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The Crossroad (an Empires short story)
🕑 Added 2023-09-01 16:00:01 +0000 UTCThe CROSSROAD
The “Leisure Stones” was a coffiene bar in one of Por Chalaenya’s meager tourist districts. Under ordinary circumstances the city of Por Chalaenya would be overlooked as a tourist destination, but Operation Thunderhead made the circumstances distinctly extraordinary—Por Chalaenya and the province it was in was considered a “secure zone”. As such, it was an easy place to rotate troops out of front-line duty for a bit of relaxation without having to authorize actual leave and off-planet travel.
“I kinda like this place,” Sergeant Ketterinna Barona said, looking around. The housekeeping could use some work; there was a layer of dust on the exposed rafters of the vaulted ceiling that seemed to be permanent.
“That’s because it’s literally outside the door from the hotel,” said her boyfriend, Sergeant Celon Delosi. He sipped his mochava coffiene, lamenting that it didn’t have the rich tastes he was used to. When I pay for decadent coffiene, I expect decadence, he mused. Unfortunately, feliscii society had never really developed an appreciation for chocolate in any form, despite over a thousand years of interaction with humans. Irrykanoi humans, he reminded himself. Not the go-to culture for refinement and class.
They had the rest of tonight for their local environmental pass, and tomorrow morning they would be back on duty. Their pass was technically a holiday pass, granted by the chain of command to as many soldiers as they felt they could spare while maintaining adequate personnel on duty. It was technically the weekend of the Observance of Ascension, marking the last full mortal day of the life of the Savior Thyssa before she was sacrificed and returned to the realm of God, her mission supposedly complete. Savior? Celon wondered, suddenly, Or Prophet? I forget. Kette’ would know, as she was somewhat more observant than he, but he also wasn’t overly concerned about what was, to him, hair-splitting.
Kette’ drank her black, unsweetened, bitter brew of a coffiene and Celon appreciated looking at her when they were interrupted. Sierra Chennalt and Brion Tomac, both in uniform but carrying themselves with casual, relaxed posture.
“See?” Celon quipped with an impish smile, “I can tell it’s a holiday because Tomac has on a clean uniform. Probably even clean skivvies.” Tomac’s ears flickered in embarrassment as Kette’ looked up at him, blinking. “Ironed clean skivvies,” Celon added, sipping his coffiene and enjoying the young feliscii’s fluster.
“They’re not ironed,” Tomac stammered.
“Too much sharing,” Celon said quickly, with a playful dismissiveness.
“Sorry for interrupting your plans,” Sierra said, “but Stanners at Postal Services said there is a gift from a friend of yours, a Lieutenant Drake Rhein. His instructions were that Tomac and I be here when you open it.” Sierra handed a package over to Kette.
“Drake…” Barona says quietly; her eyes seemed to momentarily unfocus as a previous lifetime’s worth of holoshows played out in her memories.
“Who is this Drake Rhein, Kette?” Celon inquired somewhat jealously.
“Just an old friend from Delta Company,” she responded, her eyes refocusing on Celon. “Don’t give me that look. I was never his type. He did state that he thought Tomac was kinda cute, though.” She said with a grin, shooting a knowing look at a flustered Corporal Tomac.
“Lieutenant Drake… thought I was cute?” Tomac squeaked out.
“Yeah, but the whole rank thing is what prevented him from saying anything.” Barona said with an impish grin.
“Oh Tomac, *tch*, that way you have with gay men.” Sierra joked. “Ok, enough teasing the Corporal. Open the gift.” Ketterina took out a knife and opened the box, finding a holo display and a handwritten note. She read the note aloud.
“Dear Kette, the gift I have for you took some doing. Had to call in a few favors, etc… Before you activate the holopad, look at the underside. I had a piece of plating from the ‘Ace’ engraved. Happy Holidays. -Drake Rhein.”
“The Ace…” Kette’ whispered, barely audible. Memories once again flashed through her mind, unspoken, but Celon knew exactly what was being called up. He watched carefully in case she needed a moment. Kette’ set aside the note and picked up the small round holopad, turning it over in her hands. The underside was welded to a small, pitted piece of armor that once came from the Ace of Spades. The names Arik Kotlin, Drake Shaddock, Ketterinna Barona and Brion Tomac were lovingly engraved within the metal. For a moment the group around the table was dead silent as she almost gingerly ran a hand over the metal, feeling the tiny, rough divots where drops of molten metal had bored through the chemical-agent resistant paint.
Kette’s emerald eyes begin to water up as she flipped the device right way up. Pressing the activation button, an image of the Ace of Spades leapt up before her. Standing in front of the tank’s starboard side were the holo-images of Kette, Tomac and their two dead crew mates. Of all of them, Kette’ and Tomac eyed it with the most curiosity. Kette’ turned the small emitter in her hand, rotating it slowly as she tried to drink in every visual detail. She compared it with her own memories, and Tomac’s brow furrowed in uncertainty.
“W-we...” Tomac began hesitantly, “…we never posed for such an image,” he said. “Did we?” he asked, looking to his superior –and friend—with puzzlement.
Sierra gasped upon seeing the holo of Arik, her lost lover and smiled, though she kept her face and mouth tight in an attempt to hold back a flood of sudden emotions. “I think… I think your friend hired someone to make that holo.”
Tomac’s face brightened as he began to nod. “A composite,” he said, “An all-new original image made from existing images.”
“Expensive,” Celon spoke up, leaning in and eyeing the image critically. “Seamless blending. Work down to the individual holopixel,” he remarked with admiration. He knew the missing members of the crew, but was nowhere near as close to them as they were. While pretending to exaime the holoimage with a critical eye, he kept Kette’s face –and facial expression—in his peripheral vision.
For her part, Kette’ took in a breath and then let go of the tightness in her chest as she exhaled it slowly. She reluctantly engaged the part of her mind that compartmentalized loss so she could concentrate on business at hand. She herself looked back at Celon, glad for his company; she tapped his finger softly and then smiled.
“Amazing stuff,” she said. “I’m going to have to get him something. And not from the Por Chalaenya tourist gift shop, either.”
“Gonna be alright?” Celon asked in just such a way that the comment could be accepted as a genuine display of concern, or as a gentle tease.
“Are you?” Kette’ asked back, smiling. “You were there. It was…”
“Rough,” Sierra said.
“Ugly,” Tomac blurted out, his own eyes unfocused for a moment with the memories. For a moment the entire table experienced a quiet moment of melancholy. Then Kette’ smiled, and gently placed the holopad back in the box it came in, surrounded by the packing material. The device was metal and mounted to a chuck of tank armor, so it didn’t need delicate wrapping, but it felt right to her.
“Alright,” she said, “we still have the rest of the evening before we have to get back to—” she waved her hand dismissively, as if shooing away an annoying insect past her ear. “—and I for one am glad we got to meet, and serve with, such fine quality folks.”
“Hear, hear,” Celon said. They finished their coffiene and paid the tab, stepping out into the sunlight of Kalindaa. Celon looked up at the sky. “Not so bad with all the smoke cleared out,” he observed.
“Yeah,” Tomac agreed, putting on sunglasses. He scanned the nearby foothills and the mountains behind them; the large black burn marks were like a scar that was unavoidable. An attempted Irrykanoi counter-offensive had sent a satellite plummeting to the surface, burning as it came through the atmosphere and setting the nearby forest ablaze. The shooting war was far enough from Por Chalaenya to be comfortable, but there would always be something to keep people on their toes. “It’s done for them,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically angry and rough. “Why won’t they just give it up already?”
Sierra shrugged. “This is just their way of trying to force a negotiated settlement,” she mumbled, her thoughts still somewhat far away. “If they can hold onto Kalindaa, or at least justify maintaining a presence…” She trailed off, uninterested in meaningful analysis.
“Where to?” Celon asked Kette’. His girlfriend held up the package with the gifted holopad in it. “Gonna stow this in my bags,” she said, “Then we’ll soak up one last day off. And we’re definitely going to drink to their memory tonight. We get one alcohol ration per day here and I don’t want to waste it.” Sierra and Tomac both glanced at her, their faces relaxed and appreciative of the thought. Tomac’s demeanor changed as he let go of the flare of anger and frustration he’d had a moment ago.
They stopped off at the hotel, the Trailhead. It had been the closest thing to a tourist resort for the region, catering to outdoor backpackers and campers that came to Por Chalaenya to take in the rich outdoor life. Now, it had been taken over by the Central Occupational Authority and used as a quasi-barracks for troops on environmental leave rotations. She ignored the stony look of the front desk clerk.
When she came back down the stairs, the group was waiting for her, except for Tomac.
“Where’s junior?” she asked. Celon nodded his head towards the door. “He went outside,” he said, glancing at the sullen clerk who tried to appear disinterested in them, but failed. Not everyone in the town was an enthusiastic supporter of the Central Alliance, seeing them as liberators. They stepped outside on the verandah and saw Tomac waiting, his own features somewhat stony.
“We’re bound to run across a few who voted Loyalist from time to time,” she said gently.
“Yeah,” Tomac said, frowning, “I just figured I’d remove myself before having to get into it,” he muttered. Kalindaa was the most Loyalist-populated planet in the cluster, and many of the feliscii that had swapped sides to join the Central Alliance were not greeted warmly.
“Well, bear in mind he may not even be a Loyalist at all,” Kette’ quipped. “Remember, the Central Army is paying them a flat rate for each room and picked up their paychecks based on ‘local market value’, which for the duration of the war has probably been a mix of ‘fuck’’ and ‘all’.”
“Heh,” Tomac said, cracking a smile. “True enough.”
They travelled around, shopped, ate, and tried to relax as best they could while ignoring the looming return to duty the next morning. An alert on Sierra’s comms had her check her messages.
“Tank’s ready for us any time,” she said to them.
“No deadline faults found?” Kette’ asked. “Too bad,” she said with a wry grin. “Yeah, I was hoping they’d have to pull the pack or something,” Sierra replied. “Oh, well. Can’t avoid it forever.”
They enjoyed the evening and ended it at a local bar that was approved for off-duty troops, the Latitude. Outside, a Team Assault Vehicle of the Military Police sat on its gravs as a team of three MP’s carefully monitored traffic in and out. A block down the road, a small quick reaction force waited to come to the aid of anyone that got in over their heads… materially or legally.
“What’ll it be?” the bartender asked with sincere-enough cheer. The establishment was packed with troops, a few civilians, and off-duty personnel from various organizations involved in everything from refugee and asylum processing officers to construction contractors already looking for juicy rebuilding offers. The staff of the Latitude was enjoying being one of the few approved establishments in Por Chalaenya.
There were unapproved establishments in town as well, but they attracted less reputable clientele. Mercenaries, traffickers and smugglers, prostitutes, and more could be found without scratching too hard under the surface.
“Got that crate of Tsonarii brandy I heard about?”
“Fresh off the freighter,” the bartender said. He was a fat, jovial an-feliscii that welcomed the Central Alliance.
“Four shots, please,” Kette’ ordered.
The bartender obliged, and Kette’ signed away the appropriate portion of her ration chit with a swipe of her thumb on the reader. The four of them took their drinks and sat for a moment, each with their own thoughts. Kette’ thought of Lieutenant Kotlin and Sergeant Shaddock, as well as some of the others such as Shrike Thl’heeva, that had shared their harrowing adventure for those few months hiding in the wilderness around Tebessa.
“To them,” Kette’s said solemnly, and they raised and drank to the memories of friends long gone. After a moment, Celon spoke up.
“Ever hear from any of the others?” he asked.
“Salish had to spend some time in a mental recovery facility for Post Traumatic Stress,” Sierra revealed, frowning. “Got a comm from him couple days ago. He’s doing okay but trying to transfer to a desk job. Doesn’t want to go ‘out there’ again.”
“Good luck to him,” Kette’ said. She found out later what Salish saw as his tank –and their driver, Khashin—burned. Saw and smelled, Kette’ thought darkly.
“Scarlet’s injury on Drop Day has her in medhab,” Celon said. “They have to completely rebuild the bone and ankle, so she’ll probably be out for the rest of the Kalindaa operation.”
“One way to get out of it,” Tomac said.
They shared their drink rations but a melancholy mood had settled over them. Instead of a raucous last evening before returning to the front, they thought about the people they knew that they’d started out with but were now just part of the toll of doing business.
Next Morning
The province was beginning to enter the first stages of local autumn, and an early morning rain had settled the ground. Instead of a light coating of dust, they had a thin caking of mud to deal with. The four of them were just part of the crowd stepping out of the repurposed civilian transport at the marshalling station.
“’Bout goddamn time,” a voice said, teasing them.
“Rarta,” Kette’ nodded to their diminutive vulpinaa scanner tech. “You already stopped by the Bitch?”
“Yup,” Senior Private Rarta confirmed. “The techs approved it for use last night.”
“Got the notification yesterday,” Sierra said. “Let’s get going. Delosi, good to see you again.”
“I’m always here when Kette’s near,” he said with an impish smile. He and Kette’ embraced and gave a quick kiss; they didn’t want to linger with public displays of affection when on duty. They parted ways and Sierra, Kette’, Tomac and Rarta made their way to their waiting tank, the Crimson Bitch.
The tank rested on its gravs, and Kette’ noted some of the dents that had been pounded out, some patches and mismatched paint, and a few scratches and chips that had not been worth fixing. She ran a hand over the metal, cool on the morning rain and could sense the uneven pits and microscars that felt so familiar. Rarta and Sierra were already waiting on the turret by their hatches as Tomac lowered himself into the driver’s hatch. Kette’ hoisted herself up, not needing to look as her feet, legs, arms and hands reached reflexively for the handholds and flat deck tops that she knew were there.
She lowered her legs into the hatch and then climbed down into the cramped confines of the gunner’s seat. Still guided by instinct more than sight as she comfortably sat in the seat next to the 90mm coilgun that was her current duty station. Sierra lowered herself into the commander’s hatch but stood upright, taking in the view around them and making sure there was no other foot traffic near them.
They put on their helmets and the comms systems crackled int heir ears as Sierra activated it. “Crew report,” she breathed into the mic.
“Scanner reader,” Rarta responded crisply.
“Driver ready,” Tomac’s response came, sounding muffled from his sealed compartment.
“Gunner ready,” Kette’ responded reflexively.
“Roger; weapons systems safed and locked; put comms to local traffic control and company freq. Driver, follow the instructions of the pilot ‘bot and roll us out.”
“Roger,” Tomac responded. Kette’ had activated all her screens and was running a diagnostic, and checking the cant sensor, crosswind detectors, and muzzle reference system. Everything was in working order, and she absently watched as the small pilot drone guided their tank out of the maintenance bay. Around them, other pilot drones were guiding a variety of other vehicles out as well, as repaired vehicles were released back to their duty crews and units.
The drones were guided by local traffic control AIs, which guided the heavy, lumbering vehicles out into the free travel zones and then released them completely to driver control. Before long, they were traveling to a battalion marshaling area for their unit, which guided them to their company dispersal sites. At this point, Celon Delosi’s vehicle departed them to reunite with his own platoon.
Soon, the crew of the Crimson Bitch were back to their platoon, and the people they knew well; known not just by name, but they could recognize easily by their posture and mannerisms, with no words being spoken. As nice as Por Chalaenya was, being back with her people made Kette’ feel truly comfortable.
Alaf Company was in a defensive laager on a small, low ridge unworthy of the name that overlooked a wide alluvial plain. A series of small runoff rivulets, most of them seasonal but two prominent ones forming regular creekbeds, provided for a population of trees. The tanks and their accompanying infantry nestled in among this concealment, and the holoflage emitters were deployed.
“Alright,” Sierra said after conferring with company leadership, “We’ll be taking over for the crew of the Rat Gang while they rotate through leave. Sectors of fire are being uploaded now.” On Kette’s fire control board, the updated computer animations flashed at her for attention, and she locked the information into the traverse mechanism. Overhead, Sierra interlinked her own commander’s cupola weapon with the local air-defense network, while Rarta integrated her board with overall fire control and the intel feed from the scout network. Kette’ knew from experience that Tomac’s displays would be showing routes of advance as well as routs of retreat as necessary.
“Channel Gama,” Sierra’s clipped voice said over the comms. Kette’ switched her helmet; each tank crew had internal channels they could use with the commander for private consultation.
“Here,” Kette’s said. Sierra grunted in response and for a little while the channel was silent as she obviously switched back to the command frequency for something. Kette’ waited; she had nothing else to do but scan her sector of fire, and there was nothing there.
“Okay,” Sierra’s voice came through the earpiece again. “Contact is unlikely; there’s been some light infantry scout activity in the area. Battlecarry HEX; default command det to 2 klicks unless you have confirmed range to target.”
“Roger; HEX loaded, HEX indexed.”
The comms were silent for a bit before Sierra spoke up again. “You with us, Ket?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Sorry; that holo from Drake got me thinking.”
“Obviously. Anything in particular?”
Kette’ shrugged even though Sierra probably couldn’t see the gesture. “Thinking about the future, really.”
“I’d’a thought you were wrapped up in the past,” Sierra said, her tone heavy with its own memories.
“I was at first,” Kette’ said. “But I spend a lot of time either avoiding it or thinking too much about it. Maybe instead of thinking about where I’ve been, I need to think about where I’m going,” she said, surprising herself. She hadn’t intended to go down this route, but now she was committed. Sierra said nothing for a while, then spoke up.
“Well, you can’t know where you’re going unless you know where you’ve been,” she said. “Where are you going with this?”
“Thinking about putting in a packet for direct commission,” Kette’ revealed. The comms was silent for a long time.
“Going and becoming a lieutenant,” Sierra replied.
“As NCO’s we get the things done,” Kette’ said, “But officers make the decisions that put things in motion. I guess…” she caught herself, trying to think about how she was going to phrase the words to come. “I guess I see a leadership need,” she said. “They need good people that know what’s out there.”
“People that know what things cost,” Sierra said.
Kette’ nodded. “Yeah. And we know Tomac is putting in for his stripe. If he gets it, he’s going to the cav. Alaf Company is stocked on sergeants, hell, we’ve got sergeants slotted into corporal spots in a couple cases.”
“Yeah,” Sierra said, with a tired drawl to her voice. “You know this means I have to break in another damn gunner,” she said with a chuckle.
“Maybe,” Kette’s said. “I mean, unless you get that Company sergeant slot.”
“True,” Sierra agreed. “Looks like the band is breaking up.” Suddenly, Sierra’s vice sounded weary and old. When did we get old? Kette’ wondered. Oh yeah, she remembered, It was one day in Tebessa.
“Well,” Kette’ replied, “We need to be there for them. The kids. The newbies coming in. Make sure they know what to do and how to stay alive. So, you know, we don’t have…” she trailed off.
“Any more Tebessas.”
“If it can be avoided.”
They sat, together but also alone, each wrapped in their own perceptions of the same memories.
“Well, let’s do it,” Sierra said. “Just promise me something.”
“Yeah?”
“Keep in touch.”
“Guaranteed.”
--"The Crossroad" is an Empires short story inspired by John Bandow and co-written with CF Arik Grant. It is a final chapter in the old 1990's version of the "Empires" graphic novel featured here at Patreon.
"Empires" © CF Arik Grant / Random Coyote Productions, LLC
Comments
John Bandow
A truly fitting end to the furry version of Empires.
