Chapter 3
Ash hummed as she worked, stretching upward, tying a thin cord far above her head and pulling it taut. The melody was a familiar one, though she couldn't quite recall where she'd first heard it. The song had no name—at least not that she knew—and in moments of melancholy the tune sprang unbidden to her mind and from her lips. Likely as not it was a fragment of her past, its precise origin obscured by the walls she'd put up around that part of her life.
With the clothesline now strung, a small crew began hanging up the wash to dry. Ash allowed herself a private smile as she watched her comrades. They chatted amicably, and the recruits had integrated well into the threadbare squadron they'd been sent to reinforce. The two boys Khalid had convinced to play bait with him had remained close, and now seemed almost attached at the hip. Their names were Jo and Orin, and they brought a much needed liveliness to the squadron despite their own inexperience. Young Lyra was especially entranced by them, and always hovered in their orbit, rarely joining their conversations but always listening.
Even now Ash could see Lyra watching sideways as Jo and Orin whipped at each other with the wet laundry in a mock fight. Such fascinations weren't unexpected. Out here, sources of light and spirit were few and far between. Such individuals had a gravity about them that captured and sustained their squadmates. In Ash's experience they were as important to a unit's cohesion as the officers themselves, often more so. And it was almost always more painful when they inevitably fell.
Ash shook her head, trying to ignore the mental image of Jo and Orin dying in the twisted metal coffins they called juggernauts. She shouldn't dwell on future tragedies. There would be time enough to grieve when the moment came. If it comes, Ash reminded herself. She'd been trying to conquer the encroaching pessimism.
On the whole, the squadron was in good shape. In the week or so since they'd been returned to active duty their workload had actually decreased. Their patrols were now obligatory, but there were fewer of them than before when Khalid had assigned them. Old Bridgeburner still made them drill regularly (which was more than any other captain Ash had served under), but it was better than their week of training had been.
"Ash," a rough voice called out from behind, startling her. She turned to see a looming, scar-ridden figure trudging toward her. From the direction of Eliezer's approach, he had been in the forest, alone.
"Praying again, Reverend?" she teased, as he idled up beside her letting a smile rest across her face. If anyone needed more smiles in their life, it was Eliezer. Jo and Orin alone would hardly be enough to crack the veteran's shell.
"If I don't pray for you lot, nobody else will," he replied, his face as hard as ever. Eliezer was a religious man, though Ash had never spoken to him at length about what exactly he believed. His was a resilient faith though, whatever it was, for him to uphold it despite the hells he'd walked through.
"And we all appreciate the service you provide, Father Eliezer," she said with mock devotion. He rolled his eyes in response.
"We need to talk."
"We're talking now, aren't we?" she said, striding over to help the others as they hung out the laundry.
"Not like this!" he hissed, voice low. "You, me, and Khalid. There are things that must be discussed." Ash raised an eyebrow.
"Do I finally get to listen in on one of your little 'captain, vice captain' get togethers? I must say, I'm flattered."
"Shove it, Ash. I expect you to do more than just listen in. I want you there for a reason, and Khalid does too. Stay quiet if you'd like, but the captain led me to believe your interest in the wellbeing of this company was more active than that." Ash turned to him and narrowed her eyes.
"You know it is El," she said, trying not to sound hurt, "and you know me well enough that you shouldn't need Khalid to tell you so."
"I'm glad to hear it. Come on then, the cap' will be in the war room."
"The war room?" Ash asked. She didn't know of such a place. Eliezer grinned, the expression only drawing attention to the feral aspect of his features.
"You'll see."
See, she did. The veteran soldier led her to the juggernaut hangar and into one of the back rooms the mechanics used for storage. This one, however, appeared to have been cleared of its usual contents and was now cluttered with a different class of material. Maps. They were plastered over the walls and crowded the several desks and tables littered across the room. The maps were of varying type, quality, and size. Some were topographical, others more street conscious. She even spotted one painted in bright colors with the area's former tourist attractions drawn in cartoonish detail. Handwritten notes were speckled across the maps. Khalid himself stood pen in hand, marking something on one of them even as Ash and Eliezer entered. He looked up, meeting her eyes.
"Good," he said, "you're here."
"What is this? Where did you get these?"
"Spent the past two weeks looking for 'em," Eliezer said proudly beside her. "They were in old buildings mostly. We found a broken down city hall, and that was the real jackpot."
"A few were already here, of course," said Khalid. "Courtesy of our predecessors, I suspect." Ash walked around the room slowly, examining the fruits of their labors. She frowned. Many of them were recognizable as their squadron's normal territory, but many others were foreign to her.
"Why do you have these?" she asked, gesturing to the papers in question. "I get having the local ones, but…" she trailed off, coming to a particularly ink-stained map, thick with notes. Foremost among these, outlined and labeled crisply was a single point. Ravenholt. The internment camp. "What are you planning?" she asked, her chest tightening as she stared at the notes pertaining to the map.
"Everything," said Khalid. "And nothing in particular. Whatever comes, I mean to be ready." Ash continued her examination of the maps, ingesting the annotations.
"You expect to be abandoned," she said, turning to study Khalid. She could read little from his stony face. "You plan to defend escape corridors, not the airfields which could bring us much-needed support from inside the Gran Mur." Eliezer let out a harsh snort.
"The Republic couldn't give a lick about us now, while we still defend them like faithful dogs, or hogs rather. You would expect them to evacuate us in an emergency?"
"There are elements of the Republic military that recognize our strategic importance," she said.
"Yes," Khalid replied in a honeyed voice, "there are. But to them, are we more strategically important in the belly of a plane to safety, or on the battlefront, dying to buy them a few more days of peace in the capital?" Khalid strode over and pointed his finger at the map behind her. She looked and saw his fingertip hovering just above the internment camp. "Even if they did for some reason find it convenient to evacuate us, would they evacuate them? The ones who are left back there? For their sake, we either have to hold this line, or escort them somewhere safe." Ash nodded slowly.
"That… makes sense. But you have to realize we can't do that alone. You asked for my help, so here's my analysis. We're one squadron, and the juggernauts aren't built to last. Without the Republic's logistical support we wouldn't last two weeks in a crisis."
"Except," Eliezer interrupted, "depending on the nature of the crisis the Republic may not be in any position to offer logistical support."
"To keep our people alive we need food, water, and protection from the legion. To keep our juggernauts alive we need fuel, parts, pilots, and technicians to maintain them," Khalid gestured to a note on the wall as he spoke, upon which he'd already noted each of these things, among others."
"We could forage for food," Eliezer proposed. Khalid shook his head.
"That takes time, and we don't have the skills for it. With a group as large as I hope to maintain that won't be sustainable."
"Military rations will keep for a long time, even if they are disgusting. We could stockpile."
"Rationing," Khalid said in agreement. "Yes, that would help."
"The squadron won't like it," Eliezer warned.
"It's better than starving to death," said Ash, "we can help them understand. And we can pull some strings, see if we can get extra rations sent with the normal orders to build up a surplus."
"That would be nice, but we don't exactly have any strings to pull, do we?" said Eliezer.
"I might," Ash volunteered. "Vladilena Melizé is reasonable, and pragmatic. She'll listen to us, and unlike us, she can pull strings with the best of them."
"I don't like relying on the Alba…" Khalid mused. "…but if you can get us surplus rations then this girl of yours might be useful after all."
"She'll be more than useful," Ash promised, "she is our best hope of surviving this war." Khalid narrowed his eyes.
"I respect your conviction soldier, but it is misplaced. I hope that you are right about Melizé's worth, but she is not our best hope, and I will not have you saying as much to anyone in my squadron. We are our own best hope."
Ash opened her mouth to retort, but the words died on her lips as she felt the familiar rush of the RAID device's activation. Eliezer stiffened, signaling that he felt it too. Khalid betrayed no such outward signs, but it quickly became apparent that he had been contacted as well.
"Hey Pigs! Good news, you get to bloody your snouts a bit today. We've got a big enemy column advancing to your East. One squadron's already made contact, but I'm betting they'll be dead by the time you get there. You'll be joining up with another squadron for the sortie. Try not to embarrass me in front of the audience." The handler proceeded to rattle off coordinates, which Ash immediately checked against the maps. The terrain was hill country. It was fairly common out here, and a topography to which she was accustomed.
Khalid called the squadron to muster in the courtyard, and within a few minutes the full force of the 9th stood by their juggernauts. Many of the recruits were shaking in a mixture of fear and anticipation. Others stood still, dead-eyed. A few of the veterans had the same reaction. Ash swallowed the butterflies in her own stomach. This was not new to her, but the last battle she'd participated in had not gone well. The prospect of her return to combat was only made worse by the fact that two squadrons were being sent. That meant the Legion was out in force, and this would be no cakewalk.
Khalid stood at their front, as solid as the ground beneath his feet. He didn't make a grand speech, though Ash half expected him to do so. Instead he merely gestured to Eliezer.
"Mount up!" shouted the gruff vice captain. The processors entered their metal coffins as one, and Ash wondered how many of them would ever see the light of day again.
Corporal Rogan Haxley adjusted his dress suit. It was a sturdy garment and it had lasted him through several years of infrequent use. He didn't get too many opportunities to dress formally, and generally he was quite happy to wear clothing as practical as possible for any given situation. Unfortunately, today he needed to impress. He'd called in more than a few favors to secure this opportunity, and he'd put more money on the line than he could comfortably spare. This was a gamble, but he'd weighed his options and chosen to roll the dice.
He stopped at the mirror one last time to comb through his dusty silver hair with one hand while trying to disguise the sheaf of papers he'd tucked into his suit with the other. Design documents, academic papers and the like. He would need those, but he couldn't play his hand too early.
Rogan checked himself over one last time before leaving his cramped apartment, breathing deep to fight the nervousness. He walked past rows of tenement housing on his way to the transit station, a frown creasing his face. The frown followed him as he took the metro, pressed thick with silver-haired bodies. Slowly the train car emptied as it made its way into the city's heart in the 1st sector. Fewer people lived here. It was too expensive for most. Rogan himself kept his distance when he could, but he'd prepared himself in advance for the blows his pocketbook might take from this endeavor.
As his stop came and Rogan disembarked, he checked his wristwatch and quickened his step. A precise time had been decided for the meeting. He couldn't risk arriving late. His stride carried him down magnificent streets and past astonishing examples of the Republic's finest architecture. The creases on the corporal's face deepened. When they had been built, these grandiose structures had been examples of the pinnacle of the Republic's engineering prowess. That era had passed. They were old. Rogan didn't mind age. Age was good, history was good, legacy was good.
Complacency was not.
The Republic's leadership had preened themselves in the mirror for so long over their old accomplishments that their eyes had grown dim. They could no longer see the truth of the world around them.
At last, Rogan came to an ornate fountain, the appointed place for the rendezvous. He forced himself to relax, replacing his frown with what he hoped was an easygoing smile.
He spotted the person he was to meet from far off, but pretended not to see her until she had grown closer. He wanted to portray a casual demeanor if he could. She smiled at him. Even Rogan could sense a hint of falsehood in her expression.
"Alexander Demelain!" she exclaimed. Rogan Haxley answered quickly to the false name he'd given her beforehand. His real one too easily betrayed the humility of his roots.
"Henrietta von Penrose! It's a pleasure to see you, and I'm blessed by the radiance of your company." Rogan almost winced at the sound of his own voice. It was thick with an imitation of the Celena elite's manner of speech. As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew he'd gone over the top, and sounded ridiculous. The young woman however took the affectation in stride.
"The pleasure is mine! My company isn't the only blessing I have for you, in fact. I have a gift, as I like to give only to the best of my new suitors." Falsehood in her voice, just as in her face. Had the woman noticed Rogan's deception, or was this type of obfuscation just normal to the Republic gentry?
"A gift?" Rogan said, panicking. He hadn't brought a gift, and nothing on his person could easily serve as one. "I'm afraid you've caught me off guard my lady, as I cannot return the favor."
"Oh, we'll see how you feel in a minute or so! Here, I made it myself." Henrietta fished through her shoulder bag and retrieved a small container, from which she removed a pastry, presenting it to Rogan. He took it gingerly, surprised at how light it was. He rarely had the opportunity for sweets, let alone any as fancy-looking as this one.
"Thank you," he said, almost forgetting his pompous accent.
"Don't thank me until you try it," the young woman quipped, replacing the container in her bag. "Go on." At an encouraging nod from Henrietta, Rogan took a bite. It was soft and light with an abundance of cream. It was also the sweetest thing he'd ever tasted, as if it had been spun directly from sugar. He fought the urge to recoil and took a second bite, finishing it. His throat cried out for a drink of water to cleanse his tongue, but he suppressed the urge. Smiling at Henrietta instead as she stared at him expectantly.
"It's amazing!" he said, hoping he sounded genuine. She shrugged.
"The rats at the animal testing center didn't seem to think so, but I'm glad you like it. It's my third try at them, and I think I'm getting close to cracking the recipe."
"Well," he said, at a loss for words, "those rats wouldn't recognize good food if it hit them in the face."
"They certainly wouldn't anymore. Most of them are dead. Their trial didn't go well." Rogan glanced at her, alarmed.
"Not because of the dessert," she clarified, "the actual experiment."
"Oh. I'm sorry then. Do you know why they died?"
"Pretty sure, yeah, but its technical stuff. I won't bore you with it."
"Yes, of course." Rogan chided himself. Alexander Demelain wouldn't know or care much about her work, and he couldn't reveal himself yet, it would be too easy for her to just walk away. He needed her sitting down before he set the hook. "Shall we walk to lunch then? I have a reservation at a nice place nearby." That reservation had cost Rogan more money than he cared to think about.
"Sounds good." As they walked, they chatted about many things, but though they exchanged words Rogan could hardly call it a conversation. Their questions and answers were both shallow, surface level. Rogan didn't want to go too much deeper for fear of exposing the already shaky veneer of Alexander Demelain, and Henrietta seemed all too happy to oblige.
The restaurant was small, with walls covered in lavish paintings so rich with color that they nearly made Rogan nauseous. Rogan gave his name—the fake one—to a hostess who escorted them to a small, private booth along one of the walls. Rogan hoped Henrietta couldn't sense his tension. She seemed relaxed enough, almost bored as they were brought menus. They ordered, and for the umpteenth time Rogan forced himself to ignore the cost.
The meal was good, but Rogan's taste was dulled by the moment. He waited until they had both eaten a little but hadn't yet finished.
"What do you think about the war?" he asked. She stared at him, raising an eyebrow.
"The war? What about it? I work for the military, so I have a lot of thoughts on the subject."
"I mean, what do you think about its progress, how it's going." Henrietta cocked her head.
"I didn't know you were interested in military matters, Alexander."
"Shouldn't we all be interested in military matters? There's an army of killer robots on our doorstep."
"You wouldn't think so, listening to the way most people talk," replied Henrietta. Her gaze turned quizzical. "We've had zero casualties for the longest time, and before we know it the enemy will shut itself down. What's there to worry about?"
"You believe that?" he asked. Her expression grew dark. He continued quickly. "What if the legion doesn't shut down? I've heard rumors. People have proposed that the legion have found a way around their restrictions."
"Would one of those 'people' you speak of happen to be my friend Lena?" said Henrietta, her voice flat in a way that made Rogan uneasy.
"Maybe. Maybe not all of her warnings fall on deaf ears." Henrietta rolled her eyes.
"Before you go on, let me tell you a quick story, Alexander Demelain. I consider myself a well-informed person. I like to know about a situation before I put myself in the thick of it. So, when a mysterious man makes a proposal through an intermediary to meet me, I look up his name. Do you know what I found when I looked up yours?" Rogan winced.
"What did you find?" he asked. Though he tried, the rich inflection died on his tongue halfway through the sentence, and he fell into his natural rhythm of speaking.
"The last person in the Republic named 'Alexander Demelain' died peacefully in his sleep a half decade ago at the ripe old age of seventy-eight. So, imagine my surprise when I come to meet you and find a hale young man like yourself." Rogan could feel the blood rushing to his face as Henrietta spoke. She set her food aside primly and folded her hands in her lap, her eyes boring into Rogan with a steely glare. "Now that we're on the same page, would you like to tell me what this is really about, and why you're asking these questions?"
Rogan cleared his throat and tugged at his collar, which now felt far too tight around his neck.
"I admit it, my name isn't 'Alexander Demelain,' and I'm not interested in your courtship, but please understand that I needed to talk to you." She raised an eyebrow.
"There are other ways to talk to me you know. Was this really the best you could come up with?"
"Look, I'm sorry. I've been cut off from using traditional channels, and my other attempts weren't working. I can't attract too much attention, but I needed to talk to you, and couldn't afford to waste time. A friend of your family owed me a favor, and the opportunity presented itself. Maybe it was rash, but this isn't really my expertise." A mirthless laugh tore itself from Henrietta, and the smile never reached her eyes.
"Clearly. And what exactly is so important to you that you need to do all of this? And what does it have to do with my friend's theories about the legion?" Rogan reached into his suit pocket and produced some of the papers he'd tucked there. He spread them across the table, brushing aside what remained of his food as he did so.
"This is what's important. Plans and proposals for a much-needed overhaul of the Republic's defense systems. My real name is Corporal Rogan Haxley, I'm in the engineering corps. I tried doing this the normal way, but the brass don't like the idea one bit. Action takes time and it takes money. Command doesn't want to use either one of those, and they're convinced that it will be unnecessary in just a few years." Rogan leaned over the table. "I'm not convinced, and neither are a lot of the other young engineers. The legion are advanced. Scary advanced. If our intelligence about their expiration date is wrong, then our civilization will get wiped off the map and we won't even have the munitions to put up a decent fight. Building those munitions is my job, so if we die from a lack of firepower, I will consider it a personal failure." Henrietta gave the papers a critical eye before staring at him, exasperated.
"Rogan—if that is your name—there are much, much better ways to go about this. You said you couldn't attract too much attention. Why?"
"I've been making noise about it for a while. The Gran Mur is shot, no way around it, and it's a miracle from the Saint that the Juggernauts are able to hold the legion back the way they do. I've taken this before the brass before, and I've been issued enough demerits by arguing about it to thicken up my personnel file quite a bit. Last time I made my case, they threatened to remove me from the service. I can't have that, so if this is going to happen then approval needs to come from the outside, and my name can't be connected to it until after we get the green light."
"And you think I have enough sway to give you that green light?" Henrietta asked.
"If you do then that would be wonderful, but that wasn't exactly the plan…" Henrietta's eyes widened in realization as he spoke.
"Lena! You want me to talk to Lena."
"Your friendship is well known, and Captain Melizé's growing influence is too. I need to get this on her desk, and I needed a way to do it under the radar." She laughed bitterly.
"You wanted funding for your little pet project, so you came up with a fake identity and took me out on a date all hoping you could seduce me into taking your idea to my best friend so she could approve it without your bosses finding out?" Rogan wilted.
"Well, I wasn't really planning on much 'seduction,' but that was the gist of it." To Rogan's dismay Henrietta laughed again.
"That's so stupid it's almost cute! And they really let you work with explosives for a living?"
"I specialize in dynamic projectile defense systems… but yes, I work with explosives."
"Ha! I sure hope you're a better engineer than you are a suitor. What a state our military is in."
"That's what I was hoping to change," Rogan said, his face sagging. He started to gather his papers, hands trembling as he moved to tuck them back into his suit. She snatched them from his fingers before he could.
"I wasn't done with those," she said.
"You won't show them to—"
"No, I won't show them to your superiors. The Saint knows I've had my own quarrels with Republic leadership. I might show them to Lena though. Your whole plan is just stupid and audacious enough that I find it entertaining, and it's also just stupid and audacious enough that Lena might like it. Today is your lucky day, Alexander Demalain." Henrietta stood up, brushing herself off. "In fact, you'd probably like the chance to show off your ideas yourself, wouldn't you? How about this, I'll introduce you to the great captain herself, today, and you get to plead your case."
"Today," Rogan gulped, not quite believing his ears "when?"
"Now."
"Now? But I'm not in uniform, and—"
"You'll fit right in. Half the men there never wear uniforms anyway. This is what you wanted, isn't it?" asked Henrietta with a wicked grin. Rogan composed himself.
"Yes, yes it is," he said after a deep breath. He stood as well. "Lead on."