'd assumed Giles would keep him in place forever. The sight of the insignia caught him by surprise, and his response was unguarded: "Oh — thank you, sir."

Giles extended his other hand for Tindall to shake, and as he did so he flashed that smile again. "I know we've had our difficulties," the big Colonel said genially. "But I heard of an opportunity, and I thought you were the right person for it. You'll be leaving us, I'm afraid."

Arnold took the box, closing it again and nodding slowly. Trying to contain his excitement, he looked up at Giles. "I will?"

Giles nodded to Cason, and the XO handed a computer over to him. "Transfer orders. You're getting your own unit, captain. Alpha Company, 2nd Battalion, 49th Armored."

He scanned the computer with pursed lips. "Effective immediately," he read aloud, from the first sentence of the document. 

Colonel Giles smiled just widely enough to show sharp, yellowed teeth. "So what are you waiting for?"

On the transport ship, Arnie scrutinized every line of the papers he'd been given. He was immediately relieved of all responsibilities in the staff of the 985th Security Battalion. Concomitant with his promotion to captain, Tindall was then to report to Fort Fidchell, home of the brigade, there to take the vacant post of company commander.

Alpha Company, 2nd Battalion, 49th Armored Brigade, 4th Heavy Division was described in his orders as a "special" unit. No indication was given as to what this meant; perusing the 49th's history, he found only that they had been withdrawn from combat four months earlier.

Still, he was excited. It was a chance to get out of the mess that had been the security battalion, and to stand on his own two feet. More than that it was a chance to prove himself, which Tindall thought he could certainly do, given an appropriate chance. What was the worst that could happen?

He slept only fitfully, and when the transport dropped out of subspace and began falling into the gravity well of the new planet he leaned into the window, scrutinizing it closely.

Fort Fidchell was located on the outskirts of Houston, a mining arcology on the southern continent of Avalon. He had never been to the planet — an early terraforming success, blanketed with thick green forests and rolling plains. The transport arced over shining emerald to red-grey deserts, darkening as they neared the polar night that gripped the planet's rich mineral belts.

Still, the air outside was not unpleasantly cold as he stepped down the extended gangplank. A uniformed figure was waiting for him; her arm snapped in a brisk salute. "Good afternoon, sir."

Tindall returned the salute crisply, glancing up at the dull grey sky. "Good afternoon, lieutenant. Is it after noon?"

"Just barely. It doesn't get very light down here. Is that all you brought with you, sir?" She indicated the duffel he had set at his feet.

He lifted it again, slinging the bag over his shoulder. "Yeah. The rest of it's still back on Adler. I got called out on somewhat short notice."

"So we were told. I'm Lieutenant Emily Lachance, company XO. It's nice to meet you, sir — shall we be off?" When he nodded, she guided him to a small hoverdyne idling a few meters distant. "Have you been to Avalon before?"

"No. And I have to say that the tourist brochures made it seem a little less... dark." The road below them slipped past with nothing but the sound of the steady wind; reflective markers, hastily driven into the ground, were the only other indication of their speed. 

"Supposedly it's different in the summer. We're all new here, don't worry — they reactivated six companies last month, ours among 'em."

"Without a commanding officer?"

Lachance laughed. She was slight, and pale from the weeks without sun; her laugh was the only thing that gave her substance. "Actually you'll be our third."

In a month? That brought him up short. "Churn?"

"A little. It's also just that CODA is trying to figure out what to do, I imagine. They haven't had a whole lot of time to think about it."

Still. Between the haste of his reassignment and the decided paucity of information, Tindall was on edge. "I guess that makes sense. You're sure there's nothing you feel like telling me, lieutenant?"

Emily shook her head. "Nothing you wouldn't be better off finding out yourself, sir. You're the first person CODA has specifically recruited to lead the unit, so don't read too much into it. Anyway, we're almost to the fort..."

The same landing pad served Fort Fidchell and the arcology whose obsidian walls stretched, on the horizon, up to the endless night. The guard at the gatehouse waved them through without a second glance, and a few minutes later the hoverdyne braked to a graceful halt before the barracks that was to be his new home.

"The BOQ buildings are about a hundred meters that way, sir — we can go there now, or I believe most of the men should be assembled in the briefing room. We told them to wait for you."

"No sense in showing them any disrespect, then, right? Let's get this over with."

"Yes, sir." Emily powered down the hoverdyne, and Tindall stepped from it onto a cold gravel path.

The lights in front of the barracks building were bright, and when he opened the door it took several seconds for vision to adjust. He heard someone call the room to attention, and the rustle of men snapping upright. He made his way to a wooden podium that had seen better days, and turned to face them.

His vision had cleared enough to see the company, and his first words turned out to be a helpless oath — "the fuck?" — muttered too loudly to be truly under his breath. Before him stood just shy of a hundred figures — and most of them were not human. With muzzles, and tails, they looked monstrous — out of place in their uniforms; some terrifying facsimile of a human being. "At ease," he managed. Nothing you wouldn't be better off finding out yourself. He held an audience of dogs and cats and creatures he couldn't even identify.

"Captain Arnold Tindall, company commander," he heard Emily say — out in the real world, with its sudden, curious predicament. 

Arnie frowned heavily. The shock of seeing the group of creatures — moreaus, he'd heard them called, after the monsters in an old science-fiction novel — had not worn off. "Ah... good afternoon. As Lieutenant Lachance said, I'll be taking over command of this unit. I have to apologize; I'm still a bit... discombobulated. I've just come from a planet with a thirty-three hour day-night cycle... and an actual day, to boot." He was not certain that this had gracefully explained his outburst — but there was no undoing history, anyway. "I'll meet with most of you over the coming days, when I've had a little more coffee. Until then, I look forward to working with you — thank you for the welcome."

With a smile too forced to be genuine, Arnold stepped from the podium, and followed Emily's gesture to a long hallway that led into the bowels of the building. His office, a few doors down, was empty save for a heavy metal desk, a few chairs, and a bare lamp that cast harsh reflections on anyone present.

He sank into the chair, putting his head in his hands. "What in god's name?"

His voice had been muffled by his fingers, and Lachance looked at him questioningly. "Sir?" 

"Sorry," he said, not bothering to repeat himself. "I'm just... at a bit of a loss, that's all. I wasn't quite expecting that when the paperwork described the company as 'special.'" Someone was standing at the door; he stopped talking, and heard a solid knock. "Enter."

The newcomer was tall, with dark skin the color of coffee. His hand snapped up in a practiced, sharp salute. "Sir, First Sergeant Eisenberg reports."

"At ease." Tindall returned the salute, then folded his hands on his desk. "Can you close the door, please? Both of you, take a seat." He waited for Eisenberg to fold himself into the chair, and then splayed his fingers with a shake of his head. "I don't even know what question I want to ask, here."

"You're curious about what you've gotten yourself into," Emily suggested. "I'll let you explain it, Wayne."

When Tindall made no objection, he began: "You may have noticed that the Confederacy is hard at work losing a war with the Tripartite Kingdom. Fortunately one of our military planners had the keen insight that we had one advantage over the Chinese — our extensive use of non-human labor, which by some estimates makes up nearly twenty percent of our population."

"So they've decided to tap that source of labor?"

"Yes, sir."

Tindall pursed his lips and sighed. "That doesn't open up a can of worms, does it?"

"Not at all, sir," Eisenberg agreed drily. "Now, everyone in the company is free, after a fashion. They enlisted of their free will. CODA being CODA, most of them have been assigned menial tasks — cleaning heads, filing paperwork; things like that. All of them volunteered for this assignment when given the chance."

"Now, OTH soldiers are pretty new across the board. In the company, the officers and most of the NCOs are human. Turns out in all of CODA there's only two OTH officers — neither of them were interested in this."

"OTH?"

"Other-Than-Human. You hear them called moreaus or twenty-one-thirties after the executive order that authorized their enlistment. I guess OTH is the preferred official term. We use 'moreau,' too."

"Among other things," Eisenberg added. "Depending on who's talking."

"What's the overall state of the company?" Eisenberg and Lachance exchanged glances, and neither of them answered him for a good few seconds. "You can speak your mind. In fact, considering your silence, I'd really rather you did."

"There are some questions surrounding our ability to perform," the lieutenant allowed. "Our track record is... let's charitably call it 'poor.'"

Icing on the cake. Tindall nodded: "What's the problem?"

"I wouldn't blame the 2130s, sir," Eisenberg said. "They're very green. Most of them have never seen combat — none of them have served in a line unit. They're... remarkably eager, and remarkably adaptable. Most of them are well-educated; smart, intuitive, natural problem-solvers."

Arnold had never really worked with an animal before; he took the assessment in stride. "There's a 'but' in here somewhere, it sounds like."

"Our lieutenants are serviceable. In my opinion Lieutenant Tam and Lieutenant Bishop are above-average; the other two wouldn't turn heads, but they're competent. The NCOs, on the other hand, are a waste. Insolent, inefficient, incompetent — we've got the makings of an unsentenced penal colony out there, sir, no offense."

Tindall shrugged. "Bad apples?" 

"Some of them shouldn't be in the army. Most of the rest don't want to be here, but — again, no offense, sir — if that's the way it is you shouldn't even pretend, in my book: get the hell out. They figure this whole experiment'll blow over, so they're treading water. We get to sit and watch. They don't respect their men, and they don't deserve any respect in answer. You want my opinion, sir, it's a fucking mess."

"Lieutenant?"

Emily raised her hand, making a weak see-sawing gesture. "It's about like that, sir, yes. We've asked for help, but no one seems interested. We've burned through two commanders already who couldn't whip them into shape — but as First Sergeant Eisenberg hinted, they weren't all that committed, either."

"And you two? You are committed?"

Again they looked at each other. Eisenberg was the first to speak. "I'm in this company for the long haul, sir. Been working my way up for the last twelve years. We got it bad in the Battle of Athena Heights, eight months ago — whole battalion got pulled. From this company, me and six others were the only ones who stayed on. Four of 'em are left — Lieutenant Tam, the medics, and one of the guys in the logistics section. Now, me, I don't know anything about you, sir — but I think with the right leader, this could be one of the best companies in the army. It's all up to what kind of person you are, and why you're here."

"They wanted to get rid of me," Tindall grinned darkly. "Pissed off the wrong people."

"Sir?"

"I was headed in your direction. After Yankee Five-Five rotated out of Jefferson, 12th Armored came into mop up. Light counter-insurgency and garrison duties, mostly, but we did see some action. Battle of Tubman Bridge, Third and Fourth Lincoln City, Battle of Hario Farm."

"Hario Farm was supposed to be rough."

"It was. I was a section leader, then. We got off okay — but afterwards I made the mistake of applying for OCS with a couple of other guys from the company. Worked as XO for a company in a security battalion — easy digs; people wound up there to pass their time and make some ends shaking down through-traffic. My captain put in a lot of legwork to hit up a drug smuggling operation — when it went down, the colonel tried to throw him under the bus and take credit. I stood up for him. Captain Paxi got recognition from the Board. Me, I got a promotion and my very own company."

"And here you are?"

"Yeah. That was yesterday. I've got no quarrel with the fuzzies, strictly speaking, so I guess if you think this can be salvaged we ought to try. What about you, lieutenant? You in?"

"This is my first posting — I was ROTC, sir, studying veterinary medicine. I don't know any better."

Tindall laughed. "Right. Okay. First Sergeant Eisenberg, I'd like you to ready a simulated op. Is six hours enough time? Good. Lieutenant Lachance and I will play OPFOR — I want you to take command of the company. Let's see what we've got — you do run sims, right?"

"Twice a week, sir."

"Atchafalaya?"

"A few times, yes."

"How do they respond to Hope's Gambit?"

Eisenberg shook his head. "Lambs to the slaughter, every damned time. Same with the Blue Sky Gambit in the Black Hills map. It's classic things they should've been taught and we've having to beat into 'em."

"Have you run Camptown Beach yet?"

"No, sir."

"Alright. Let's do that, then. I'll take defense."

*

Six hours gave him enough time to introduce himself to the battalion commander and to settle the few possessions he'd brought with him into his apartment in the BOQ. Then he returned to the barracks, finding his way to the simulation room, well below ground. Lieutenant Lachance was waiting, in a tiny room that had been made to look like the inside of the command vehicle. 

Modern combat was, in any case, very nearly an abstraction even outside the simulators. The Denel command vehicle had no windows to speak of anyway. In real life it was a squat, heavily armored quadruped; the simulation version had exactly the same plethora of holographic screens and radios crammed into the tight quarters. 

The rest of the company had strapped into similar contraptions intended to replicate their own armored units. The room was densely packed; none of the other soldiers were more than fifty meters away. In the isolation of the simulator, though, none of that could be perceived. 

"Sixty seconds to start, sir."

Their holographic displays were alive with topographical maps and little indicators that marked the position of the units under their command — all of these were virtual, controlled either by artificial intelligence or by other soldiers volunteering their time, somewhere in the Confederacy's sprawling domain. "Why don't you take the special weapons platoon and the air cover, and I'll handle the other three?"

"Understood, sir."

When the op started, they were blind. Camptown Beach was a randomly generated map — fractal patterns created a glacial coast, boulder-strewn and gently sloping, with winding tracks that led up to their stronghold. Trees and tall sedges hid the beach from view. According to the rules of the game, Eisenberg could position his units to have "dropped" anywhere onto the beach; he had ninety minutes to capture a concrete fortress that commanded a view of the surf.

"The most obvious route would seem to be along the trail that runs east-west to hill 30," Lieutenant Lachance said, tagging it for his review.

"Is that what you'd do, if you were them?"

She frowned, studying the topographical map. Her long white fingers worked through the hologram, spinning it a few times. "No, sir. If I were them, I would've dropped on the other side of that ridge, and I'd make my way up the escarpment to... here, or maybe here?" She indicated the sharp swells of two of the taller hills.

For all that she'd demurred earlier, Lachance had a good intuition. He ordered one of his platoons to cover the approach; then they waited for any hint of movement or activity. "Second Platoon RSA has a possible contact," he said quietly. The company's Reconnaissance and Signals Analysis specialist was reporting that he might've seen something, just the briefest flicker of radiation tipping them off to the presence of the enemy.

"How do I see that?"

He leaned over, pointing to the switches before her. "Set one of your screens from SSR to MSI mode, and then tap OSB 16 to enter the input options..."

"Then I just input the UDL code for that unit?" She was already starting to enter the data. 

"Yep. You're a natural." The Uniform Data Link that permitted information sharing across units of the Colonial Defense Authority always worked better in simulations than in the field — and this time it worked perfectly. "You think they could be trying to come around that ridge?"

"Maybe. I'll bring one of the Kestrels down to take a look, okay?" Tindall watched observantly, but she didn't need any further assistance to give orders to the F/A-206, nor to watch its readouts spill in bright symbols over their command holograms. "Yeah. From these signals I make them in platoon strength."

"Just probing, then. Well, let's give 'em something. Have the mortar section load up with Mark 51s with narrow dispersion. I'll UDL coordinates to you in about five minutes." Tindall ordered the commander of Second Platoon to dispatch a pair of tanks in the direction their enemy was lurking. Sure enough, they took the bait, and when he ordered the tanks to withdraw the enemy platoon followed, into a narrowing track that led up the hill. "That should've been obvious," he muttered under his breath. "Alright. Your target is UDL point Bravo Six Alpha. Hit 'em with the mortars. Four rounds, then scoot."

"Time?"

"RFN, lieutenant." He followed the fire mission on his screen intently, counting down the time before the first rounds were due to impact. It hit zero — of course, in the cocoon of their command vehicle there was no sound, no indication that anything had happened at all.

"My Kestrel is picking up lots of secondaries, sir. It's a little hard to see exactly what's going on. Hold on — the fire mission is now complete." At that point, the two mortars had each fired four rounds, and each Mk 51 round held six guided anti-armor penetrators. Forty-eight of the shaped charges had slammed into the area; it came as no surprise when his platoon, also, found nothing left alive. 

This left three of the enemy platoons unaccounted for, and he hoped that Eisenberg would not be quite so reckless with them. Another few minutes passed with no sign at all — their opponent now had only an hour to successfully attack them. 

Lieutenant Lachance had positioned her heavy weapons platoon just off one of the more logical axes of approach towards the fortress that was their enemy's objective. Tindall was tired of waiting, and saw an opportunity: "I've got possible, very faint contacts. I want mortar fire... let's see. I'm creating UDL markpoints Bravo Six Bravo and Bravo Six Charlie. Hit between those with high explosive."

"How many rounds?"

"Continuous fire, please."

Lachance nodded, sliding her fingers through the command hologram to give the orders. "It'll take me some time to displace between salvos, sir. So if you have particular areas of focus on that firing line..."

"Don't move the guns. Keep 'em right where they are."

She turned, brow furrowing. "We'll be inviting counterbattery fire."

"They don't have artillery," he reminded her. "They'll have to attack directly, once they know where your guns are. I'm moving some tanks to cover you, don't worry." Tindall shifted a full platoon to protect Lachance's heavy weapons, then moved his two remaining units closer — waiting.

There were only two real approaches to the fortress. One of them was the broad, sandy track they'd tried earlier — but this would put them at the mercy of the mortars, and there was precious little room for cover. The other, more logical approach involved attacking Lachance's heavy weapons platoon directly. In close combat, they would be no match for Eisenberg's assault vehicles, and Tindall hoped Eisenberg would pounce.

He supposed that there were other tactics — more radical paths, winding through the cliffs and boulders of the glacial beach. But if Eisenberg didn't feel that he could rely on this men, Tindall felt relatively confident that his opponent would stick to the orthodox. He reached for his coffee flask, and took a contemplative drink. 

Fifteen minutes later, though, when Lachance reported her supplies of high explosive rounds were running low, Tindall was beginning to wonder if perhaps the whole assault had been cancelled. He was just about to reposition his men when the platoon he'd placed in a defensive posture reported that they were in contact with enemy armored units. Moments later, Lachance announced the same:

"I've got at least a dozen of them, sir. We're taking heavy incoming fire."

"Hold your position," he ordered sternly. Eyes narrowing, he stared into the hologram, as the signals resolved into a clearer and clearer picture. "That's at least two platoons there. You have any anti-armor rounds left?"

"Yes, sir, but they're inside my minimum engagement range. I don't think your guys are going to be able to hold them."

No, probably not. But then, they didn't need to hold out indefinitely — just long enough for his reserve units, hidden a hundred meters off the track, to target their enemy's flank. He gave the order for one platoon to open fire and was immediately rewarded with the blossoming signals of secondary explosions.

Eisenberg's assault wavered for a moment, caught between two fronts. Tindall ordered his remaining tanks to engage, watching as the attack shattered completely. A handful of Eisenberg's men managed to break through the line, engaging Lachance's heavy weapons platoon directly — but they had no support, and as the remainder of their opponent's badly savaged assault force started to withdraw the few survivors became easy targets. 

His radio clicked on: "Captain Tindall?"

"Speaking."

"This is the dread pirate Eisenberg. I'd like to discuss terms of my surrender."

*

Chanatja snarled fiercely, slamming a white-furred fist against his console as the simulator powered down. "Damn it! We almost had them."

"It's always 'almost,' isn't it?" Ajay Six-Five muttered. The compact leopard had his headset off and was leaning back in his chair, staring up at the blank monitor where the canopy glass should've been. "Anyway, a round has make a destruction of our drivetrain."

Chanatja was not to be consoled. "I'm not blaming you, sergeant," he growled. Really, he was just frustrated — they had been one of the units to have made it past the guarding tanks, and had been in a position to inflict real damage on the defenders. Except... "More the fucking humans who couldn't be bothered to support us once they committed to the attack."

Staff Sergeant Wilson was the human who had, in point of fact, ordered his section forward in the first place. But he seemed to have done so on his own initiative, and no other assaulters had been forthcoming. The white shepherd knew, too, that Sergeant Wilson would be busy cursing them just as strongly.

"I don't know why we attack," Ajay shrugged. "It was an obvious trap."

Of course it had been; they had known that at the time. What sort of idiot would leave a mortar section out to be mauled by the heavy Rooijakkals assault vehicles? Their sporadic barrages hadn't even been hitting anything. Ajay Six-Five knew that. Chanatja knew that. Quiet little Astra, the assistant gunner who sat on the other side of the Rooijakkals from Chanatja, probably knew it too — but she limited herself only to an aggravated sigh. 

"Did you tell them that?" Chanatja asked.

"I say it to Wilson, yes. He did not make any answers. I guess why should we be allowed to say anything anyway, mm? Quiet like mice, we are..." He leaned over to look down at Astra. "Yes?"

Irritated, she bared her teeth. "Muskrat," she reminded the leopard. "We're not mice." Her protests to the contrary, she looked nothing so much as a fat little hamster; A57R's appearance in the unit had taken them all a bit by surprise. She was a KMT refugee from a coastal mining operation, young and not yet fully hardened to the reality of their existence.

Ajay seemed to be too bored to continue the jibe; he settled back in his seat, disappearing from view. Even Chanatja's anger was ebbing into the smoldering frustration that never seemed to be completely resolved. The debrief would be another cause for it; he had no doubt that the weaknesses of the non-human soldiers would be faulted — as usual — for the ineffectiveness of their unit as a whole.

It was just like it had been as a civilian, really. Any time they'd missed a deadline, any time they'd lost a contract, he and the other moreaus had endured the venom of their managers. Harsh words, mostly; meals withheld, or the air conditioning turned off in their corporate barracks. They were convenient targets, and easy to blame. And because the company had them all in the harness, there was no escape.

It took money to buy out a contract, money that none of them had. Escape meant finding a patron — nearly always a criminal enterprise, a gang looking for expendable labor and offering only the promise of freedom, dangled just out of reach. That had been his out — a member of the Kaliforniyskaya bratsva, kindly 'lending' Chanatja the money to buy his own liberty-deed. There had been others there, other moreaus — Yashpal, an affable drunk who was perpetually 'one more mission' from paying off his debts, and JB Blish, and Devira, the soft-spoken husky he had fallen for early.

He was the only one to have gotten away, so far as he knew. And he had only escaped physically. On some quiet nights he still woke up with a start, memories of the Brotherhood filling his thoughts. It was all too easy to close his eyes and remember those frantic courier assignments, sneaking drugs or contraband past security checkpoints to waiting buyers in 'civilized' zones. The adrenaline, the fear so thick he could taste it on his tongue.

The bruising pounding of fists, driving the wind from him as punishment moved from the company's shouted cursing to the mafia's harsh blows. The sound of Devira's faint whimpers as she tried to speak; the way her body had shuddered that final time in his arms as the life left her. The ugly look on Sidor Abdulov's face, and the ease with which he'd admitted beating the husky in punishment for a missed package dropoff. The heft of the knife in his clenching paw, and the shouting tumult of struggle, and the feeling of his fur stiff with drying, tacky blood.

"I was staying with an acquaintance," he'd told the recruiter. "But he passed away. I'm looking for a new life now."

And it was better, marginally. But humans were bastards, hateful and closed-minded and vicious. It was only amongst his own kind that he felt safe. At first just the other GeneMark lines; then the corporate propaganda began to lose its influence, and he met civilian friends from the other genetics companies. They were all in it together, after all — and when he'd seen the posting for an all-moreau unit Chanatja had applied immediately, before he even saw what it was.

The thought of combat didn't bother him, not as long as he had his kin standing with him. He remembered the awe he'd felt the first time he'd seen the tank up close. The Denel Rooijakkals was a bipedal heavy tank, with a body shaped like a triangle. Ajay sat in an elevated cockpit at the front; the two gunners were lower, at the base of the wedge. Triangles, Chanatja had heard, were the strongest shapes, and the shepherd thought that their mech was strong indeed — each of the crew fully dedicated to supporting the two others. 

A Rooijakkals section, too, was a triangle — one command mech and two followers. Here, though, when the humans got involved, everything broke down. Here the stubborn incompetence of the platoon's section leaders hobbled them, pulling the triangle apart until its legs hung limply, like flags in a still wind. This the moreaus could do nothing about, and Chanatja was tired of it.

As expected, Sergeant Wilson's explanation for the collapse of their attack rested on the various flaws of those who reported to him. Chanatja became a "sub-proficient" gunner who "couldn't hit the ground from inside a cave." Ajay's skilled piloting of the ninety-ton walker was brushed off. And all the while their new commander, Captain Tindall, listened and said nothing.

He remained impassive at the after-action for the next simulation, too, and the one after that. Then he started to withdraw, and Chanatja decided that he was more of the same — a human impressed to lead these misfits against his will, and one who had decided the responsibility was insufficiently grave. Yet another in a string of disappointments. 

Ajay was right. It was always 'almost.'

*

The canine could not have known it, but Tindall was if anything even more frustrated. "Are they getting better, at least? They almost seem to be getting worse."

"That's a matter of opinion."

"We've been training for six weeks, Wayne." Arnold sighed, running his fingers through hair that he thought was precipitously thinning. "How did Second Platoon's live op go?" They were trying to get the men accustomed to real machines, instead of simulators — the computer screens could only go so far. 

"Mixed, sir. They identified, obtained firing solutions for, and successfully prosecuted an attack. This was accomplished with remarkable aplomb. On the other hand, it was directed at a flock of sheep."

Arnold blinked. "What? There aren't any sheep in the exercise area."

"That's true. But there are rangelands just outside the borders, and they got off-course."

He groaned. "Were there any fatalities?"

"Eighteen ewes. At least, that's what the rancher claims. They were engaged at relatively long range with high-explosive rockets and linear cannon, so... there wasn't a whole lot of evidence, to be honest. Our insurance covers it, at least."

The hapless Tindall frowned, covering his face with his hands. "Make sure they're signed up for orientation training," he sighed. To be honest, he was not entirely certain that it would help — their evaluations were consistently dismal, and nothing from subtle coaching to outright threats seemed able to knock the company into shape. 

The most severe malcontents were waiting, he thought, for him to give up and adopt the same apathy as they felt. As long as the company was incapable of performing, it would not be sent to the front. They could continue to earn credits for their service without having to actually do anything. 

But he could not get rid of them. He had tried, and the battalion XO had curtly told him that there were no available replacements. He was to make do with what he had, even if this was plainly an impossibility. "I guess I always knew the army had dregs," Arnold sighed.

Eisenberg shook his head. "They poured the dregs into a whole new barrel an' gave us the bottom of that."

"Why are you still here, Wayne?"

"Because I'm a warrior." And indeed, Wayne Eisenberg looked like the hero of some particularly martial religion's founding myth — tall, muscular, with piercing eyes. He needed only a sword, or perhaps war paint, to complete the effect. But now the stern man flashed a grin. "And you are too. And for the moment, I still trust you're doing what you can to save us. When I change my mind, then maybe..."

"What's in your canteen?" When Eisenberg lifted an eyebrow curiously, he continued: "I'm conducting a random inspection."

"Water, of course, sir. With some additives for preservation and flavor."

"What if I asked because I wanted to add something to my coffee?"

Eisenberg tossed the canteen over. "Neue Tiroler whiskey from my family's distillery."

"You're from New Tyrol?" 

He nodded. "Yep. Sixth generation. Eisenbergs have owned the distillery for almost a century. It's pretty good, if you want to try some — being in the family has its advantages. That's twenty years old, there."

Emily coughed. "If we're done here, I do have one more order of business."

"What's up?"

She pulled a computer from her pocket and unrolled it. "This is a formal letter of complaint from Specialist Chanatja. He's a Jackal gunner in Third Platoon."

"What does it say?"

Emily handed the computer over. "Officially it's a scathing indictment of his section leader, Staff Sergeant James Wilson. He's clearly upset at... well, others, too. Pretty much everyone, by implication. He says that they are creating a toxic environment, and his attempts to resolve this through his commander have been unsatisfactory."

The letter appeared to run to several hundred words; he paged through it with a deepening frown. "'The persistent use of racial epithets undermines unit cohesion.' No shit? '... Cannot help the feeling that, by inaction, commanders are complicit in systematically degrading and demeaning our status and, by extension, hampering our ability to create and maintain an effective fighting force.' Jesus, but he does know how to say the right things. You know this guy, Wayne?"

Shaking his head, Eisenberg glanced upward in thought. "Not really. He's a white wolf thing, I think. Data dog, worked for a telecom company in the Valley before he enlisted."

Tindall nodded distantly, still reading. "'Morale suffers heavily. If we cannot trust that we are supported by our commanders, I fear that they cannot trust that we will support them.' Fuck. Is this guy a troublemaker?"

"No more than any of them, really," Emily said softly. "There's a list of specific incidents appended to the letter."

"Is he right?" Tindall changed tack.

Sergeant Eisenberg was the first to speak, his voice a disgusted grunt. "Pretty much."

"Son of a bitch." His sigh carried a mix of dejection and anger. His first command was failing utterly to live up to the grandiose expectations he'd nurtured in daydreams. But then, wasn't that his responsibility to fix? "You got any more of that, Wayne?" he finally asked, pointing to the canteen. "An unopened bottle somewhere?"

"I'm not sure we need to resort to drink quite yet..."

"Do you?"

Eisenberg pursed his lips. "No. Not of this. Got a bottle of some older stuff, I guess. That's unopened — I was kind of saving it for the right time."

"Can I have it?"

*

Drizzle lent a chilly commentary to the grey late morning; he walked briskly, but the cold had soaked into his fingers by the time he reached the brown-bricked headquarters building that hulked imposingly next to the parade ground. Tindall considered his words; his plan of attack.

"Captain Hanay?"

Hanay looked up from his computer. "Morning, Lieut — Captain — Tindall. What can I do for you?"

"I need help."

"With?" The other man, whose job it was to manage the headquarters, was still preoccupied with his paperwork.

"I want a meeting with battalion and brigade. As soon as possible."

Rolling his eyes, Hanay leaned back in his chair. "Yeah? I want a transfer to the equator and a girlfriend, as soon as possible." He scoffed, waving his hand dismissively. "Jesus, Arnie, go away."

Tindall clicked his briefcase open, removing the bottle of whiskey Eisenberg had given him and setting it on Hanay's desk. "I just need fifteen minutes, Pete."

"I don't drink. You know that." Hanay was religious — a Mormon, if Tindall recalled correctly from their time together in the 12th Armored.

"You don't barter? Look up how much a bottle of thirty-year single-malt Weidenthal is worth."

Hanay narrowed his eyes, working at his computer for a few seconds. Then he glanced up to Tindall. "If I did this, it's just because I like you, you know. Bribery has nothing to do with it. In fact, it's a very questionable —"

"Spare me the chickenshit, Pete. Can you do it?"

The older man snorted. "Of course. They're in a staff meeting right now. It's over in half an hour. I can get you fifteen minutes then, no problem, if you're willing to wait."

He was.

On the inside, the headquarters building was done in the Fiberian style, with dark wood paneling beneath paintings that depicted peaceful old-world forests. The cornice, at least, was engraved with illustrations of the 49th Armored's exploits — their evolution from tanks to hovercraft to the heavy bipedal walkers the unit used now. Very tasteful, he thought. 

The door to the meeting room opened, and a handful of men departed. The room was still occupied; he took a deep breath, knocking once on the oak door. The sound of his knuckles was a sharp, percussive gavel falling.

"Enter."

There were three of them, the lowest-ranked a major he recognized as the battalion XO, Aapo Ketterer. The man indicated a chair on the far side of the conference table, and Tindall took a careful seat. "Captain Tindall, this is Colonel Lucy Moulden, 2nd Battalion, and Colonel Zhen Yao, 49th Armored." Ketterer turned to the pair, and then gestured towards Tindall. "Captain Hanay informed me by text we have business to discuss with Mr. Tindall."

Zhen Yao, a regal-looking woman with sharp green eyes, nodded slowly. "Go on..."

Tindall coughed. "I'm the captain of, ah, Alpha Company, in the 2nd. It's a special company, created when the rest of the unit was reactivated."

Zhen looked to Moulden with a curious expression, and the other woman nodded. "It's a 2130 company. Part of an experiment from the Board — them and, ah, a company in the 9th Infantry, I believe."

"Ah, yes, that one. How is your unit doing, captain?"

"The full details are in the reports I've submitted at regular intervals to Colonel Moulden. We're performing well below average in every category except resource efficiency. The medical and logistics sections have posted average grades. That's it. The lieutenant cadre is fresh out of school and the 2130s themselves are mostly novices. We need strong support from the NCO level as middle management — they're the only ones with experience. They're just not measuring up."

"The captain's unit is new, it's true," Moulden explained. "There aren't many OTH soldiers with command experience, so we've had to take human veterans to fill the section leader and platoon sergeant positions. It was to be expected, ma'am."

Zhen waved her hand lightly, fingers splayed. "Then we're making the best of a bad situation, Captain Tindall. Surely it's your responsibility to train them and help them overcome any deficiencies. I don't see why you need to trouble us with that, unless you have doubts about your own abilities..."

Arnold bristled as the dismissiveness of the suggestion. "Permission to speak freely?"

"Go ahead, captain."

"Personal development requires something to develop from. These men are humps. They're not even worthless, they're worse than that — they're undermining my and my staff's ability to operate. It's not deliberate sabotage; I'm not calling them criminals. But I can't ship this company with these men."

Major Ketterer was a massive bear of a man; his shrug was characteristically broad. "What would you like us to do about it?"

"I need open reqs for new NCOs and the permission to hire them. Or I need new men — six or eight, E6s and E7s. I'd settle for four really good ones; hope they could set a good example."

"CODA's stretched very thin, captain," Zhen reminded him sharply. "That's a hell of a request. We're having a hard enough time supporting combat operations with proven units, let alone this little experiment."

So there it was. Somebody on the Board had finally realized that, no matter how sophisticated their operations became, there would always be a need for cannon fodder. And in that case, why bother at all? Which meant that the unit was stillborn, which meant his career was at a dead-end, which meant... well, he wasn't sure. But then, if that was the case, then what was the point in taking it lying down?

"You've got the pull to get four decent E6s and a sergeant first class or two. It's not a question of being stretched thin, it's a question of having the will. Now, I need this."

Colonel Yao rapped her fingers slowly on the desk. Her nails were short, but neatly manicured, as well-kept as the rest of her. "I'll see if anyone's willing," she said evenly. "Maybe when the next hiring season opens in four months."

"Due respect, ma'am, that's not good enough."

"Excuse me?" Her voice was sharp, a little of her imperial pose slipping.

Tindall was beyond concern. "Whether you think this 'little experiment' is a good idea or not, me and my men are going to ship out with the rest of the brigade, and that's going to happen before open season. Now, maybe it was CODA's intent to recruit a company of bullet sponges. Or to have someone to guard your rear, or cook meals for you, or dig trenches for the real soldiers. Fine; that's on them — or you. But look at it this way: unless you can guarantee that my company will never see combat, will never be put in a position where the lives of the soldiers you care about are in jeopardy — will never be given a mission-critical assignment... unless you can guarantee that, it's your responsibility, and Colonel Moulden's responsibility, to make sure I have tools I can fight with. I'll carry what I've got as far as I can, ma'am, but I'll just remind you that a chain is only as strong as its weakest link. Now, I know damned well we're that link, and if CODA's as fucked as you say we're going to get tested under fire. Let's fix this problem now, not then." 

When he finished, his face darkened with latent anger, he was out of breath. He half expected to be thrown from the room; instead, Zhen chuckled, and turned to Lucy Moulden. "'Permission to speak freely?' is such a loaded question."

"Yes, ma'am," the younger woman agreed.

"Do you have men for Captain Tindall?"

Moulden frowned. "Do we, Kala?"

Major Ketterer shook his head. "No, ma'am. I've already told him that. We've had a dozen people buy out their contracts in the last month or so — we've got open reqs but nothing to fill 'em with, let alone this mess."

Zhen nodded slowly, brow knitted thoughtfully. "In the short term, I suppose we could get some from the 121st. They're being cannibalized, and General de Boon owes me." She folded her hands, musing on the notion. "Alright. Captain, you'll get your men. But I want you to know something."

He stiffened up, reflexively, and nodded crisply to the colonel as he faced her. "Ma'am?"

"What you've done, Captain Tindall, is gambled. Now I'm a reasonable person — I can't have a problem with you speaking your mind, and maybe you do deserve to make a demand or two. But now that you've made it, captain, you sure as hell better deliver. Do you understand me?"

He swallowed, and nodded again. "Yes, ma'am."

"You're dismissed."

Tindall stood, saluted smartly, turned on his heel and made his way from the room as smoothly as he could. It was not until he'd left the building, facing the cold light of the weak noon sun, that his nerves hit him. He returned to his quarters, and sat under the hot water of the shower until he could breathe again.

*

Sergeant Benjamin still could not quite believe the speed with which CODA had processed her transfer request. It had only taken a few weeks, and then she was bidding farewell to Juan Avalos and the other men and women of the logistics unit.

It was mid-morning, but there was no direct shuttle running from the landing field to Fort Fidchell; she had to hail a cab. The driver looked at her curiously, but when she asked him to take her to the Fort he seemed to understand. That was a slightly cheering thought.

Thirty minutes of careful wandering brought her to the door of the barracks building. Just inside, she found more moreaus than she'd seen in years — a couple dozen, hanging out in the commons area, chatting or reading quietly. A few waved to her, and she waved back, feeling her spirits starting to lift after the long, uncomfortable transport ride. 

The door marked "Executive Officer" was open; she knocked, and a curt voice bid her enter. This was it: she stepped inside, saluting the slight, waifish human woman behind the desk. "Sir! Sergeant Benjamin, reporting for duty."

"At ease." Lieutenant Lachance, as her nametag marked her, reached across the desk to take the computer Corinna offered. "New transfer?"

"Yes, sir."

Lachance tilted her head a little, swiping her fingers over the computer. Finally she set it down, pulling open a filing cabinet and retrieving another computer from it. Her pale brow furrowed; she went back to Corinna's file, examining it closely.

"Is there a problem?"

"Yeah," Lachance said. She spun the computer she'd fetched from the cabinet, turning it so Corinna could read the tiny print. "You're not one of us."

Corinna blinked, and the thylacine turned slowly. The blinds were open, and through the office windows she could see into the commons area. Three moreaus were crouched around a low table, peering at a board game. A snowy, wolfish-looking dog was engaged in a spirited game of table tennis with a golden-colored leopard. The view was blocked, briefly, by a slender feline walking past with his blunt-muzzled companion; both carried trays from the canteen. She turned back to Lachance. "Really..."

The lieutenant sighed. "Good point, I guess. Hold on." She stabbed a button on her desk, and Corinna heard a microphone click on. "Captain Tindall?"

"— Sunny side of the street," a man was singing brightly. "Yes, lieutenant?"

"We have a new transfer, sir."

"Do they shed?"

Lachance lifted an eyebrow, and muted the intercom. "Do you shed, sergeant?"

"Not really. I'm hypoallergenic," the thylacine answered, her voice dry.

"She says she's hypoallergenic, sir."

"Jesus aitch," the man on the other end drawled — but his voice did not sound particularly irritated. "Be down in a minute."

Arnold Tindall was a lanky man with dusky brown hair kept from unruliness only by its short cut. His mustache was short, and it accented a boyish grin. He looked over Corinna from her feet all the way to her short ears, and then turned to Lachance. The woman shrugged. "Got valid transfer orders, captain."

He took them from the lieutenant, scanning them and clicking his tongue. "'Bout the same time as we put for our new guys. Something must've gotten lost in the paperwork, I suppose — nobody bothered to tell us. Why are you here, sergeant?"

Corinna twisted about to face him. "The army, sir, or this unit?"

"I meant the latter, but I guess the whole kaboodle's fine."

"My last contract ended, and, ah, we're not really in high demand, you know? So it was digger or, ah, ward of the state and — well, I flipped a coin and here I am. As for your unit, I heard CODA was looking for morries interested in a combat role. That's me twice over, sir."

"What were you doing before?"

"Depends on who you ask. If you ask CODA, they told me I was a, ah... Quote: a logistics specialist, using my expert knowledge and training in supply line maintenance to effectively enhance the operational readiness of —"

Tindall waved his hand to stop her. "You were a truck driver."

"Yes, sir. Drove Tarvies out of Fort Garrison. I also did some light maintenance, mostly on the electronics."

He nodded, and set her file down. "But you were a leader there. Of sorts."

"I had four men under me at Garrison. Two drivers, two assistant drivers."

"How much combat experience?"

Corinna flattened her ears, trying to think of the right gloss. "Ah. Well, strictly speaking, uh, none."

"Less strictly speaking?"

She coughed. "Also none."

Tindall stroked his chin thoughtfully. "I see. But you want to change that."

"Yes, sir. Way I see it, sir, I'm a predator." And she opened her jaws wide, baring sharp, straight teeth. Tindall glanced to Lachance from the corner of his eye, and she snapped her muzzle closed again.

"So it would seem..." He trailed off, looking at her closed snout, and then whistled softly before turning to the lieutenant. "Alright, lieutenant. Pull Horse, and give the new guy the first section in Ellie's platoon."

Lachance started tapping on her computer. "Done. What do you want me to do with Grady?"

"Put the word out on division internal comms that we're looking to trade."

"Trade what?"

Tindall snorted with plainly evident disgust: "Baubles and trinkets? He ain't exactly Manhattan Island, Emily. Hell, I could write the ad for you, if you want. 'Free to good home: insolent staff sergeant with a severe competence deficiency and a face only a mother could refuse to take the blame for.' Done; put it on the net."

"I may have to clean that up a bit, sir."

"Maybe," he agreed. "Either way: welcome aboard, sergeant. Have Lieutenant Lachance get you signed up for Basic Armor Employment Tactics. It's a four-day intensive course; you'll need it. Anything else?" She shook her head, and stood back at attention as the captain nodded to the two and left.

"Is he always in such a good mood, sir?"

Lachance chuckled, and looked up from her computer to follow Tindall's disappearing silhouette. "Not always, but today was a good day for us. Let's just say Horseface Grady isn't the only bit of deadwood we managed to clear out. You're coming into the unit at a good time, Sergeant Benjamin."

"That's good to know." She could only imagine — the contempt for the staff sergeant had been clear from both of the officers. "When do they offer Basic Armor Employment Tactics?"

"They start a new one everyday — Fort Fidchell's a major armored post for CODA and AAI. Our 4th Heavy Division is the big dog here, but the 76th and 202nd Armored Cav are also resident. This little corner in the annex where the 49th lives is just a small part of the fort. Fidchell's also the training ground on the other side, and the main base beyond it."

"Impressive."

"Ah, I guess. Me, I'll be glad to get somewhere equatorial." Lachance tapped her computer decisively, followed it up with a tap to Corinna's, and then handed the thin device back. "Take room 32C — there'll be a bed free there. It's co-ed, but, you know. Just clean up after yourselves. Ah... Basic Armor starts at 0900 tomorrow in the Guiderian Center, and if you're new to Avalon remind your body it's a 22-hour day here. Let me know if you have any other questions, alright?"

"Yes, sir."

"Enjoy your stay, sergeant."

*

Basic Armor Employment Tactics was a permanent fixture of the base — housed in a low slate building in the main compound. A weathered sign out front showed a two-legged Rooijakkals 35, the early predecessor of the 55i that now equipped the company. The mech, done in cartoon style, had its big linear cannons crossed like muscled arms, and leaned against a stop sign shot through with holes. 

"So," a speech bubble asked. "You want to learn BAET?" Someone had crossed out 'learn' and scrawled 'master' in its place.

Corinna was the only moreau in the class of nine new sergeants, but after the curious looks had died down the rest seemed more than content to simply ignore her. Their lecturer, an intense major, walked through nearly half a millennium of armored tactics in the first hour. He paused in his recitation only to remind them at intervals that, if they failed to commit it all to memory, they would be cut down by vicious foes in a matter of seconds.

If the dropship-bound espatier were the sharp and fragile tip of CODA's spear, combat walkers like the Denel Rooijakkals were its heavily mailed fist. Fast, powerful, and agile, they could punch a hole in the enemy's line wide enough for the mechanized infantry to advance before anyone could respond.

"In 2397, during the Utashinai Campaign, elements of our 4th Heavy Division advanced three hundred kilometers in less than four hours, capturing the zaibatsu's primary supply depot and forcing the capitulation of over eight thousand enemy infantry. That is the lesson of mechanized armor: speed kills. Sergeant Baranov."

Staff Sergeant Paramon Baranov stood. "Sir — due respect, that was almost a century ago. What's the point of mechs now, when you can just call in air support or launch an attack from orbit?"

"Have you ever tried rounding up prisoners or setting up a forward operating base from two hundred kilometers up?" There were a few quiet chuckles from the room. "But it comes down to this: an orbiting starship circles the planet in around a hundred minutes. It's over your area of operations for a matter of seconds. You have time to get one salvo — every hour and a half. Then you're on your own again."

"What about artillery corvettes?"

"What about them? A Farragut-class corvette has enough munitions for forty-six minutes of sustained fire. It's a lot, sergeant — but it's very expensive to put things in orbit, and it's more expensive to keep them there. We need armored mobility on the surface to accomplish any serious task. Combat is not about wanton destruction. It's about calculated measures to achieve a narrow operational aim. Nine times out of ten, a strategic objective will involve boots on the ground. Now, I'm not claiming its not dangerous — but it's dangerous for the other guy, too. You asked about air support?"

"Yes, sir."

The major had been presenting from a slide show; now he stopped, and called up a rotating hologram of a sharp, mean-looking craft. "This is a Kawasaki-Shenyang J-254C 'Saker,' the primary spaceborne close air support asset of the Kingdom. They give them out as door prizes to their zaibatsus. It has four cannon and can carry six thousand kilograms of ordnance. Here it is employed as a single unit against a company of our mechs."

He pointed his remote to the display and pressed a button; the Saker banked heavily, then swept down in an attack pose. Fire leapt from under its stubby raked wings with the launch of a rocket barrage. The camera lingered on its victims, an armored column reduced to smoking rubble. Even in hologram form, it had a pronounced effect; the students looked at each other nervously.

"But now, watch this." The major tapped a few more buttons and the review returned to a spinning profile view of the craft — now rendered completely grey, with no markings. "Here's a schematic of the aircraft demonstrating its vulnerability to ground fire. Yellow is light damage, orange is serious damage, red is a guaranteed kill. Against a MIM-450." The entire model turned red. "Against an FIM-477 'Yarara' man-portable point-defense missile." The model stayed red, with a few orange spots. "And against the Block 7C APEC your own Jackals are equipped with." Even now the Saker glowed dull orange, mottled with red blotches.

This was not enough to mollify them completely, but the rest of the ten-hour lecture focused on the armor and powerful weapons of their own tanks, and the lecture on the following day was an endless litany of tactics phrased in such a way as to imply that their employment would result in unquestioned success. By the end of the course it was possible to believe that they stood a fighting chance in combat.

Of course, there remained the thorny problem of translating lessons learned into action, and she knew nothing of the company. That evening she made her way back to the barracks, finding it comfortably full of activity.

The few humans in the company were keeping to themselves, which was fine by her. Only one seemed to be mingling, leaning over a desk with four moreaus, staring at a computer screen showing a map of Earth. It was densely covered with little figurines and counters.

A chocolate-colored dog with floppy ears picked up one of the counters. "I'm moving an army to the Aegean and then to Asia Minor."

"What?" the human blinked, and shook his head. "You can't do that. Moving into hostile territory takes all your move points."

"I own Asia Minor."

"No you don't. You own the yellow territories, Tremaine."

The dog's ears swiveled back. "That is yellow." His claw tapped over the map, counting out territories. "Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow."

"No. That's orange. Orange is me. Are you declaring war on me?"

Tremaine's brow furrowed. "They're the same color."

"I assure you they're not." The human twisted, looking up at Corinna. "Help me out, newbie. Is that orange or yellow?"

Benjamin could tell a difference between the two, though she knew that not all of the canine moreaus were so capable. "It looks orange to me."

"See? Take that army back, you flea-bitten lout." But he was grinning, and a few of the moreaus laughed as the dog threw up his paws in defeat and returned the token to eastern Europe.

One of the other spectators nudged her side. "Siding with the humans against your kin, eh?"

She turned — he was a red and white dog, with folded ears and shaggy fur. He might've been a collie, except that he had no tail. "Well," she demurred. "It was orange."

"So it was," he agreed. "Alhakhuchdao goru, jankito."

Corinna knew only enough dog to say that she didn't speak it. At least, she hoped that was what it meant. "Ilrukha ko alrukhat."

His fuzzy ear lifted. "Ah? Sorry. I just assumed. You looked like a dog. What are you, then?"

"Australian."

"I thought that was a country?"

Corinna rolled her eyes. "Yes. I'm a thylacine — a tasmanian tiger. Hence the stripes," she muttered, and swung her tail around for inspection. "They've been dead for centuries. I was brought back as a... science experiment. Eggheads in the Tasman Geodesic decided it would be fun. 'Til they cut me loose, anyhow."

"Huh. Well. It's good to meet you, anyway. I'm Silverberg — but everyone calls me 'Bob,'" he grinned; it was a good-natured smile, and she could see the colloquial name suited him well.

"Corinna. Who's the dezzie?" she asked, nodding her long muzzle towards the human who was now taking his turn on the gameboard.

"The who?"

"The naked ape."

"Oh. Uh, that's Leslie Zula. He's my platoon sergeant; just came on last week."

"Which platoon?"

"Third."

She perked her ears curiously. "Really? I've just been assigned there. Leader of first section."

Silverberg grinned again, his muzzle parting a little. "Hey! Sigrun!" At her quizzical look, he explained: "First section is all named after valkyries; second is... mythical wolves, I think. My mech is Hildr, third is Rota, and you're Sigrun. Les is Cortana, and the LT is Durandal. We've only trained together a couple times."

"But so far?"

"So far, it's a lot fuckin' better than it was. Cortana is one of the good guys. Here, c'mon." He pulled her away from the board game, pointing around the room. "That's your driver, I think. I don't remember his name. That cougar-looking thing there is 5T3N. 'Stennis the Red.'"

"Also color-blind? He's brown."

The dog grinned. "Not when he accidentally sets off a smoke marker. I've got pictures; I'll show you later. Uh, let's see, who else? That fox is Suresh. He's crazy — electrical engineer; worked in radar design for Honeywell. I don't know what he does. Guess you'll find out tomorrow."

"Training op, I imagine?" 

"Yup. 0800. The captain's real serious about beatin' us into shape. You should get some rest, jankito."

"Thanks."

He clapped her on the shoulder. "Don't mention it. I'm gonna hit up the galley real quick before bed. See you in the sims, yeah? It was nice meeting you."

* 

"Contact, right one, twenty-six hundred. Two IR contacts; one of them is radiating microwaves. Designating them as India 17 and India 18." Suresh, who turned out to be her assistant gunner, called to her quietly from his position in the belly of the Rooijakkals.

"Got it," Corinna said, just as softly. She flipped the microphone switch on her control panel. "Durandal, this is Sigrun. I have two tanks bearing 015, range 2.6 klicks. Do we have permission to engage? Over."

'Durandal' was Lieutenant Elizabeth Bishop, a few hundred meters behind them in her command walker. The radio whined. "Sigrun, Durandal. Negative — do not fire unless fired upon. Take cover and hold position. Over."

"Understood. Durandal out." Corinna called up a local map, then watched as waypoints and orders started to appear on it — Ellie Bishop was ordering the other section forward to try and identify the enemy units. She switched her radio to the section's net. "Hildr, move to take cover behind the ridgeline at your 330. Rota, provide overwatch, then come right and find cover east of the road."

As the other two walkers moved, Corinna examined the map to get a better sense of their own position. She could just see the faint sparkle of heat signatures at the edges of their sensor range. Of course, that meant they might be able to see her — in any case the Rooijakkals nuclear reactor had to be able to shed heat, and they could only store that internally for so long. 

She leaned over in the cockpit to catch the attention of the Jackal's driver, a white-muzzled GeneMark Rottweiler. "Bester, take us hull down." That blunt muzzle dipped in answer. "Then go low-power and see if we can't recover some heat capacity." 

The hydraulics of the simulator jerked and her view changed as the Denel walker dropped a few meters to its knees. "Done. Reactor to twenty-five percent."

"Hildr, Rota: gadgets off." She twisted around in the cockpit, looking down to Suresh. "That goes for you, too." The other walkers checked in on the radio, confirming that they'd shut down their active sensors.

Then they waited, watching the indicators for Bishop's remaining mechs slowly inching to where their opponent lay. "Strobe, 015." Corinna turned again; Suresh was leaning forward, staring into his computer. "I've got definite AN/ALQ-54 telltales. They're not coming from India 17 or 18 — the position's off by a couple degrees."

"Could they be moving?"

Suresh was of fennec stock; his ears, comically large, swung back as he narrowed his eyes at the display. "I don't think so. There's no doppler shift in the signal. We could be on their beam, but if that were true we'd see..." he trailed off, then shook his head decisively. "Wait a second..." He tapped at his computer, and then glanced down to the tablet on his right thigh, pulling out a stylus and scribbling frantically.

"Talk to me, Suresh."

"Passive is telling us we've got spread-spectrum jamming from an ALQ-54, but it can't be... it's too complex; the components are being reflected from at least two... three..." He glanced down to his kneeboard. "Yeah. Three, maybe four sources. That's got to be, what? Five, six tanks?"

"That we can see..." Corinna gave a chuffing, thoughtful sigh, and flicked on her microphone. "Durandal, this is Sigrun. Indications of enemy armor in platoon strength at objective. Over."

"Sigrun, Durandal. Calu's seeing the same thing. We're waiting for orders now — I'll advise when we have them. Out."

Tamara 'Calu' Szanto was her human counterpart in the other section. On the map, Corinna could see they'd come to a halt five hundred meters in front of her Rooijakkals, taking cover in a stand of trees. 

Situational awareness was the watchword of the Basic Armor Employment class. Corinna watched her displays like a hawk — it was fatiguing, trying to anticipate what might come next; what she would do, if she were in the position the enemy occupied.

Their objective on the map was to seize or destroy a bunker located in a shallow river valley. A slightly steeper arroyo to the east ran perpendicular to the dry river bed, meeting it roughly at their objective, and it was in this arroyo that their quarry seemed to be hiding.

Hills to either side promised a better vantage point — but they were bare, and without cover the heavy Rooijakkals would be easily spotted. They would have to move through the valley — and carefully, at that, step by step.

"Sigrun, Calu, this is Durandal." The low bandwidth afforded by the encrypted radio transmission gave Ellie Bishop's voice a thin, metcallic air. "The company will assault Objective Alpha in full strength. Fourth platoon will circle hill 544 to the west in order to flank known enemy positions. Our platoon will support this maneuver with an assault to fix the enemy in place. Sigrun, you will advance to provide direct harassing fire on the enemy at Objective Alpha. Calu, your section will identify an advantageous point to provide supporting fire for Sigrun's mission. Durandal and Cortana will join Calu's section. Over."

Three tanks against an emplaced platoon of enemy armor... Corinna swallowed. "This is Sigrun. Understood. Out." Her mission map lit up with diagrams that Lieutenant Bishop was drawing in her command vehicle. They made it look so easy... "Section, fence check. Set systems in assault configuration."

Their Jackal came back to life, lifting up on its legs again, and she heard the whine of systems charging and spinning back into operation.

She heard the heavy thunk of solenoid-secured switches being flipped. "All arming switches set," Stennis said flatly. "Targeting computer aligned and ready." 

"ECM online. Countermeasure systems to auto. Radar standing by full power," Suresh echoed. Bester, the Rooijakkals' driver, gave her a thumbs-up, and she heard the other two tanks check in over her radio. 

"Durandal, this is Sigrun. We're ready. Over."

"Sigrun, Durandal. Attack. Out."

Corinna cracked her knuckles, then mashed her microphone switch hard. "Section — advance. Maintain seventy meters separation. We are now weapons free — you are clear to engage all non-friendly contacts. Out." She tapped her command map, adding waypoints for each of the three tanks, setting up a bounding overwatch — one unit would move forward, then halt to let the others leapfrog it. She needed them moving forward quickly.

It was just an exercise, but the adrenaline was starting to pump. Stennis was locked on his gunsight. "Contact — 010. Locked. Ready!"

At this command, Bester brought the mech to a stop, kneeling — its heavy legs spreading out and digging in to the dirt. This locked them in place, making them a juicy target — but it gave the Rooijakkals' twin linear cannons as much stability as possible. Bester's ears were pricked alertly, his eyes staring towards their objective. "Shoot!"

Corinna caught the click of the trigger being depressed a split-second before the main guns fired; as soon as they had, before the spent power cartridge had even hit the dirt, the tank leapt back to its feet, moving for the next bit of cover. 

"Miss," Suresh called out.

Stennis was busy re-aiming, angling for a better firing solution. "Locked. Ready!"

"Shoot!" They were starting to take return fire, and Bester's call was a little anxious.

"Hit! Registering secondaries — that's a kill." 

Corinna let it fade into white noise, keeping her eyes on the map of the battle. As Bishop's RSA specialist found new contacts they appeared on the display — first four tanks, then five. Then six. That left a platoon unaccounted for... she panned the map, trying to see what they would be seeing.

There were two logical places to have positioned such a unit to support the tanks defending the bunker. One of them was just behind a ridge to the east; one was in the hills to the west. If they were to the west, they'd intercept Lieutenant An Tai's flanking maneuver — in any case then the battle would degenerate into a slugfest. If they were to the east... 

Corinna pressed her tongue into her cheek, thinking. If they were to the east, they'd be ideally positioned to flank her section, smashing them from the high ground. From there, they could savage the other section, and the left hook of Tai's attack.

"Stennis. Load the rocket batteries. Four smoke, two incendiary, two chaff. On my command, hit the slope at our two o'clock, right near the crest. I don't want them to be able to see anything if they come over that ridge."

"Got it."

She gave similar orders to the other two mechs — then waited. When they were fifteen hundred meters from their objective, she ordered the rockets launched: the hill disappeared in a roiling mass of smoke and flame.

Now they were close enough that the return fire was becoming accurate, and fierce. 'Hildr' Silverberg took a barrage of cannon fire; in the closed cabin they heard the heavy, ominous thud of the mech crashing to earth behind them. 

Then their own Jackal shuddered, throwing her against the seat's restraints. "We're hit — lost the right cannon," Stennis shouted. 

"ECM is severely degraded. We're being painted by —"

The simulator jerked again, and the cockpit was filled with the wail of alarms. "Bester — take cover!"

They came to a crouch behind a shallow slope that left too much of them exposed for her tastes. "We're on backup hydraulics and venting coolant from the starboard reactor heatsinks."

"Chaff dispensers are not responding. I don't think they're there anymore."

"I have rockets and limited attitude control on the left cannon," Stennis added. "Wait. No, the rockets were lying to me," he corrected with a growl. "Just the cannon."

"Durandal, this is Sigrun." No answer. "Durandal, this is Sigrun." She was about to complain to Suresh when the enemy units on her display suddenly fuzzed and vanished in a rush of sparks and flame.

Her hologram was alight with the noise and heat of explosions bursting around the objective. It took her a moment to realize what had happened — that the other platoon had come to their aid; that they hadn't found any opposition in the rolling hills. The screens turned blue, and a clear voice boomed over the intercom:

"Victory, team two. Good job, guys."

The others broke out in cheers, and even though the insulation of the simulator she could hear the same from the capsules next to them. It was such a strange feeling, that sense of perfect order and cohesion that had guided them...

They were still elated at the debrief, a sense of elation not shared by the slight Lieutenant Lee Nguyen Tam, who glowered at Bishop and Tai.

"Coulda evened up the score," he groused — his eyes flashing. "'Cept we came over the hill and it was all on fire. Couldn't see for shit — damned lucky, if you ask me."

"Wasn't luck, sir," Corinna grinned.

"You knew we were there, sergeant?"

"Use the enemy's blindness as a force multiplier. And if needed — create it." Captain Tindall was grinning, too, and he stepped up to the podium lightly. "Alright guys. Your platoon leaders will debrief you in full, but I just wanted to say how happy I am with this last op. This is only the fourth with the new section leaders, and I have to say you're showing some real initiative. And working as a team. Sergeant Benjamin, that was good work, of course. Sergeant Yudin, Sergeant Mijatovic, your coordination during the probing phase was brilliant." The company's first sergeant had his hand raised. "Wayne?"

"Captain Tindall's right, you were coordinating well. But you need to watch below zero azimuth of the passive sweep. You had two opportunities to pick up Lieutenant Tam's screen but you missed them both, because you had tunnel vision. Keep your eyes open."

"Right," Tindall nodded. "For the most part, though, you guys did well. We'll switch sides tomorrow — Bishop, you're still too aggressive. Watch the replay and see what got your first section chewed up." He went on, and Corinna took careful notes. 

And smiled. She knew she'd been missing something, in the Tarvos.

* 

The curt message sounded urgent. Tindall stood up straight and rapped on the door. Lieutenant Colonel Moulden was alone at her desk. "Ma'am — Captain Tindall, reporting as ordered."

"Sit."

"Yes, ma'am." Still tense, he settled into the cold metal chair.

"How are your men doing? It's been two weeks since you got your new NCOs. Was it worth it?"

He nodded. "I think so, ma'am. Unit cohesion is markedly improved — maybe it's just a change of blood, but they're responding well to their new leaders. And these guys know what they're doing — they're smart. Intuitive. I think I can rely on them."

"Good." Moulden sounded like she meant it. "I wish you'd gone to me first, captain. I think we could've fixed some of this — but we're understaffed, too. I'm glad Colonel Yao was able to help."

"I didn't mean to give the impression that I didn't respect your authority, ma'am," he told her softly. "I don't like taking shortcuts, but I felt it was the best way to ensure the unit didn't come apart. Major Ketterer made it sound like your hands were tied, anyway, when I spoke to him."

Moulden smiled; she had a delicate, warm smile. "I didn't say I didn't understand, captain. I just said I wish it hadn't had to be that way. Concern over your unit's as good a reason as any, I guess. How's training coming?"

"Well, the 55is are still in the shop, so we haven't been able to test Jackals in the field. We're still using old Lockheed Rays for that. I'd like more time, but... I guess everyone would."

She nodded. "Company B hasn't even done that much. You're ahead of the curve, I guess."

"We'll see. Simulations are one thing, and we're definitely training on a 55i sim. But... until they actually get a feel for the kinetics of the real deal, I don't know."

"I don't either." Lucy Moulden turned to look out her window, frowning softly as she turned back to him. "Can I ask you something, captain?"

"Of course."

"The — " she caught herself, biting her lip. "The 2130s. How are they?"

"I'm not worried about them," he said, truthfully. They were not, to be honest, his favorite beings as friends — he found their expressions difficult to read and their characteristic scent offputting. But as soldiers... "As soldiers, they're superlative. These are the cream of the crop, if you want to think about it that way — they've all volunteered twice: once for CODA, and once for this unit."

"But they're untested."

"That's true," he agreed. "And unfortunate. But you know... I have to admit, ma'am, I think they're probably smarter than we are. They'll manage."

"I thought it was a terrible idea," Colonel Moulden said. "I'd heard that they were programmed, you know? That the companies built in hardcoded blocks that prevented them from harming a human being — which would make them damned poor soldiers. But I guess that's a myth."

"Not quite, actually. The first ones did. But like I said, they're smart. Some of the first ones were data analysis assistants — they figured out that their skills were being used to optimize health care distribution. Would make the insurance companies money, but leave people uninsured — they decided that went against their programming and refused to work."

"Yeah?"

"Yep. My first sergeant says they had to euthanize nearly seventy of them. That was big, big money back in the day. So they don't have programming anymore."

Moulden nodded; she was fidgeting with a silver stylus, spinning it between the fingers of her right hand. "Even still. It just seems ugly, using them to fight for us. They're not our equals, right? They're menial labor — tools, really. Living tools, sure..."

"I agree," he said, although honestly he felt the colonel went a bit too far. "But if they're good at what they do..."

"If," she echoed. "It was something you said — that even if we didn't like the 2130s, we might have to rely on them. It was a good point. Well, you've had them for three months now. Would you trust them?"

He frowned, turning the answer over and trying to make sure he believed it. "Yes."

"Good. I guess I'll have to learn to, too."

"Ma'am?"

Moulden turned over a computer to reveal the screen — it was dull red, and glowed: Classified. For listed recipient only. She handed it to him carefully, and his heart sunk. "We're being deployed, captain. Supporting the 83rd Infantry on Redfire, in the Iris System. They need immediate reinforcement," she said — and the gravity of the implication was clear in the chill of her words. "Get your men ready: the transport leaves in four days."