Hi Ali, just figured how to reply to reviews on this fic. Unfortunatly this one was mostly written or laid out in my head before I posted. There deliberatly isn't much direct participation by any of the Orphanage gang. Even Squall only gets to strut his stuff at the end. Keep reading though as I am starting to write Storm in the Sword Soul, a fic set just after time compression from Siefer's POV, set in this world.
The sun is climbing ever higher in the sky as we tramp further and further away from the regiment's LZ. The heat begins to soar and my sight behind the helmet's visor becomes fogged as my sweat evaporates from my body then condenses on the cool transparent plastic. Even so I don't remove the helmet. Body armour is a wonderful protector, capable of stopping a bullet from an assault rifle or even a light machine gun. Its development a generation ago, together with the beginning of widespread para-magical combat training effectively ended the reign of the firearm as the infantryman's primary weapon. On the battlefield today they survive mainly as combi-weapons such as our gunblades and of course the ubiquitous sniper rifle. I know snipers thrive out here. In my armour I'm fairly safe. Only my lower face is exposed to the sniper's scope. But it's an easy mistake in this heat for a soldier to remove their helmet or loosen their armour and then... I remember the face of my squad's corporal disintegrating in a welter of blood and bone right in front of me three weeks into my first tour and try not to shudder.
I give myself a mental shake, determined to throw off the pessimism that is colouring my thoughts. Happily we're about seven klicks out now, quick progress. Caster's Lurps have been sweeping the ground ahead of us for traps or unexploded ordinance from our beloved airforce, but the trails we have followed have all be clean so far. I don't have to wait long for something else to be cheerful about either. The Lieutenant's voice crackles over the platoon's satlink ordering a halt for a little rest.
[Object: Satlink. At the start of the first Sorceress War Esthar deployed a device known as the Universal Spectrum Jammer. It was as if a nuclear device had been detonated in the stratosphere. Across the world communications crashed, and those that survived, basically military channels, were severely disrupted. The malignant machine's secondary function was to jam all terrestrial radio and television bands with a wall of electronic 'white noise'.
The use of the Jammer, indeed the Sorceress War itself, brought about a revolution in communications. In the military sphere the old short wave radio kits used in the field where swiftly replaced by what was effectively a jerry-rigged mobile phone. This method relied upon using the eighty strong network of satellites built up by the Galbadian Army. Unlike civilians, who for the next two years where again reliant on the letter, these satellites where were well shielded.
Although the Jammer was switched off after Esthar withdrew behind its technological barriers the effects it had unleashed at the start of the war continued to scramble the analogue spectrum for a decade afterwards. Civilians downloaded their films and programs from the planetary network, known simply as the 'net'. They spoke or typed into public transmitters or portable video phones that beamed their calls up to shielded satellite for transmission. Television was dead. Radio evolved into digital radio, where the broader spectrum meant clear channels, but it remained strictly in the providence of wealthy geeks. The short-wave radio has made a come-back in military circles for its cheapness and durability, but the 1st Belurevian is not amongst those outfits that had refitted their helmets with the device.]
Thankfully I struggle into the shade of a rocky cliff bottom and shrug off my pack. Around me the others are doing the same while Captain Freeman's platoon takes up sentry positions. They don't look to happy about that, but what the hells, this time it's our turn first, and I can get a catnap. I prod my section to get our stove set up and order Stebbados to get his helmet back on, and then I lean slowly back against the cool stone of the cliff with a sigh of relief. I'm just beginning to doze peacefully off and catch up with some missed sleep when the helmet emits a high pitched whine right beside my left ear. It's the satlink alerting me to an incoming call. But it's not the inter-section link, the amber light warns me its an officer calling. Cursing the gods I crank up the volume.
"Hello? Hello? Sergeant, are you there?" rings accusingly in my ear.
Trying not to wince as I recognise the impeccably cultured accent of the Fuckwit, our resident Prima Donna, I squeak out "Yessir! Trouble with the reception sir!"
This seems to mollify the voice at the other end of the line. It looses its strident tone and instead resumes speaking with the suppressed excitement I dread.
"We've had an interesting development, Bennett! The Lurps have found tracks near some of our sensors. They're fresh ones too. Four people. Sergeant Pollack has requested a squad come up and investigate with them. Unfortunately I'm stuck here. Captain Freeman has ordered me to supervise some preliminary defences now we know there might be hostiles here. You're my most experienced officer and you've worked closely with Sergeant Pollack before. Go grab a couple of troopers and get me a prisoner. Should make this miserable patrol worthwhile, especially if we can squeeze the prisoner to tell us where the rest of the rats are hiding. Merton out."
Click.
Fury bubbles up in me at this casual dismissal. Clenching my fists I look up at the sky where the smug gits we call gods look on and condemn me to endlessly wander at the whim of an insecure little tyrant. My lack of sleep and my hatred of the Lieutenant combine to spill over at last.
"Buggerasslovingcuntlickingdickhead-!"
"Sasha are you alright?"
It's Blue. She comes over to me looking worried. It wouldn't be the first time a soldier has cracked under the strain of constant stress in enemy country. Weigh down a mind long enough and it sinks. Around us the soldiers of our two sections are openly staring at me. Rikka, Stebbados's squadmate rocks back and forth hugging her knees to her chest and rocking back and forth, crying. Shouting always sets her off that way. Stebbados has his arm round her shoulder and is glaring at me. Usually the big lunk and his cousin bicker constantly, but fight with one and you've always got the pair to deal with.
My temper drains away, and my cheeks flush slightly. I half turn away from the others and pull Blue along with me. We hunker down on the dirt, heads close together so we can whisper without being overheard. She knows I have something to bad to relate. As I relate what the Fuckwit ordered her expression changes from concern to incredulousness to fear and exasperation.
Asking grunts with ten days Time to go to break with the limited safety of the patrol and go trekking alone across strange country will not be popular. Nobody wants to risk their neck now with home so close. People with so little Time won't volunteer, there's not even the old carrot that they might be wounded and sent home early. All we've got left is the stick, court martial- and they're leaving the army in ten days!
Blue sucks in a breath and chews her lip.
"How many are there?" she asks.
"The Fuckwit said there where four sets of tracks," I answer cautiously.
We both know the tribesmen's habit of luring outfits into ambushes with a bit of tempting bait.
"Take two squads," she says with an undertone of resignation, "One from each of our sections. With us, Caster and the Lurps that'll reassure them. Fifteen against four is good odds. Chances are with that many they'll hear you coming and break off with out a fight. If it is an ambush Caster'll spot the signs- they'll go out too straight for starters. We head out for half an hour then turn back. If it's a trap or they're too far out we come back and say they're just a bunch of goat herders."
I smile my appreciation of her cunning.
"The Lieutenant will be right in the middle of organising the watch change in an hour," I muse out loud, "And three sergeants all together in their own little squad, and all the grunts from different sections and not knowing each other. Now that's just down right sneaky."
Blue rises off her haunches. She gives me the first real grin I've seen since we left camp this morning and claps me on the shoulder.
"Smart thinking, girl. You'll make a sergeant yet. Now go and pick your squad and I'll fetch mine."
I turn towards my section. All three squads are watching me, eyes veiled, tense. They saw my outburst, and the way Blue and I have been conniving together. Squadmates sit silently, hunched together. They sense something's coming. A thought strikes me. A grunt relies most closely on his two squadmates. Separate the squad and you split them into individuals. Mix with stranger with stranger in an ad-hoc squad and you place each individual with a series of unknowns. It reduces their cohesion as a fighting formation, but faced with a united squad of officers the individuals are much less likely to simply assassinate their officers.
I scan the three squads under my command.
"Vincono, Daytripper, Half-pint, pack up your stuff. The Lieutenant wants us to go and question some goat-herders about PLF movements in this area. Don't worry. Section II, the Lurps and your loving sergeants will all be with you."
Val simply stands up and begins gathering her gear together. As usual my corporal is uncomplaining and utterly dependable. Rikka and Stebbados are huddled together. They will talk and bicker and dally, but she will eventually pack. She's too fearful of the consequences of disobeying an order outside the field. She was quite timid, once, before this place.
[Person: Vincono, my third choice, watches me angrily. Of the three he is the mostlikely to take matters into his own hands. A fleshy, hairy creature from the shanty towns that have spread around Deling City as ethnic Galbadians flee west, he's become as hardened as they get. He's never really grown up, always a problem with a killer. He denies he is responsible for his own actions. Tormented by dreams of events he firmly believes never happened has soured him beyond his years. He acts with a petulant viciousness towards most people, sulking like a spoilt infant denied a favourite treat. If there's something he wants he tries to grab it, however many times he's been burnt by such actions in the past. He's been formally disciplined no less then thirteen times on his tour here, usually for minor theft. Happily for me his reputation inspires mistrust in most of the rest of the platoon. I'd rather the grunts were watching their own backs then eying mine.]
"Why'd ja pick me Sarge," his voice, full of grievance and the man himself no more then five paces from me. I turn and give him a tired look.
"Well you said you wanted to be near Lucky Guy," I murmur.