Lions in Blue and Silver

The story of beer, and how the Cowboys suck.

Ahern sat down wearily at the bar. "Sam, couple of Coors, if you please. Goddamned shitty day." He tossed a plastic ManswellSecure debit card on the scarred wood, and the bartender picked it up with a smile, replacing it with two bottles.

Sam's Last Stand was a tiny hole-in-the-wall establishment frequented by few officers. Crouched in the ruins of what was left of Manassas, Virginia, it was one of a handful of badly reconstituted buildings dating back to the Days of Iron.

The US Marines had held their chain of command together better than other US military units, and had protected the last dregs of the United States federal government in horrific last stands at Cheyenne Mountain, Arlington National Cemetery, and at the wreckage of Camp Lejeune. Outnumbered and outgunned, they'd fought the Guard of Iron until the last man, and even those hard-bitten mercenaries and ex-criminals had remembered.

When the SA resurrected Quantico, preserving as much of the rich history of the US Marine Corps as they could, it also brought about the creation of an arcology area. Hard-bitten survivors, relying on air filtration equipment cobbled together from old air conditioning equipment and shielding against UV and rads based on scrapped cars filled with scrap lead and beach sand had been the only people living in Manassas, and the SA had generously exfiltrated them all for better medical care.

Except one, a crusty and ancient US Marine command master sergeant calling himself Sam.

The man, half blind and suffering from malnutrition, skin cancer, burned lungs, and all other sorts of ailments, had snarled down SA recovery teams, and point-blank told them he'd leave when he was dead, he had a damned bar to run. Rather than force the old man off, the General in charge of the setup had found him amusing, and in return for him providing SA historians some assistance with remembering the honor and courage of the US Marines, refurbished the area nearest Quantico as a civilian area, getting the man enough medical aid to live on another dozen years before passing the bar along to a retiring SA Marine, also named Sam. The act of passing it along to a fellow Marine became tradition, and the current owner was the third Sam in the line.

Most of the rest of Manassas was done up modern architecture, but those who followed in Sam's footsteps had stubbornly kept the décor as it was. So the ceiling was an amalgamation of hand-mixed tar pitch and corrugated steel, dim and rickety fluorescent lighting casting pools of dingy radiance over a handful of battered old Brunswick pool tables. The flat-screens on both walls were modern, of course, but the floor was solid oak plank, ancient and scarred, stained with years of beer, blood, and dirt.

Curious relics of a bygone age – street signs, bits of eclectic décor, parts of an old pre-Iron tank – were strewn about on the walls like proud trophies from the most demented hunt possible. The beer was strong, the waitresses were curvy and liable to break your jaw if you got grabby, and the rules were simple: leave brawling and guns at the door. Drink, watch football or baseball, play pool, bitch about the SA, but no fighting.

With a slow smile Ahern nursed his beer, wearing plain BDU undress with no rank markings. By long established tradition, that was a sign that he was indeed an officer, but he didn't give a shit about being one at the moment. Any officer who came in here in full uniform was liable to be asked to depart unless he was here on business.

Enlisted men sat at the battered booths around the edge of the room, or at the bar, muttering about drill instructors, orders they didn't like, or the absolute fun of patrols beyond the arcology boundaries. Much of North America was a radioactive hellhole, with all kinds of mutations that made diseases and the environment lethal. Any animals that survived such hellish conditions tended to carry all kinds of filth – a simple bite of a rabid wild cat had killed a Marine a few days back, ignoring the strongest antibiotics available.

Ahern was now gladder than ever he'd done his shit-patrolling on the moon. Food sucked, and the pay was bad, but you wouldn't worry about being eaten by goddamned mutant things with claws as thick as rifle barrels in the swamp-forest sludge that now consumed most of the old American South.

The door to the bar swung open, revealing Yonis Chu in civilian clothes. A pair of battered jeans and a simple black shirt, with SA combat boots and his dog tags hanging out, was all he wore. He sat down with Ahern, tiredly taking the proffered beer.

"Tradius… this is the worst bar in the entire base. Maybe the entire continent. Quite possibly the entire universe. Why do you always, always come here?"

Ahern smiled. "I know! I fucking love it. Won't ever be a goddamned gentleman, so why waste time pretending? Beer is good, I don't have to worry about running into some prick of an officer telling me off about my fucking language, and the nachos are to die for." He swigged, wiping foam from his lips as he paid half attention to the football game on the far wall. "Fucking Cowboys…"

Cho rolled his eyes. "I would make a horribly culturally insensitive remark here… but I figure it would go right over your head. I'll simply say this is not exactly the sort of establishment officers – or noble sons – are expected to visit."

Ahern smirked. "A thousand apologies, milord. Please grant your grace unto this humble peasant."

A long suffering sigh emitted from Chu, who then pulled out his datapad. "Listen. I got a call today, to head into HQ. There were people from the AIS there, doing interviews. Recruiting."

Ahern frowned. AIS were the spooks, the Alliance Intelligence Services. Some bigshot Manswell had taken over the group and was working on breaking up gangs and terrorist cells. The Black Hats were scary as fuck, but usually didn't bother the rank and file unless you did something stupid, but the AIS investigated everybody.

Ahern sipped his beer. "Any ideas as to what they were looking for?"

Chu shrugged. "Sort of. They interviewed Saracino already, so I was trying to figure out if they reached out to you."

Ahern shook his head. "Nope. Fuckers are probably looking for new spooks, after that shit that went down in Azlan blew up in their faces." He tilted his head. "Why bring this up?"

Chu gestured to the datapad. "I've been using the family connections to do some digging. Something big is up. They just had another freighter explode, this time INSIDE the Bangalore Arcology. Almost half a million people exposed to eezo. Thousands have already died."

Chu scrolled. "Less than nine hours after the second bombing, the Senate voted on a package for almost a billion dollars to 'clear off available land in the Brazil Protectorate Zone for advanced warfighting training.' Brazil, Tradius. There's nothing there but ruins and glass now. Why Brazil?"

Ahern shrugged. "Why the fuck should I know or care? I don't sign on to your loony goddamned conspiracy theories, Yonis. Remember the one about thinking the SA transferred you to my combat squad to have Saracino bump you off?"

Chu flushed, and folded his arms. "I never said… never mind. Look. So I've been wrong before. Leapt to conclusions. This is not the same thing."

Ahern tilted his head, then took a swig. "Why not?"

Chu tapped his padd. "The package to investigate the formation of elite units, special forces? Tied to this rider. So is an expansion of the AIS budget to hire five thousand new agents. And along with that to mothball over two hundred older ships and lay down the keels on five hundred replacements with the newer drives and the A-series of kinetic barrier shields that just hit the production lines. Billions, maybe tens of billions of dollars' worth of investment. The SA is stingy at the best of times, so why throw money around all of a sudden?"

He glanced around. "Family Chu is nervous. They just announced yesterday a fifteen-year moratorium on any more mass relay openings after Shanxi's far relay, scheduled for next year."

Ahern shrugged. "It's above my paygrade. I think about fighting, fucking, and finding a place to eat and sleep. Anything beyond that, Yonis, can be put off."

Chu arched an eyebrow. "You really don't even wonder? At the expansion, the way they're throwing money away?"

Ahern drained his beer and signaled for another, pausing only to smile vindictively as the QB for the Cowboys was sacked hard enough that his helmet went flying. "Honestly, Yonis? I figure either some stupid asshat on one of the big outer colonies did something stupid like rebel, or we've got some indication of aliens. That means focusing on fighting and staying alive. I was actually thinking about it earlier." He shrugged. "I don't have a reason to care."

Chu shrugged. "I do. When I got tapped for this whole thing, with your squad, the op against the terrorists, it was the first time I got to really fight. When you put together this idea about getting into the special forces, I went along because I figured it would be interesting, but the AIS sounds even more interesting."

Ahern realized now where this was going, and grimaced. In less than a week, the SA would start the trials for the squads that would attend training to become elites. There were no real details yet – if Chu was right, the facility they would be training in was still to be built.

But a good showing would enable a definite slot in the training and building of such a special ops group. That's what Ahern wanted, and to get it he needed the best team possible. He figured he could probably get by with two people he didn't know as well as Chu or Saracino, but it would mess up everything for Rachel and Kyle.

Ahern opened his fresh beer. "How long until they expect an answer? The AIS, that is."

Chu shrugged uncomfortably. "They wanted an answer today. I told them about my situation – with the squad, with my family – and they said they'd be in touch. But if they call me up tomorrow and ask me 'in or out,' well. I'm not sure there's a place for me in the SA military in a war, Tradius. I'm a good fighter, not great. I'm good at comms, but not… well, not the absolute best. I'm pretty good at ECM remote hacking, but not great…"

Ahern snorted. "I'm sorry; I can't hear you very well over the sound of your false fucking modesty. Bastard."

Chu laughed, but quickly sobered. "Look, I don't wanna cut out on you guys. We've been through a lot together, and even if Kyle is Jesus Christ reborn and Saracino makes me want to choke him, I find that I am comfortable." He paused, examining his beer bottle.

When he spoke, his voice was lower, more bitter. "Pretty sure Saracino won't want to join anyway. Y'know, with the… Rachel and all." He exhaled. "But I'll be straight with you. My name means I won't have a real career in the Marines, and you know it. They aren't going to let even a minor son of the Third House die in a ditch somewhere, and if they do, I think it would be to incite the family into some kind of action. So I either rot in a base or get made into a sacrifice. That's not a future I can get behind!"

Ahern nodded, glancing at the game again. Chu continued. "And you know Saracino will be wasted even in special forces, assuming he doesn't pop off at the mouth and get knifed in a bar."

Ahern grinned. "Maybe he will. Couldn't hurt the gene pool. Jesus Christ, can you imagine what kind of asshole a kid of Michael Saracino would be?"

Chu frowned. "I am being serious."

Ahern exhaled heavily and shook his head. "Alright. Shit, maybe you are right. We got this thing going because I wanted the best. You're the best at what you do, and so is he. Making the transfers, the drills, the bullshit. Getting it all set up and good to go, it took a lot of time, Yonis. You walk away from this and while I can't say it will blunt my chances much, Florez and Kyle don't have other skills necessary to get picked up."

He narrowed his eyes. "Before today I'd say you were rock solid about the chance to get in on the ground floor of an SA special ops group. Now you're full of doubts. Is this really about the possibility that shit is going to get real, or is it more about the chance that you can get out from under the boot of your old man if you vanish into an AIS spookhouse?"

Chu shrugged. "They aren't mutually exclusive. I'll stick until the AIS asks me again, maybe just getting through these trials or exams or whatever they have planned will get you the call. But I won't tie myself down, Tradius."

Ahern only nodded, silent for a long moment. Then he tipped his beer in Chu's direction. "Ah, fuck it. Yonis, if it fucking happens, it fucking happens. We had a good year together, kicking ass and taking names. It got us this far, got us all promotions – even if Rachel lost hers by being stupid and pouty. If you can get your shit into the order you want, fuck! Go for it." He drank deeply.

Yonis nodded, taking his first sip of the beer. "I sense a 'but,' Trahern."

The other Marine shrugged. "Assuming you are right. Assuming shit is coming down the line. Aliens, rebellions, or the return of the ghost of motherfucking undead Ardiente. I'm not sold on this idea that the SA is building up for a threat. It could be the corps pulling their strings, could be the colonies need more work and we're just building up to a sustainable economy."

He frowned. "But if you are right, buddy, you'll just be the tip of a different spear than I will, Yonis. Is that really what you want? The AIS isn't going to let you sit in a nice comfy office and play whack-a-conspiracy with your brain. Saracino, for all his goofy bullshit, is a fucking killer. The AIS is looking for the same thing as the corps. No guarantee they won't sacrifice you either, you know. Mutually shitty outcomes if you ask me."

The lanky man shrugged himself. "I have no idea what I want. Except to get away from bullshit. The way the family acts is… too much for me. And frankly? I don't mind a fight; I simply feel that I'm less likely to end up as cannon fodder on the front lines of some fucking colonial revolt if I'm in the AIS."

Ahern chuckled. "Profanity? From you? Fucking incredible." Another sip of beer. "Alright. Lemme see if I can talk to old man Adkins and get him to unclamp some info. If you're right? If shit is coming? I'd take the AIS job. If it's not, then you should at least stick around long enough for our team to make it to the SpecOps. That's all I'm asking."

Chu sighed. "I… alright, Trahern. I'll do that." He took another tentative sip of the beer, then grimaced. "Not exactly Riesling."

"Limp-wristed, slant-eyed, uppity fop."

"Uncultured, cretinous savage."

The two clinked bottles.

Author's Notes:

Things are moving along slowly.