NUEVO BUENOS AIRES, ENSENADA
11 August 2827, Terran Reckoning

By an astrographic quirk that only one man in 3. Kompanie has enough education to understand, Ensenada has a short 'year', but a 'day' that runs to thirty T-hours and change. Nonetheless, the system's sun, Massachusetts, is just starting to peek over the eastern horizon when Tenente Ferretti finally emerges from the comm.-room, wearing a sour expression.

"No joy, Herr Leutnant?" Bauer surmises.

Ferretti's answer leads off with a growl of frustration. "You're kidding, right? God, you'd think I was asking 'em to spend their own money. Roust out the leadership for an adjunct post. And have them bring our three best marksmen."

"Sir."

A few moments later, Bauer finds himself watching his now-poker-faced Tenente assess three grimy Privates, two ragged-looking Corporals-Major and a weather-beaten Corporal – and trying not to curse out loud. That Goddamned Matthias... Maybe the Leutnant won't notice...

Silly notion, really – that'd make things too easy. "Is this everyone?" Ferretti asks.

The assembled non-officers trade uncomfortable glances. After a second or so, Bauer steps in. "Herr Leutnant, Privates Prutter, Raikinnen and Davies are the marksmen you wanted – Captain Petrelli assigned them all to company headquarters as his bodyguards. Liebgott has Able Platoon, Hausmann has Baker, and Tikki is Charlie's senior squad-leader. Technically, I have Dog Platoon, but since I'm the only member of Dog Platoon left..."

"And Charlie's platoon-leader?"

"Chief Corporal-Major Matthias is manning the rooftop OP, sir," Tikki offers, just a little too quickly.

Ferretti cocks an eyebrow, but lets that go. "Well, here's the word: Battalion says they might be able to get us some more resupply about midday – if we can clear out that sniper from last night. They say they're short of trucks and tracks as it is, and they can't risk 'em where an observer might call artillery onto 'em."

"Which is pretty much everywhere in the fuckin' city," Corporal Hausmann snorts. "All you need is eyes and a 'phone – and every last spic on this goddamned planet has a pocket-secretary."

"I mentioned that, and they said they weren't interested in my 'excuses'. Which brings us right back to the point: we need to sort out that sniper. That's where you three come in," Ferretti tells the trio of Landsers. "Last night, the shot came from the north – probably from atop the bank. He waited to zap a leadership type, so I'm guessing he won't pass up a chance at a nice, juicy officer. Prutter, you're with me: we're going to head for the rear like we're trying to get to Battalion, then cut into that mall and see if we can work up towards his nest. I'll go first - you watch my back. Raikinnen, Davies, you'll stay here and watch for the shooter while we play bait: when he shows himself, kill him."

"Sir, how's he going to tell one of us is an officer?" Prutter wonders. And which of us is going to be the 'officer'? I've got enough ways to get killed on this friggin' planet without him turning me into deliberate sniper-bait...

Ferretti smiles crookedly, unzipping his 'bulletproof' vest and slinging it into a corner. While all of his insignia are low-vis black, only officers wear rank-badges on their collars – and they all know that the snipers know that. Nor is he finished: tossing his steel helmet onto the discarded vest, he buckles on the Deflon 'cockroach'-style brain-bucket Captain Petrelli no longer needs, which still bears two of its three stars. (It looks like he pried off and discarded the ruined centre star, then covered the bullet-hole with a patch of olive speed-tape.) "And if this doesn't do the trick, I'll ask Battalion for a neon sign saying 'please shoot me!'"

Bauer blinks in amazement. He's going to – What the fuck? All of our original Salernan officers were all about looking after their own skins! "You don't want to be too obvious about it, Herr Leutnant. Maybe keep your armour on?"

"Nah, I can duck faster without it," Ferretti snorts. "It's not like it'll stop a rifle-round anyway. Let's get this done: the sooner we're finished, the sooner they can bring us some real food."

And as three slightly nonplussed privates follow their new CO towards the sandbagged front entrance, the quartet of non-coms they leave behind trade bewildered looks, sharing a single thought: Who and WHAT the fuck IS this guy?

And why can't we get more officers like him!?

- - - - -

"You two set?" Ferretti asks, checking the magazine in his G47 one last time. (He's checked it four times already, and the sharpshooters have all noticed. They all know it as a sign of nerves; that it's the only such sign in his manner is... unusual.)

Raikinnen simply nods. Davies is the talkative one. "Jawohl, Herr Leutnant."

"Good. If you kill him, fine – but at least get his attention, huh?"

"We'll part his hair for you, Herr Leutnant," Davies drawls.

"Please do. If I get killed because you miss, my mother's going to be terribly upset," Ferretti quips. "Prutter?"

It turns out that Prutter is the same profanely-opinionated Landser who met Ferretti at the door when he arrived. Now, he gives the new boss a lop-sided shrug. "Ready as I'll ever be, Herr Leutnant."

"Okay, then." A long, deep breath... then: "GO!"

Both stay-behind marksmen lunge through the door and take firing-positions behind the sandbags. A half-breath later, Ferretti launches himself through the same door at a dead run, Prutter a step behind him, headed for an alley-mouth maybe thirty metres down the street.

KRACK!

Something yanks at Ferretti's sleeve, and he finds himself covering the last three metres in a full-stretch dive, only half-hearing the shots behind him as Raikinnen and Davies keep the sniper interested. Prutter's pressed flat against the alley wall by the time the Tenente raises himself into a crouch and starts checking out the damage: not even a mark on the skin, but his tunic and blouse are both cut clean through and the shoulder-patch of 231. Soren Infantrie-Regiment is missing completely – it's probably lying out in the street.

Prutter gives him a half-grin. "Now you've got somewhere to hang that Purple Sash you're bucking for, Herr Leutnant."

"Y'know, Prutter, for a comedian, you're a fair soldier," Ferretti returns cheerfully.

"Huh?"

Sigh. "Never mind."

The next hour or so is taken up with a nerve-wracking process of working through building after building, heads on a swivel in case there are other guerrilleros about this fine morning, watching every step for trip-wires and booby-traps. Doorways and windows are regarded with particular suspicion, yet there's little choice but to use them: they don't have the explosives to blow their own entryways. (Another reason to 'thank' their logisticians, who confine such things to 'higher-priority' units; funnily enough, most of those units are Salernan or Acadian.)

Eventually, they find themselves in a shop-front across from the 'bank' – a four-storey office-block housing all manner of financial operations. The place is built like a goddamned fortress, but then so are half the buildings erected in Nuevo Buenos Aires since the Amaris Coup; the whole damned Union of Sovereign Republics knew that the Gehennans would be coming to 'reclaim their rightful ancestral holdings' once the Star League pulled in its forces.

"Uh, Herr Leutnant, couldn't we just call in an air-strike on that fuckin' place?"

"Have you been smoking Rosarío Red?" snorts Ferretti. "Even if we could make the call from here, there's no way in hell the pipe-jockeys are gonna do anything because a Tenente asked for air support. Even if they did, what d'you expect 'em to do – fly through the Ensies' air-defences and actually drop the damned bombs in the right postal code? Airedales're almost as useless as friggin' BattleMechs in a city-fight."

"Sir, we've been on this fuckin' planet for forty-three days, fighting in this fuckin' city for forty-one of 'em," Prutter retorts. "I have yet to see even one of 'our' fuckin' 'iron knights' within ten klicks of here."

"Exactly. Just like everything else in ground warfare, Prutter, this one comes right back down to us poor bloody infantry."

"'Bloody' being the main word, Herr Leutnant."

Ferretti grunts at that, watching the bank's greeting area and thinking deeply. "Not much for it. I can't see anyone in the foyer, but that doesn't mean they're not there – he'd be a damned idiot if he didn't have a spotter or two watching the lower floors. I'll go first: you keep your eyes open and nail anybody who sticks his head up."

"You got it, sir." Say what you like about this wop sonofabitch, but he's got balls: he's always been the first one out in the open, stars and all. The street's barely fifteen metres wide, building-to-building – but that's still more than enough room and time for a sub-gunner to splatter the Tenente all over the asphalt. Prutter takes a spot behind the counter near the store-front – it'll be interesting to hurdle that when it's his turn to run, but it's better than kneeling on all the broken glass at the displays.

Ferretti sucks in a breath and starts his sprint-for-life. Sure enough, just as he makes half-way, someone appears behind one of the teller's counters and starts swinging up a rifle of his own. Prutter swings his G47 around, fires twice; the guerrillero's head snaps back, and he drops straight down.

True to their 'contract', as soon as he makes the bank's doors Ferretti waves his partner forward, trying to look in all directions at once. Prutter only slows down a little as he goes straight past, heading over to check on the guerrillero he shot. One glance is enough: there's a red-rimmed hole under the Ensenadan's right eye and bloody chunks on the wall and floor. Less reassuring is the weapon he dropped – a damned Kämpfgewehr-53 squad automatic-rifle, complete with forty-round drum-mag and a sleek electronic sighting module. He slides over the counter to pick the thing up – and blinks in astonishment. "I'll be... hey, Herr Leutnant, check this out!"

"What is it?" Ferretti's there in a minute and accepts the LMG as it's handed over.

"How the fuck did they get the thing so light? They must've knocked off almost a kilo! And what the fuck is that stock made from? It doesn't feel like wood."

"The two questions have the same answer, trooper," Ferretti muses, hefting the weapon himself. "The furniture's made out of fibreglass, like bath-tubs or those speedboats a lot of us rich-boys have. Lighter than wood, less fragile, immune to water. I heard rumours that the Highside Resistance started making them like this a couple of years after the invasion; figures it would've caught on here."

"You reckon they smuggled it in from Highside, sir?"

He's answered with an old-fashioned look, and Ferretti flips the weapon around to show the manufacturer's engravings on the receiver: they're in Ensenadan Spanish, not Highsider Welsh or Star League English. "The Ensenadans make 'em themselves, then slip 'em past us to the guerrilleros. Add those to the Xia-27's any proper machinist can make in a half-decent metalwork shop and the ammo and mags they 'obtain' from our guys alive or dead, and they're pretty well set. Straight out of the guerrilla handbook, the clever bastards," he adds thoughtfully, then shrugs it off. "It's a score for us, anyway: this semi-auto stuff is good enough for a fight out in the open country, but at times like this, you need some rock-and-roll." He casually tosses the LMG back to a startled Prutter. "Grab his ammo-drums and grenades, and let's go. We've got some walking to do – I don't think using the elevators would be too smart."

What the fuck? A juicy piece of loot like this, and he's giving it to me A half-moment later, Prutter shakes it off. Ah, fuck it. No point worrying about it – Matthias'll just swipe the fuckin' thing as soon as we get back, anyway. Might as well make the most of it while I can...

And just before they reach the fire-stairs that should take them to the roof, Ferretti does one more thing which widens Prutter's eyes: he draws his bayonet from its hip-sheath and fixes it to his G47. "Just in case," he shrugs.

They make it up two sets of stairs without incident, and the Tenente's just about to step onto the landing to head for the third floor when he checks himself, smacks himself on the forehead for an idiot, and waves Prutter back against the wall, instead producing something from his breast pocket and leaning back against the doorframe to poke the thing out into the open.

"What the fuck is that, sir?"

"Elbow mirror – lets you look around corners. Figured they'd be useful for times just like this, so I bought half a dozen from my dentist just before I embarked."

Must be nice to visit a friggin' dentist, much less buy toys like that from him! "Slick trick, Herr Leutnant. Where'd you learn that one?"

"Taurian École Militaire," Ferretti notes absently, his lips thinning as he spots the waiting trap. "It's right out of the urban-fighting manual for infantry."

"Fine for officers, sir," Prutter sniffs. "They never even told us there was a fuckin' manual for this shit – we've been making it up as we go."

Ferretti blinks at him. "What were they trying to do – get all of you killed?"

Prutter doesn't use the first answer that comes to his mind - it's guaranteed to get him Squadded, no matter how reasonable the Tenente seems. "'These worlds belong to the scions of Stefano Cavaretta', sir."

"Yeah, that's what they tell me." Ferretti's tone is distracted – maybe by the stick-frag he's pulled from his belt-sheathes, maybe not. He unscrews the safety-cap, yanks the arming-cord, then bends himself around the doorframe, sidearms the smoking potato-masher up onto the next landing, and slams the door shut again. The explosion is complex – the muffled bang of the grenade itself, overlaid with a louder, sharper detonation that shakes dust from the ceiling-panels.

- - - - -

'SECTION NINE' OP-CENTRE, FORTRESS 'CASTILLIO FIVE'
OUTSKIRTS OF NUEVO BUENOS AIRES, ENSENADA

::Uh, Commander Kadishev? You might want to see this.::

"What is it, Joe?" Anatoliy Kadishev looks up from his never-ending paperwork into his NCOIC's primary camera-eye. He's been in Fleet Intelligence's Cyber-Warfare Section more than long enough to become intimately acquainted with Tachikomae and their emotional patterns; hearing such an intent tone, especially from Chief Warrant Officer (Jo)E-0090, means whatever's going on is rather outside the norms.

::One of the Faces of the Resistance live-feeds just showed something interesting, sir. We've recorded it for playback and analysis.::

Kadishev cocks an intrigued eyebrow. "Define 'interesting'."

::'Oh God, oh God, we're all gonna die'?::

I really should have known better than to phrase it that way, the Svobodan sighs. Senior or not, he is still a Tachikoma... "Joe -!"

Even after so long an acquaintance with their ways, Kadishev finds the sight of nine hundred kilos of cyber-spider cringing in bashful apology... a little disconcerting. ::Sorry, sir – reflex. Mister Kerrigan was gleaning the FotR feeds while he waited for that Morningstar-Foxtrot's software to finish decompiling, and he spotted a person of interest with the 231. Soren Infantrie-Regiment. He thinks it's one of the Ferretti Famigilia.::

Kadishev blinks - hard. A Ferretti - in an infantry unit? Since when do wop aristocrats get out of their nice, safe BattleMechs? "You're right, that does sounds interesting."

A few moments later, they're standing before the main display, with Warrant Officers Kerrigan and A-316 queuing up the relevant recording. It looks like it was taken through the 'Net-cam on some executive's desktop computer, and shows a corner office on the fourth floor. Kneeling in the corner of the office, clutching a scoped G47, is an emaciated Ensenadan girl in a threadbare blue t-shirt and denim cutoffs. There's a metal collar welded closed about her neck – and a fanatic gleam in her eye.

::"- be coming in any minute,":: she's saying, even as she jerks her head towards the window where she's made her (latest?) sniper-nest. A rolled sky-blue bandana/head-band, the mark of a guerrillero, is wedged into the window-frame. There's a rank of tally-marks across its brow, seventeen in all; incongruously, they've been made with peach lipstick. ::"I only wish I'd had a chance to kill more of the Pog cabróns, but -"::

An explosion off-camera shakes the room, and the girl whirls, bringing her rifle to bear on something out of view. After a beat or two, her eyes widen again and she tries to bring her weapon around further yet, but one-two-three bullets punch through her chest before she can fire, slamming her against the wall. She gurgles for a moment, then collapses into the corner and goes utterly limp.

::"Clear!":: someone barks – it's spoken in Soren, but the feed automatically sub-titles it in Ensenadan, Svobodan, and Star League English – and there are cautious footsteps as two olive-clad GCC troopers approach behind leveled G47s of their own; one of them even has his bayonet fixed.

The taller of the Pogs, the one without his bayonet showing, kneels over the dead sniper and drags the scoped weapon out of her hands. ::"This is getting fuckin' old, Herr Leutnant."::

His companion also steps into view and kneels over the body, the single lateral stripe on the back of his helmet marking his status as an officer. The camera can't see his face, but his voice sounds vaguely sick. ::"Christ, Prutter, she's just a kid!"::

::"Yeah – thirteen, maybe fourteen T-years.":: 'Prutter's' tone is offhand; clearly this isn't a new experience for him. ::"Y'see the collar? The tattoo inside her left elbow? Means she was a 'comfort woman' – explains why she was so pissed off at us."::

::"A 'comfort wo-' – a thirteen-year-old girl worked as a prostitute?"::

Prutter turns a scornful look on his officer. ::"You make it sound like the fuckin' Redcoats would'a given her a choice, sir. Far as they'd'a cared, she was just another bianca to be Reclaimed."::

The Tenente is very, very quiet for a long time. ::"Jesus wept..."::

Another harsh look from the blocky enlisted-man suddenly softens in amazement. ::"Holy shit, Herr Leutnant - you're not a Gehennan, are you?"::

His officer shakes his head, clearly wondering what that's got to do with anything. ::"Secular humanist, with a bit of Soren Lutheran from Mom."::

::"Well, fuck me gently with a chainsaw...":: murmurs Prutter, almost reverentially; it takes a moment or two for him to regain his wits. ::"Whatever you do, Herr Leutnant, don't say that in front of anybody else – 'specially Matthias or the fuckin' Redcoats; I dunno if they'd Squad you or just fuckin' kill you. Lotsa ways for 'guerrilleros' to get people out here, y'scan?":: After a moment, Prutter tips his head at the still-leaking sniper. ::"Meet the poster-child for the Gehennan 'Reclamation', sir. Now, whaddya say we get the fuck outta here and tell the REMFs we want to eat now?"::

The Tenente stands up and turns away from the slain sniper, and the camera gets a good, clear look at his name-tab, insignia, and deeply-troubled face. Kerrigan freezes the picture without orders, then rattles his keyboard for a moment. "I'm running this guy against our database to pull up what we've got, Commander. Most of it'll be FTL intercepts from Virginia."

Like so much else of our intelligence about the Pogs, Kadishev half-sighs. They know we're light-years ahead of them technologically; why the hell do they have such faith in the encryptions on their comms? "Throw it up on the main screen, Paul; it should give us a sense for this fellow."

A few seconds later, the SigInt data and compiled dossier appears on one side of the screen – and Mendez blurts out everyone's immediate reaction: "Yob tvoyu mat'!"

Kadishev takes a moment to regain his outward composure, even as his mind races. Holy Jesus, talk about your golden opportunities! "Joe, get onto the sys-admins at Faces and get them to trim that feed so it ends right after the girl dies. Nobody outside this room sees that conversation – make whatever promises you have to, let me worry about keeping them. Once that's done, get their logs of prior accesses and trace every last one of them; any and every access that came from a Pog protocol-address, trace-and-burn with extreme prejudice. Don't just wipe their drives, melt them. While you're at it, monitor all the Redcoat comm.-channels for chatter about Ferretti – we don't need him getting Squadded. Paul, this goes up the chain now – we might've just found a chance to take the Sorens out of the war. Austin -" this is addressed to A-316 – "- confirm which unit he's attached to, then pass word to every militiaman and guerrillero you can reach in the Nuevo Buenos Aires region: hands off that entire battalion until further notice. Right now, Tenente Antonio Ferretti is worth a hell of a lot more to the Union if he's breathing."

- - - - -

3. KOMPANIE BIVOUAC
NUEVO BUENOS AIRES, ENSENADA

Bauer almost smiles as Prutter and Ferretti come back through the door in a half-crouch, each with an additional weapon slung over his back. "Got him then, Herr Leutnant?"

"Yes." Ferretti's voice is clipped.

Bauer can guess what's behind the flat tone and takes the hint. "I'll get on the horn to Battalion and see about that resupply, then."

"No, I'll do that – in a moment. Before I do, a word?"

"Of course, sir."

Once they've moved into the comm. room, Ferretti lays his 'spare' rifle on the table and gives his acting-sergeant a level look. "So what's really going on with Chief Corporal-Major Matthias?"

"Sir?"

"Don't shit me, Bauer. I took a look at our rooftop OP before we left the sniper's nest – there's no-one there. He shirked an adjunct post, and from some things I wormed out of Prutter on the way back, that's one of his habits. Another is bullying his subordinates and extorting loot out of them. Or am I misinformed?"

Well, crap - isn't this going to be 'fun'? "Herr Leutnant, how much do you know about us conscripts and our service hitches?"

"Assume I don't know the relevant part."

Bauer sighs and scratches the thin stubble on his jaw, trying to order his thoughts. "The GCC bought our indentures for a set price-per-man, and everybody's trying to pay that off as fast as they can to get an honourable discharge, ship the hell off this planet, go home, and claim their citizenship."

"Or as much 'citizenship' as 'biancos' can have under us 'wops'," Ferretti notes. The acid he lays on the slang names is... telling.

Bauer swallows carefully. "Something like that, sir. With our pay-rates, the time-in-service is about two years – less, if we pick up a couple of promotions, or maybe some really prize loot to sell to the supply-types."

"And Matthias is so keen to buy himself out early that he hoards all the 'prize loot'."

"Yes, sir. He intimidates or beats other men into performing his duties – especially if they'd put him in harm's way – and he's the one who handles distribution of whatever loot the company takes. And Herr Leutnant, four men who've crossed him have died in very convenient 'guerrillero attacks' – not to mention Sotto-Tenente Gellrich, who 'had some bad luck' during the last push we made."

"Did Captain Petrelli or the company Redcoats know about this?"

Bauer gives his new officer a thin, humourless smile. "Herr Leutnant, the Captain was taking a cut of the action so he could buy a Major's crowns, and the Redcoats didn't mind what Matthias did as long as the troops did what he told them. Hell, the only reason I was 'in charge' when you arrived was because Matthias didn't want a job that would get him killed by a real guerrillero."

"And you couldn't do anything about this? Officially... or otherwise?"

"I'm only an E-4 myself, sir – I don't have the rank or the authority to do anything about him through channels, and if I tried, I'd be the next one to get my potatoes mashed. Besides, even with Petrelli and the Commissioners gone, we've got Matthias' partner at Supply to worry about. Colonel Valenza's got access to all our records, and if Matthias got it from a guerrillero – real or otherwise – Valenza'd wipe our indenture-balances back to zero and Squad all our families back home. Hell, he's the real problem."

Ferretti considers this for a moment or two... then suddenly breaks into a crooked, thoughtful smirk.

- - - - -

Fifteen minutes later, Ferretti takes a spot on the ex-bookstore's staircase, which leads up to what used to be a trendy café, while the non-coms assemble the remnants of 3. Kompanie in the open area below.

"At ease!" Bauer barks.

With everyone's attention on him, Ferretti has reassumed his usual manner of calm assurance. He doesn't realise how much of a striking change it makes to the majority of their officers - especially the strutting self-importance of the unlamented Captain Petrelli. "Okay, listen up! As of ten-hundred today, Twenty-Third Soren Field Army's being relieved by Seventeenth Titanian and taken off the line for refit. That means those trucks and half-tracks we're expecting will be dropping off fresh meat and taking 3. Kompanie back to the airfield, where we'll rejoin the rest of I. Bataillon."

There's a general ripple of relief at that - but the inevitable humourist's mutter to his buddy is a little louder than he intended. "Is it me, or does he not look thrilled by that idea?"

Bauer doesn't miss a beat. "Thanks for volunteering for latrine duty, Ölsner."

"Ah, shit," the comedian groans.

"Exactly."

Ferretti lets the laughter go for a moment before speaking sternly – though through a thin smile. "Settle down, lads. We should be getting replacement personnel and equipment soon after we arrive – emphasis on 'should'. Things are pretty SNAFU out there, but as your commanding officer, I'm going to do my damnedest to make it happen."

He pauses a moment, then continues in a more sombre tone. "Which brings me to another matter. While I'm your commanding officer, I'm also the company's only officer right now, which means we're in kind'a interesting territory. Here's how it is:

"At the moment, this company doesn't have any Royal Commissioners, which means enforcing 'discipline' falls to me and me alone - an individual who is at once an ethnic Salernan, an officer in GCC (Ground), and an aristocrat. In case anyone needs the reminder, any one of those things means that under both Royal law and GCC regulations, I can shoot any non-Salernan trooper dead, at any time or place I choose, just because I feel like it, and the worst they can do to me is exact a five-hundred-crown weregeld." After a moment's bleak silence, he continues, "I have that sanction, but I'd prefer never to use it, so I'm going to set some ground rules.

"Obey all orders given by myself or the company non-coms, not to mention your platoon officers when we get them again. If you think they or we're missing something when we make a decision, speak up – but once you've said what needs saying and the decision's been made, shut up and soldier.

"I will not tolerate abuse of civilians, prisoners-of-war, or your subordinates. I know it's hard to tell the difference between civilians and guerrilleros before the shooting starts; all the same, any man who willfully and needlessly harms an unarmed civilian, a prisoner, or a trooper under his command outside of dire combat exigency will be shot out of hand.

"There will be no looting of civilian goods." This produces a few mutters. "This is a company of Soren infantry, not a pack of Dalton sky-pirates. You're free to scrounge whatever military gear you need from prisoners or casualties; anything of military value that you don't want or can't use, turn it in to Sergeant Bauer for the company inventory or sell it to me – but you can sell only to me. Don't worry, I'll give you a fair price. Anything of intelligence value comes to me; I'll check it out and see if the REMFs want it, and if it's worth anything to them, I'll make it worth something to you. You'll probably swipe jewelry and such off casualties and prisoners no matter what I say, but you will leave them their ID-tags, their wedding rings, and personal items like pictures of their families. If you're tired of the issued rations and want better from a civilian, pay them what they ask, cash-in-full, or go without; anyone who steals from civvies – or a fellow trooper – will be in a penal battalion by dawn."

He stops speaking for a moment, then smiles amiably. "Three simple rules, really: do what you're told; don't hurt anyone who isn't shooting at you; scrounge, don't loot. Other than that, do the job the best you can. Platoon non-coms, see to your men. Dismissed!"

As the non-coms start barking orders, Ferretti descends to ground level and stops two of them. "Chief Corporal-Major Matthias, you're with me. Corporal Tikki, you have Charlie Platoon for the moment."

"Sir!" "Sir!"

Matthias is a lantern-jawed fellow, taller than Ferretti; his uniform's better-quality and less-worn than it should be, and it doesn't look like he's missed too many meals. Ferretti leads him into the makeshift CP, but instead of speaking, he picks up the ammo-tin holding the company's paperwork and looks through it silently. A minute passes. Two. After the third, Matthias clears his throat, and Ferretti looks up again, feigning startlement. "Oh. Sorry, Chief – just realised how much paperwork I've got to catch up on before the relief. You know how the paperwork gets, don't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Figured you would. Can you show me the Charlie platoon area?"

"Of course, sir."

When they get there, Matthias' eyes go shock-wide: two sullen troopers - his chosen cronies - are sitting against the wall with their hands bound and G47s aimed at their faces, and Bauer's leading four men in an inventory of Matthias' rucksack – and his loot! But even as he opens his mouth to protest, he's silenced – by Tikki's rifle screwing itself into his flank.

"How does it look, Bauer?"

"Lots of high-end portable gear, sir – he always shipped the bigger stuff straight back to his buddy-boy at Regiment whenever he could. Nice collection of Ensie electronics, though: 'phones, pocket-secretaries, chip-players, rifle-scopes – hello!" Bauer's smile turns downright feral as he holds up a set of binoculars: Svobodan-made night-vision electro-optics, compact yet powerful. "I wondered where these went. You didn't even scrape off Petrelli's name, you stupid bastard!"

"And that's music to my ears," Ferretti says coldly, stepping past the black-marketeer to inspect the array of gear and toys. After a moment, he picks up a pistol and unholsters it for inspection. "Sergeant-Major Bauer, those scopes go to Raikinnen, Davies and Prutter; if there're any more, give 'em to whichever marksmen you see fit. Hang onto the binoculars until I've talked to the Supply types; if I don't need 'em, we'll ship 'em back to Captain Petrelli's family with the rest of his gear."

Ignoring Bauer's startled expression, the Tenente looks back to their captive. "As for you, Private –"

Matthias goes pasty white. People often do that when abruptly presented with the muzzle of a Browning Hi-Power.

After several silent moments, the pistol drops back to Ferretti's side. "Much as I'd dearly love to shoot you outright for the men of this company that you've murdered, I won't do it without proof. But those binocs were the private property of an officer, and you've got them without authorisation, which means they're enough to put you in a penal battalion for the next three years. Assuming the Ensies or Petrelli's Famiglia don't get to you first."

Riding survival-relief and adrenaline, Matthias musters some bravado of his own. "I'll be back by this time tomorrow, 'Herr Leutnant'. And you just made the list, Bauer!"

Though it scarcely seems possible, Ferretti's already wintry manner hardens further. "If you really think Colonel Valenza's actually going to save your overpriced skin, go right ahead and hold your breath... but he's about to have troubles of his own." Even as Matthias' face falls again, the Tenente nods past him. "Tikki, he's all yours."

As the abruptly-demoted prisoner is led away, Ferretti turns to the two cronies. "I don't know how much of his little standover racket you were involved in, but I've got lots of witnesses to that involvement. I'm transferring both of your worthless asses back to a logistical unit as fetch-and-carry boys. That means no front-line allowances, no chances for promotion, and no privilege to bear arms – despite the raging hard-on the guerrilleros have for shooting up our rear-areas. And your current indenture balances are forfeit; they'll be going to the families of the men Matthias fragged as part of the weregeld I'll be paying. Get 'em out of my sight."

Häkämies and Prutter haul the detainees to their feet and shove them into motion with their rifle-butts. One of the detainees manages to stop by the doorway, giving Ferretti a half-pleading, half-outraged look. "You can't do this, sir!"

Ferretti's face seems carved from Svobodan permafrost.

"He's a wop, you stupid fuck – he can do whatever he likes," Prutter assures the supplicant, prodding him along again. "Where the fuck have you been since they invaded Soren?"