Wonderous joy. I get to work on a double load tonight, thanks to the last truck
arriving seven and a half hours late. At least there'll be overtime...
Disclaimer: More money assuages all problems.
Rise of the Silver Stars
Chapter 18: The 3rd Cavalry Regiment
Private Matthew Gunter was, to be polite, rather... odd. He kept to himself, not interacting much the rest of the regiment, and usually kept his uniform a size too small. It was all due to his problem, which he tried to hide from his comrades in arms and had actually done so quite successfully. Of course, it was far easier to hide the problem on the sand steamer. Thus it was that he was cooped up in the port foreward primary ventilation tube, crawling along through the cramped space and dim lighting, and greatly enjoying the travel as a whole.
You see, the poor man was rather agoraphobic. Or to be blunt, wide open spaces scared the piss out of him. He found the enclosed space of the ventilation system to be a great place to scuttle around in, since it had all the qualities he liked in a place- namely, that there wasn't much room in it for anything but himself. It was also interesting to poke around and peer through the grates to see what was there. He could probably navigate the ship better through the ductwork than through the halls by now, knowing how to get from his quarters (again a small room that he shared with three other men) to the meal room, the bridge, any cargo bay, the engine room, and the gunnery mounts.
Of course, his travels weren't exactly secret. He had popped out of the system all over the place upon reaching dead ends, and plenty of people saw him. For the most part, whenever anyone asked "Why are you crawling through the vents?", he just replied "Why not?" and hopped back in. Of course, this led to some riffing as the story crept around the ranks, though most of it was good humored- the occupied rooms had plastered various items over the vents so he couldn't peer in, most of which were simple hoods, though his favorite was the one on a quarters towards the starboard side- the occupants had hung a folder in front of the vent labeled 'Classified Material- Do Not Look'. It just beat out the yellow curtain on another.
Of course, it was a shame that he couldn't peek into the women's shower room anymore...
¤ ¤ ¤
Technical Specialist Ruddy "Robot" Mayers was really enjoying his briefings these days. He was assigned to engine control during the transition, and was learning the ins and outs of the system that powered the steamer. It was, simply put, an incredible piece of work. The steam tubes, the power conduits, the plant interface, and the really cool giant turbines and flywheels were all connected and compressed into just the bottom third of the ship. It was insanely complex, and he wouldn't have it any other way. The central control panel for all engineering functions curved around half the room, and was filled to the brim with gauges, indicator lights, and so many switches and dials that it looked like a parts warehouse had barfed. To him, it was a merry display of power, control, and ingenuity, not to mention the thrum of energy that pulsed like a giant's heartbeat through the walls and floor.
Today was a special day- his last day of training before he was fully qualified to operate the oversized gadget, though it was mostly a technicality at this point. He had taken to it right away, and the veteran engineer that was instructing him and the other two about-to-be shift chiefs had been impressed. Of course, it was all due to how he approached the task. He treated the systems like they were alive, the precious balance between all the opposing forces threatening to falter. He almost felt like he was merged with the ship itself when he stood before the controls. His fingers danced, adjusting a valve here, cutting in extra cooling there, all in some slow motion waltz.
Even the trickiest task became so simple- regulating the output of the plant that powered the entire thing was second nature. Some of the guys had mentioned something about the plants being described as living, thinking things in some book from a conversation he had overheard during lunch. It certainly made sense to him. The globe contained something that nobody really understood anymore, not since the Great Fall. He would go down to the plant itself on his off hours, and would talk to it if nobody was around. Whether there really was something able to listen to him in there or not was unimportant. He felt there was, and until somebody could give him a definite 'No' he'd continue to do so.
His turn at the console came up, and his fingers danced again with whatever there may be.
¤ ¤ ¤
Corporal Evete Rez-sous gave the hotplate a splash of oil before tossing on a massive slab of meat. It hissed and sputtered just right, so she turned away and checked on the huge stewpot one heater over. It too was bubbling nicely, so she cast a glance over the rest of her kitchen staff and noted that the new guy was still placing the rolls too close together before sticking them in the oven. If they came out only half baked, she'd chew him out once the soldiers were done chewing through the underdone bread. Of course, it was to be expected. Feeding some two hundred hungry men and women was no easy task, and considering how vital it was to the well-being of the regiment she ought to be a few ranks higher. They'd all pour in at once, expecting a meal worthy of kings, and when done they'd leave her with the dishes.
Bunch of ingrates. Each and every one of them had done something at some point to tick her off, and would then learn how much power was contained in her lanky frame. All except for the old commander. Somehow, he had never forgotten to send her a smile and a word of thanks for the food she'd slave over to prepare, even when things got hectic. If he ever did forget, she'd take it as a sign that the world was about to end or worse. The new commander, on the other hand, had managed to grate on her nerves when she first met him a good while back. He was a green recruit, tossed on over to the 3rd since it was the dumping grounds of the Cavalry. He had ignored her completely coming through the mess line, and since the pressure had been building all day she ended up erupting on him and the future quartermaster. Funny thing was, afterwards the two of them came back and helped her with the cleanup, and she softened up towards them for their effort. It was their little game now- if he forgot to thank her for the food, she'd get help with the dishes.
Sadly, it appeared that tonight she'd be doing it all. He'd been extra thankful for her help with his sick guest, and all the effort she'd been putting into her "Sick Man's Special" stew. All he said about the guest was that it was someone important, so that probably meant some weaseling official looking for a private, cheap, and safe transport across the sand. The nit would probably leave without even seeing her. Well, a guest of the commander was a guest of the commander, and if they were genuinely ill she certainly wasn't about to give them anything second-rate. After all, she would give it her all to keep anyone in her regiment at the peak of performance. All in all, it was one strange thing to act like they were made of glass one moment and then wail on them the next.
It earned her the nickname 'Mom', and she wore it with pride.
¤ ¤ ¤
Gunner First Class Susan Lloyd hadn't expected to get anywhere in the Cavalry. Historically, most women would get sent to the 5th regiment right after applying, since it was the legendary Amazon unit. However, 'legendary' meant that they had strict standards about who could get in- you had to be: 1) A woman, which she was, and 2) You had to be hella tough, which she wasn't. She didn't even approach just regular tough, and was rejected. Of course, there were plenty of positions open for clerks, nurses, and kitchen staff among the other regiments, but having been born and raised to be something that encompassed all three of those tasks she had no desire to end up in any of them. She wanted to be a fighter, but had few of the physical requirements. She was nearly at the end of her rope when the recruiter suggested the 3rd rather sardonically. The rest of the staff laughed, but if it was a chance for her, she'd take it.
Her first impression of the 3rd was that it was a joke. The recruiter mentioned that it had a bad reputation, and her first sight of Commander Thompson was less than inspiring. He was completely drunk and passed out at her feet, but not before proclaiming that he could indeed handle another round of drinks and an entire cake to boot. As the rest of the company dragged him off, she found out that he had been floored by only two. When she introduced herself to the next highest ranking officer, he grabbed a whole gallon of coffee and poured it down the commander's throat. He practically jumped awake a minute later, then crashed again. He kept alternating that way throughout the interview, though at the end he did say yes.
Her spirits had dropped when she realized that the 3rd was the traditional dumping grounds for inept recruits that wanted to serve but lacked the discipline, ability, or both. A few questions got her the basic history of the 3rd- it was the last of the initial regiments of the Cavalry to be formed. The 1st got all the well connected recruits, the 2nd got the Joe Nobodys that had skill and discipline, and the 3rd got everybody else. They knew from the very start some eighty eight years ago that they were intended as a joke, so they decided to give it one hell of a punchline.
Undisciplined? Fine. We don't need no stinking discipline. Unskilled? Feh, just means you need to be creative. Both? Come on in, we don't turn away anyone.
They moved her around from place to place among the various duties that would place her in a fighting role. Rifle recoil practically yanked the guns from her hands. Thomases hurt to ride, and had a tendency to throw her off. She couldn't even manage a simple jeep, managing to blow the transmission on one in under a minute. She was getting incredibly depressed by then, and was about ready to go crawl back home and beg forgiveness. That was when the 3rd showed its true colors.
They wouldn't let her just roll over and declare it futile. For all their bad rap, there were a few things they had. They had a desire to help. They had a mighty will that made up for their shortcomings. They had each other. If someone could do just one thing well, that was their contribution. If someone needed help with that one thing, you jumped right in and did it. That one thing could be usual or unusual- sharpshooting, riding, cooking, listening, talking, anything. You just had to be willing to fall flat on your face a few times, and they'd always be there to pick you up and brush you off. The 3rd was the regiment where you could be what you wanted to be, or what you could be, as long as you kept going.
So she picked herself up and kept on trying until she hit pay dirt. It was more or less literal. She was stuck in a jeep-mounted light artillery cannon, and asked to hit a marked mound of sand. She twisted the massive gun around, lined it up, and inverted the mound with a nearly perfect shot. It turned out to be her calling- she wasn't on the front line, but she was right behind them, ready to turn anything too tough for small arms fire into twisted slag.
It was all because of the 3rd that she ended up as something she wanted to be rather than something relegated to her. She was part of their family now, able and willing to take on any challenge with her 2" cannon. Of course, with the recent reorganization for the armored deployment, she had to trade in her 2". It would have been depressing, if she hadn't gained a 16" in exchange, as well as a promotion, and a gun crew.
She could hardly wait for the order to blow the shit out of something.
¤ ¤ ¤
In a mostly private cabin, the occupant awoke from what looked to be a fairly restful midday nap. However, no napping had taken place. The body simply became inert as attention was directed /outside/. The passing scenery had nothing to do with what was /outside/- rather, the passing thoughts did.
The effort had been considerable to glean a few brief glimpses into the psyches that surrounded her. She couldn't actually /touch/ any of them, and most were too far away to even /look/ into. However, she had managed to /look/, and what she had seen brought a smile of satisfaction to her face. It couldn't be maintained long, as the mental effort left her exhausted along with the physical exhaustion from the vestiges of the illness. There was time for a pair of thoughts to pass through her before she rolled over and took a real nap.
"Rai-dei's wrong about humanity. I think he's also wrong about me."
Thus assured, her sleep was deep, restful, and devoid of nightmares.
As you may have noticed, this was another 'through the eyes of the little people' chapter, though they had a hitchhiker looking over their shoulders. In the meantime, I've devised a punishment for Legato that's much, much worse than having your face eaten by a Grue.
¤cuts to Legato¤ "Hello, welcome to Wal-mart." ¤cuts back¤
Whew, now that's horrible. He's only twisted two people into pretzels so far, though he can't stop until he's earned enough to pay for the hair gel.
Reviewer Responses
Sorian: Nuh-uh, Mr. Samurai has too much of that blade stuck where the sun don't shine.
betsytheripper: It was one sitting out on my desk. I have a whole bag of various D4-D20s. Wolfwood's been staring through the author's viewport at the future chapters. You know, the ones that have Milly in them.
cjflutterbye: Yeah, /looking/ can be hazardous. Most brains aren't washed, which means they're absolutely disgusting >:)
coffeetin: Karma in action. And yeah, I think Midvalley said it best himself: "...plays the greatest music on the greatest stage of all." As I see it, he tried to become his music, and when have you heard of music doin' it?
SapphireWhiteTigress: I time my updates to be precisely 'whenever'. It's all part of being evil.
MidgetMinion: Oh, I'll be forging on into a lot of unexplored, or at least rarely traveled territory. Anyone's guess as to how it'll all play out (even me).
Neptune Butterfly: If I am writing a story so well it can't be put down, then I'm doing good- though at the plot/length ratio I've got, we could be talking 100k words easily in total. Reading that much in one sitting is truly a feat, so be glad you caught it at this point. (According to friends, I actually require the use of the pronoun 'it'. Evidently they're not certain either.)
Disclaimer: More money assuages all problems.
Chapter 18: The 3rd Cavalry Regiment
Private Matthew Gunter was, to be polite, rather... odd. He kept to himself, not interacting much the rest of the regiment, and usually kept his uniform a size too small. It was all due to his problem, which he tried to hide from his comrades in arms and had actually done so quite successfully. Of course, it was far easier to hide the problem on the sand steamer. Thus it was that he was cooped up in the port foreward primary ventilation tube, crawling along through the cramped space and dim lighting, and greatly enjoying the travel as a whole.
You see, the poor man was rather agoraphobic. Or to be blunt, wide open spaces scared the piss out of him. He found the enclosed space of the ventilation system to be a great place to scuttle around in, since it had all the qualities he liked in a place- namely, that there wasn't much room in it for anything but himself. It was also interesting to poke around and peer through the grates to see what was there. He could probably navigate the ship better through the ductwork than through the halls by now, knowing how to get from his quarters (again a small room that he shared with three other men) to the meal room, the bridge, any cargo bay, the engine room, and the gunnery mounts.
Of course, his travels weren't exactly secret. He had popped out of the system all over the place upon reaching dead ends, and plenty of people saw him. For the most part, whenever anyone asked "Why are you crawling through the vents?", he just replied "Why not?" and hopped back in. Of course, this led to some riffing as the story crept around the ranks, though most of it was good humored- the occupied rooms had plastered various items over the vents so he couldn't peer in, most of which were simple hoods, though his favorite was the one on a quarters towards the starboard side- the occupants had hung a folder in front of the vent labeled 'Classified Material- Do Not Look'. It just beat out the yellow curtain on another.
Of course, it was a shame that he couldn't peek into the women's shower room anymore...
Technical Specialist Ruddy "Robot" Mayers was really enjoying his briefings these days. He was assigned to engine control during the transition, and was learning the ins and outs of the system that powered the steamer. It was, simply put, an incredible piece of work. The steam tubes, the power conduits, the plant interface, and the really cool giant turbines and flywheels were all connected and compressed into just the bottom third of the ship. It was insanely complex, and he wouldn't have it any other way. The central control panel for all engineering functions curved around half the room, and was filled to the brim with gauges, indicator lights, and so many switches and dials that it looked like a parts warehouse had barfed. To him, it was a merry display of power, control, and ingenuity, not to mention the thrum of energy that pulsed like a giant's heartbeat through the walls and floor.
Today was a special day- his last day of training before he was fully qualified to operate the oversized gadget, though it was mostly a technicality at this point. He had taken to it right away, and the veteran engineer that was instructing him and the other two about-to-be shift chiefs had been impressed. Of course, it was all due to how he approached the task. He treated the systems like they were alive, the precious balance between all the opposing forces threatening to falter. He almost felt like he was merged with the ship itself when he stood before the controls. His fingers danced, adjusting a valve here, cutting in extra cooling there, all in some slow motion waltz.
Even the trickiest task became so simple- regulating the output of the plant that powered the entire thing was second nature. Some of the guys had mentioned something about the plants being described as living, thinking things in some book from a conversation he had overheard during lunch. It certainly made sense to him. The globe contained something that nobody really understood anymore, not since the Great Fall. He would go down to the plant itself on his off hours, and would talk to it if nobody was around. Whether there really was something able to listen to him in there or not was unimportant. He felt there was, and until somebody could give him a definite 'No' he'd continue to do so.
His turn at the console came up, and his fingers danced again with whatever there may be.
Corporal Evete Rez-sous gave the hotplate a splash of oil before tossing on a massive slab of meat. It hissed and sputtered just right, so she turned away and checked on the huge stewpot one heater over. It too was bubbling nicely, so she cast a glance over the rest of her kitchen staff and noted that the new guy was still placing the rolls too close together before sticking them in the oven. If they came out only half baked, she'd chew him out once the soldiers were done chewing through the underdone bread. Of course, it was to be expected. Feeding some two hundred hungry men and women was no easy task, and considering how vital it was to the well-being of the regiment she ought to be a few ranks higher. They'd all pour in at once, expecting a meal worthy of kings, and when done they'd leave her with the dishes.
Bunch of ingrates. Each and every one of them had done something at some point to tick her off, and would then learn how much power was contained in her lanky frame. All except for the old commander. Somehow, he had never forgotten to send her a smile and a word of thanks for the food she'd slave over to prepare, even when things got hectic. If he ever did forget, she'd take it as a sign that the world was about to end or worse. The new commander, on the other hand, had managed to grate on her nerves when she first met him a good while back. He was a green recruit, tossed on over to the 3rd since it was the dumping grounds of the Cavalry. He had ignored her completely coming through the mess line, and since the pressure had been building all day she ended up erupting on him and the future quartermaster. Funny thing was, afterwards the two of them came back and helped her with the cleanup, and she softened up towards them for their effort. It was their little game now- if he forgot to thank her for the food, she'd get help with the dishes.
Sadly, it appeared that tonight she'd be doing it all. He'd been extra thankful for her help with his sick guest, and all the effort she'd been putting into her "Sick Man's Special" stew. All he said about the guest was that it was someone important, so that probably meant some weaseling official looking for a private, cheap, and safe transport across the sand. The nit would probably leave without even seeing her. Well, a guest of the commander was a guest of the commander, and if they were genuinely ill she certainly wasn't about to give them anything second-rate. After all, she would give it her all to keep anyone in her regiment at the peak of performance. All in all, it was one strange thing to act like they were made of glass one moment and then wail on them the next.
It earned her the nickname 'Mom', and she wore it with pride.
Gunner First Class Susan Lloyd hadn't expected to get anywhere in the Cavalry. Historically, most women would get sent to the 5th regiment right after applying, since it was the legendary Amazon unit. However, 'legendary' meant that they had strict standards about who could get in- you had to be: 1) A woman, which she was, and 2) You had to be hella tough, which she wasn't. She didn't even approach just regular tough, and was rejected. Of course, there were plenty of positions open for clerks, nurses, and kitchen staff among the other regiments, but having been born and raised to be something that encompassed all three of those tasks she had no desire to end up in any of them. She wanted to be a fighter, but had few of the physical requirements. She was nearly at the end of her rope when the recruiter suggested the 3rd rather sardonically. The rest of the staff laughed, but if it was a chance for her, she'd take it.
Her first impression of the 3rd was that it was a joke. The recruiter mentioned that it had a bad reputation, and her first sight of Commander Thompson was less than inspiring. He was completely drunk and passed out at her feet, but not before proclaiming that he could indeed handle another round of drinks and an entire cake to boot. As the rest of the company dragged him off, she found out that he had been floored by only two. When she introduced herself to the next highest ranking officer, he grabbed a whole gallon of coffee and poured it down the commander's throat. He practically jumped awake a minute later, then crashed again. He kept alternating that way throughout the interview, though at the end he did say yes.
Her spirits had dropped when she realized that the 3rd was the traditional dumping grounds for inept recruits that wanted to serve but lacked the discipline, ability, or both. A few questions got her the basic history of the 3rd- it was the last of the initial regiments of the Cavalry to be formed. The 1st got all the well connected recruits, the 2nd got the Joe Nobodys that had skill and discipline, and the 3rd got everybody else. They knew from the very start some eighty eight years ago that they were intended as a joke, so they decided to give it one hell of a punchline.
Undisciplined? Fine. We don't need no stinking discipline. Unskilled? Feh, just means you need to be creative. Both? Come on in, we don't turn away anyone.
They moved her around from place to place among the various duties that would place her in a fighting role. Rifle recoil practically yanked the guns from her hands. Thomases hurt to ride, and had a tendency to throw her off. She couldn't even manage a simple jeep, managing to blow the transmission on one in under a minute. She was getting incredibly depressed by then, and was about ready to go crawl back home and beg forgiveness. That was when the 3rd showed its true colors.
They wouldn't let her just roll over and declare it futile. For all their bad rap, there were a few things they had. They had a desire to help. They had a mighty will that made up for their shortcomings. They had each other. If someone could do just one thing well, that was their contribution. If someone needed help with that one thing, you jumped right in and did it. That one thing could be usual or unusual- sharpshooting, riding, cooking, listening, talking, anything. You just had to be willing to fall flat on your face a few times, and they'd always be there to pick you up and brush you off. The 3rd was the regiment where you could be what you wanted to be, or what you could be, as long as you kept going.
So she picked herself up and kept on trying until she hit pay dirt. It was more or less literal. She was stuck in a jeep-mounted light artillery cannon, and asked to hit a marked mound of sand. She twisted the massive gun around, lined it up, and inverted the mound with a nearly perfect shot. It turned out to be her calling- she wasn't on the front line, but she was right behind them, ready to turn anything too tough for small arms fire into twisted slag.
It was all because of the 3rd that she ended up as something she wanted to be rather than something relegated to her. She was part of their family now, able and willing to take on any challenge with her 2" cannon. Of course, with the recent reorganization for the armored deployment, she had to trade in her 2". It would have been depressing, if she hadn't gained a 16" in exchange, as well as a promotion, and a gun crew.
She could hardly wait for the order to blow the shit out of something.
In a mostly private cabin, the occupant awoke from what looked to be a fairly restful midday nap. However, no napping had taken place. The body simply became inert as attention was directed /outside/. The passing scenery had nothing to do with what was /outside/- rather, the passing thoughts did.
The effort had been considerable to glean a few brief glimpses into the psyches that surrounded her. She couldn't actually /touch/ any of them, and most were too far away to even /look/ into. However, she had managed to /look/, and what she had seen brought a smile of satisfaction to her face. It couldn't be maintained long, as the mental effort left her exhausted along with the physical exhaustion from the vestiges of the illness. There was time for a pair of thoughts to pass through her before she rolled over and took a real nap.
"Rai-dei's wrong about humanity. I think he's also wrong about me."
Thus assured, her sleep was deep, restful, and devoid of nightmares.
As you may have noticed, this was another 'through the eyes of the little people' chapter, though they had a hitchhiker looking over their shoulders. In the meantime, I've devised a punishment for Legato that's much, much worse than having your face eaten by a Grue.
¤cuts to Legato¤ "Hello, welcome to Wal-mart." ¤cuts back¤
Whew, now that's horrible. He's only twisted two people into pretzels so far, though he can't stop until he's earned enough to pay for the hair gel.
Sorian: Nuh-uh, Mr. Samurai has too much of that blade stuck where the sun don't shine.
betsytheripper: It was one sitting out on my desk. I have a whole bag of various D4-D20s. Wolfwood's been staring through the author's viewport at the future chapters. You know, the ones that have Milly in them.
cjflutterbye: Yeah, /looking/ can be hazardous. Most brains aren't washed, which means they're absolutely disgusting >:)
coffeetin: Karma in action. And yeah, I think Midvalley said it best himself: "...plays the greatest music on the greatest stage of all." As I see it, he tried to become his music, and when have you heard of music doin' it?
SapphireWhiteTigress: I time my updates to be precisely 'whenever'. It's all part of being evil.
MidgetMinion: Oh, I'll be forging on into a lot of unexplored, or at least rarely traveled territory. Anyone's guess as to how it'll all play out (even me).
Neptune Butterfly: If I am writing a story so well it can't be put down, then I'm doing good- though at the plot/length ratio I've got, we could be talking 100k words easily in total. Reading that much in one sitting is truly a feat, so be glad you caught it at this point. (According to friends, I actually require the use of the pronoun 'it'. Evidently they're not certain either.)