Our train has stopped at Tharsis for refueling. Small goggles are pressed against our compartment window. Children of the town's petrusite miners are knocking on the glass with hands outstretched. Feeling sympathetic towards them, I lower the window sill to hand out left overs from my ration tin. Sitting across from me, my travel companion shakes her head disapprovingly. Her shoulder length brunette hair poking from the back of her respiratory aparatus.

"Don't encourage beggars, Leigh", Laika reprimands me through her visor. "They're parasites, just like their parents." I look back at the young ones, the smallest child of the pack breaks off from the group with the majority of the food in his arms. He makes a dash towards the shanties, the group of children give chase.

The scenery is beginning to move. They've probably finished refueling, by now. Outside, the ghibli winds are beginning to pick up, carrying chunks of red debris, thick with sulfur and carbon monoxide into the air. Watching the sandstorm, the train is silent. The sound of rotating gears lull me to sleep.

[Two days ago]

I've been summoned to Headmaster Radec's office. After 5 years of military service, defusing land mines on the outskirts of Pyrrhus City, this is the first time I'll be meeting the headmaster face to face. My dorm mates are giving me sympathetic glances, expecting the worse.

"What the hell did you do, Kiljoy?" one of them asks.

"Were you caught looking at Vektan porn mags or somethin'?"

One of them chimes in and assures me, "I heard the Sulljeva labor camps serve excellent fish chowder."

I ignore them and turn my attention to the mirror, checking the lapels and angle of the emblems on my uniform. After all, 'The dress code is the foundation of discipline', I repeat to myself. Shutting my locker, I exit the dorm and enter the courtyard.

It's 6 am in the morning. A squad of grunts are deeply engaged in PT exercises with the usual batch of calisthenics and full-gear jogs. One of them is vomiting over a trash receptacle. Must be new.

The rooms that fall prior to the headmaster's office are lined with books on various topics: military tactics, philosophy, biological sciences, historical texts that chronicle the Terran era and many others. There's a plaque on the wall reading 'Violence has its own economy, therefore be thoughtful and precise in your investment'.

I knock on the doors and announce myself, "Headmaster Radec, Corporal Kiljoy reporting."

"Enter", an austere responds. The morning sun is rising, giving the room a red orange glow. In the distance, the Salamun market is waking up: the farmers, fish mongers and tradesmen are setting up their stalls and arranging their wares. The man known as Headmaster Radec, Commander of the 9th division of the Helghan Army is standing, back towards me, facing the window, book in hand. Without looking up from his readings, he asks me, "Corporal Kiljoy, do you know the origin of our city's name?"

Searching my memory, I answer, "Sir, Pyrrhus City was named after the military term ''Pyrrhic Victory' which was used to refer to a victory with devastating cost to the victor."

"But, do you know the origins of that term, Corporal?"

"Sir, I do not." Underneath my helmet, I'm sweating bullets. My gaze consciously shifting towards the commander's holstered StA15 handgun and the exit behind me.

"During the Pyrrhic War, King Pyrrhus had won several battles against the Roman Republic by compromising a great deal of his resources and manpower. Albeit, the Romans suffered more casualties, their morale never diminished," he concludes. Setting the book down alongside the other papers on his desk, Radec turns to me. "What can you conclude from this?"

I recite my drill instructor's slanders, "Sir, I am but a expendable cog in this machine called war."

The headmaster chuckles, "A textbook answer for a soldier, however, for this mission, I need you to undo some of those habits and think decisively as an individual. Here," He hands me a thick, manila envelope. "The contents are highly classified, if word gets out, expect severe repercussions."

"Sir, if I may ask, what qualified me for this task?"

"You were a member of the Helghan Explosive Ordnance Disposal (HEOD) unit prior to your enlistment, in addition, we needed someone young yet capable. All the other details are expanded upon, in the envelope. You're dismissed." Turning back towards his personal library, he picks up a different book and returns to his readings - that's my cue to leave. Before the door shuts, I hear him mutter beneath his breath, "... an expendable cog in this machine called war..."

The dorm is vacant when I got back. Everyone should be out for either patrol or PT, at this time. They'll be surprised to find out that I've returned in one piece. I'm surprised, as well. Removing my sweat-soaked helmet and tactical vest, I prop myself on my bunk, envelope in hand. Inside there are several photographs: aerial maps, unfamiliar architecture surrounded by green vegetation (... is this?), various profile pictures of uniformed Vektans and one Helghast female. The cropped haired brunette had an intense look in her grey gaze, which off-setted her more pleasant features. Putting the photographs aside, I find a short handwritten letter addressed to me:

CPL Kiljoy:

Rendezvous with Sgt. Romelle (fig. #15) at Constantine City Station in civilian garb. Attached are several bills, 2 train tickets - the 1st departs 0900 hours of today. Bring, the contents of this envelope, but nothing else. Failure is unacceptable.

-R

That's it? I check the back of the letter... nothing. $800 Visari bills are taped to the inside of the folder, as well as the train ticket from Pyrrhus to Constantine and from Constantine to Suljeva.

I have an hour before the train leaves. Changing into dark slacks and a black peacoat, I briskly place the photographs and letter back into the envelope. Double checking my surroundings, I pocket the cash and ticket and dash out of the room. My dorm mates are walking down the hall ways as I'm sprinting. I'm running for my life, literally.

One of them calls out, "Its been nice knowing ya, Kiljoy."

The train from Constantine to Pyrrhus is anything but comfortable. I was lucky to find an empty compartment, but I had nary the time to enjoy it. The walls that separate the train cars are thin and in the neighboring room, I hear the audible voices of petrusite miners.

"Haha, I can't believe you actually spent most of your cheque on Vektan porn mags", the gruff voice laughs.

"Well worth it. But, how the hell am I suppose to smuggle them through customs?" asks the other voice. "The gov placed a Vektan media embargo a month ago."

"Aw, fuck, you're right. You probably should check into a restroom and enjoy them while you can..."

Slamming a fist on the wall of the opposing room, I shout, "SHUT UP! SHUT THE HELL UP OR I'LL REPORT YOUR WORTHLESS ASSES!"

"Prick," the other miner spits. "Lets change rooms, before that killjoy does any more damage."

The room goes silent. Without reservation, I collapse into the seat, clutching the envelope in the folds of my jacket. As the train moves towards our destination, I can't help but be a little homesick.

Two or three hours must have passed. Cracking my eyes open, I watch as the city of Constantine grows larger. It's home to a multitude of political exiles and free thinkers, many of whom are living there incognito. The city is ripe with crime, the biggest being the black market chain. Reconnaissance teams are always on the look out for bootleg ships on the borders.

Stepping into the station, I wait patiently for my contact. The train to Suljeva leaves in 10 minutes. 5 minutes. 2 minutes. No one. Waves of commuters flow through the station, but I recognize no one as the uniformed female in the picture. Sweat is beading on my forehead, I can't abandon the mission, but I must go forward. Stepping into the train, I take one last look at the station... she's not here. Glancing once more at my ticket stub, I enter the respective train car.

"Cpl. Kiljoy?" a voice asks. The room is empty: two long plush seats and a window situated in the center. A hooded figure materializes, slouched in the seat across from mine. A Scout.

"Sgt. Romelle?" I ask. The scout removes the hood and the thermo-visor. Her hair had grown to shoulder-length, but she appeared every bit like her photograph, albeit, more intimidating, in person. "Ma'am, your hair," I focus my gaze elsewhere. Woman with grown out hair are a sign of prostitution on Helghan. To avoid gender bias, most keep their hair short or shaved.

"Stop it, I know what you're thinking, but I assure you that it's mission related." Had it not been for her respiratory-mask, I could have sworn she was beet red. "Do you have the papers?"

I reach into my coat and hand her the documents. After flipping through the stack, she pockets them. "Now that we have everything in order, let me explain the mission objectives, Kiljoy. We have an Agent situated in the top brass of the Vektan military. A General Adams, Supreme Commander of the Vekta SD Platform. However, a few officers have gotten a hold of some knowledge which could expose Adams. We need to eliminate them, during their annual summit meeting. The best way to do this without incriminating Adams, would be to use explosives on the summit building. I'll be on recon and stand-by just in case something goes wrong."

"When is the summit meeting?"

"Seven weeks from now. The trip will take 2 weeks, so technically, we have 5 weeks when we arrive on Vekta. Oh, this is for you," she hands me various pieces of identification with my photograph on it. "You're an engineer at Vekta Industries. You're happily married and you love your job."

"Who will you be?"

"I'm a homemaker, whatever the hell that is, and your wife. Those Vektan women grow their hair out like whores," she mutters. "It would have been more efficient if I was cloaked during the entire time. But, having a married couple in plain view would be less conspicuous. It'd be best if we started addressing each other by first name, Leigh."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Look, unless I can convince those Vektans that we're into S&M, you have to try harder," she remarks, thick with sarcasm.

"Sorry, but your first name wasn't mentioned in any of the papers."

"It's Laika."

"Laika," I repeat.

"Good," she nods. "Our meeting marks the beginning of Operation Napalm and Cordite."

Feeling a bit confident, I ask, "I'm Napalm, right?"

"No, you're Cordite."