"Boy, why don't you just put it on when you get there?"
"Because as miserable of an experience as it is to put this damn thing on here, doing it out there is an even bigger pain in the ass. And might as well have one pair of clothes instead of having to carry another around."
Ian looked at his dress greens one more time in the mirror before finding it decent enough to walk out the door. Four ribbons hung on a bar across his left breast, with the full medals in his pocket. When he finally got to the ceremony, he would switch them out and try to look presentable, but he still had a half hour drive to the local airstrip and an hour-long flight to New Harare ahead of him.
"I mean, you look fine."
"Ellen was kind enough to help get it all set up. Even this bloody belt."
The ivory white centerpiece of the uniform was easily among the most hated in the entire DLI, and a part of him knew his father was laughing at his struggles.
"Bertie wanted the unit to be a perfect replica, and he got it."
"Yeah, thanks dad. At least I can keep the gloves somewhere safe, so they don't get any dirt on them."
He looked at the ribbon rack again, a rainbow of color if there ever was one. The red and yellow of the Colonial Cross, the thin green stripe of the Grand Cross of Valor, the blue and white of the Navy Cross, and a final, painful purple stripe at the end. The Purple Heart, the award everyone seemed to get and no one wanted. KIA or WIA awarded. He grimaced as he rubbed his left cheek.
"What time's your flight leave?"
"7:45, so I got a few minutes."
"Got your speech?"
"Yeah."
"Got your woman?"
Ian grimaced and shot his uncle an evil look.
"Funny. But I haven't seen her in a little bit. She finished my ribbon bar and then vanished."
"Maybe she's in her room. Point is if you want to catch that flight, you need to get out of here sooner than later."
"Bloody hell, you're right. Try not to burn the house down while I'm out, alright? And feed Artemis, she looks like she's starving."
"We haven't seen a rat since we got her, so I doubt it. Best of luck boy, just get your speech done and then you can move on with your life."
"We won't be back until late; flight back doesn't get here until 11 at night. All day in this ridiculous get up."
He went over to Ellens door and knocked.
"Hey, I'm heading out. Try to keep Unc in check, all right?"
"Yeah," she answered simply.
He backed off from the door, surprised at her blunt and rather odd response. He headed out the door and got into the truck, thankful for the closed cab that would keep his uniform clean. He started up the engine and looked at the clock in the middle of the dashboard. He could sit for a few minutes and still get there in time, so he closed his eyes and recited the speech in his head for the fourth time that day. He may have had his mother's wit and sense of humor, but he at least had his father's ability for public speaking.
My father founded this unit. He believed the past had good lessons for the present and future. At 25, already a captain in the militia, he put a suggestion-
Would theory be better?
"Theory, theory... let's go with that," he mumbled to himself.
He felt a rush of warm air and heard the slam of a door, opening his eyes in confusion. He looked at the passenger seat and saw a large figure in a white uniform. He blinked a few times as he realized what was happening.
"Ellen, I told you countless times-"
"Ian, with all due respect, I put this thing on already, I'm in the truck, so we're going together."
He opened his mouth to argue but gave up instantly.
"Your mistake, not mine. I thought you guys wore a black uniform."
"In this weather? Are you nuts?"
"Possibly. I like the hat."
She took the teacup looking headwear and sighed.
"We spent years trying to get back to the peaked cap for everyone, but the Navy stepped in, and we have to follow their uniform standards. Believe me, every female Spartan hates this thing."
"The Navy either irritates or amuses me. Army at least has the decency to always piss me off," he said as they pulled away from the farm.
The first ten minutes were spent in silence, Ian trying to recite the speech in his head, and Eleanor trying not to feel like an unwanted burden. Unable to take the quiet anymore, he tapped a knob on the dashboard, music quietly playing as they hit the asphalted highway out of Selous.
"You did a good job on Friday, from what Annalie and Piet told me."
"Their kids were all over me. I didn't have a moment to myself."
"Yeah, they love you. I'll take my replacement as their favorite babysitter with grace and tact."
"Maybe not Dannie. He barely spoke and hid half the day."
"Can't imagine why," he said with a level of amusement that she was unable to notice.
"Well, they listened to me and caused no problems, so I can't complain."
He chuckled and looked over at her again. His eyes shot to her chest-no, the ribbon bar. His head snapped forward as he tapped the steering wheel, a flash of shame at his wandering eyes.
"I kind of doubt that you only got six or so awards in your career."
"Most of us have been given everything awardable. Other than the POW award of course. Covies never let me get that one. They gave us permission to wear as many as we want, and I don't want to have my ribbon bar go down to my pant leg."
"Fair."
"I know you got more than four medals."
"Touché. You didn't have to-"
"But I wanted to. Maybe I'll meet some old friends."
"I have no idea who's coming, so your guess is as good as mine."
He looked at the radio, hearing some godawful song his mother had put on there. He clicked a few songs through, finding nothing he wanted. He gave up and let the playlist continue before he heard a clacking noise, then seeing what song it was, moved to change it before a hand gently stopped him.
"I like that song," Ellen said.
He looked at her in surprise.
"Really?"
"Yes."
"Fleetwood Mac?"
"You played enough of your songs on the squad net, one learns to like a few. And I like this one."
"My God," he said blankly.
Rock on, gold dust woman
Take your silver spoon and dig your grave
Heartless challenge
Pick your path and I'll pray
"Sorry, it's just out of everything to like, it's... this."
"It's a good song."
Well, did she make you cry
Make you break down
Shatter your illusions of love?
And is it over now?
Do you know how?
Pick up the pieces and go home
"I have the whole album somewhere. Mom likes Mac too."
"She did strike me as someone with good taste."
"Still can't believe you met her."
"I really didn't think she was your mother. Arthur said that the Fates are strange and fickle women."
"I wouldn't any advice about women from a man who's had two divorces."
Rulers make bad lovers
You better put your kingdom up for sale
"You treat him too harshly. He's a good man."
"You didn't have to live with him your whole life."
Well, did she make you cry
Make you break down
Shatter your illusions of love?
And is it over now?
Do you know how?
Pick up the pieces and go home
He had a good story about his uncle nearly drowning in rainwater ready, but he stopped as the second chorus played. The words were the same, but the voice did not sound like Stevie Nicks. He looked over and saw Ellen... singing. She had a good voice for it, but he had never heard her do that before.
Well, did she make you cry
Make you break down
Shatter your illusions of love?
And is it over now?
Do you know how?
He looked over again, and she was about to sing the last line before noticing him, stopping, and sitting up before looking out the window.
"You got a good voice."
"Sorry."
"For what?"
"Nothing."
Realizing he was not going to get any more out of her, he focused on driving again. He did feel a bit better going through all this with her at his side, but he tried to find a way to say it without it being a bit awkward.
"Hey, Ellen?"
She turned to him and rubbed the back of her neck, her face slightly red.
"Yeah?"
"I, er... uh, you know what, it's nothing. Sorry."
He just wanted to thank her for tagging along, but the words got stuck in his throat, a rare thing for him. He just prayed they would get to the airstrip soon.
XXXXXX
"Dammit, couldn't you wear something lighter," Ian growled as he pulled her massive frame towards the waiting Falcon.
"Less talk, more shooting," she grunted, aiming down the SR-99's scope as she did so.
In a day full of close calls, she had barely survived the last one, two plasma grenades in quick succession, one wiping out her shields, the other concussing her. She was thankful for the Mark V armor, better and more protective in every way that its predecessors, but it was not perfect. The concussion had impaired her, and even five or so minutes after the fact, she was still seeing double, a possibly fatal incapacitation. She pulled the trigger after choosing one of the duplicate Jackals, the creatures head detonating on both sides. At least she was mostly perfect.
"You can let go now; I can walk."
"That's kak and you know it."
As the green streaks of Carbine shots and needles flew by them, she stumbled to her feet, turning to see the Falcon only a hundred or so meters away. The door mounted 247 was letting a constant stream of tracers in all directions, swinging wildly at countless targets. She took a step or two before nearly tripping over herself.
"Dammit!" she roared, landing on one knee.
"C'mon," Ian shouted as he picked off another Grunt. "We got a little left to go, just let me help you."
"I should be the one helping you!"
"Well things bloody happen, now we need to get out of here before-"
Neither of them noticed it at the time, it was a bit hard given the circumstances. But after that moment, she would always cringe at the sound of a Fuel Rod Gun. They both turned to see the sickly green mass almost on top of them, Ian turning to her, his face one of blank confusion; realizing death was about to take him and unable to do anything about it. Even with her superhuman reflexes, there was little she could do in time, the only comfort being her armor shields were charged. The rod landed short, her shields failing from the impact. The blast refocused her, the double vision ended as she snapped her rifle to their attacker and popped the Grunts head like a balloon. The shreds of its skull flew everywhere like a fleshy cloud of confetti.
"You all right Ian?"
The audio equipment in her helmet picked up no response.
"Ian?"
She looked down at him, seeing him flat on his stomach, immobile.
"No," she gasped, rushing to his side and rolling him over.
She had seen a lot of terrible things in her life. The death of friends, Spartan and soldier alike, the casualty from the augmentation surgery, the charred bodies of civilians on colonies at the start of the war with the Covenant, men with parts of their skulls ripped away, women torn in half at the torso, children... but there was a new horror to this, and she could not explain why. Chunks of rock stuck from the left arm and side of his face like needles, blood pouring from every wound. She checked his neck for any objects, the possibility of a cut artery... she just stared at him through her helmet, almost in disbelief. The three years she knew him, he had impossibly never been hurt, except for a grazing shot from a Carbine. And now, after all that, he gets torn to shreds.
"MA'AM!"
She snapped to her senses as two men took position at her side, their DMR's throwing an almost automatic level of fire.
"Are you alright?"
"Y-yes! The corporals injured!"
The Light Infantryman looked at Ian and grimaced through clenched teeth.
"Jesus Christ, Wavy, look at him."
"Bloody hell, he's not gonna make it."
"We're not leaving him!" she shouted, the two men snapping their heads to her.
"Of course not! I'll take his legs, Jodie, grab his shoulders, and try not to-"
He stopped as her massive, armored frame shot up before hunching down and running her hands and arms under Ian, lifting him from the ground.
"Don't you die on me," she whispered, even though it was certain he was unable to hear her.
"Let's go!"
She rushed to the Falcon; the speed afforded to her by the Mjolnir crossing the distance in only a few moments. She gently placed him on the floor of the VTOL, the other soldier inside quickly strapping back in. The 247 stopped firing, the man yelling in Afrikaans as the two who came to her aid leapt on board.
"Get us the hell out of here!" Wavy shrieked. "Novias, get on him, he's messed up bad!"
She was hovering over Ian, looking down as his face crumpled in pain, his right arm reaching for his bloody and torn left cheek. She felt a tap on her shoulder, turning to her former squad mate.
"Eleanor, I need to look at him."
"Yeah," she said numbly, moving away.
He looked down and shook his head.
"Rough, but if we can keep him stable and get him triaged, he'll make it. Might not be as handsome as before, but it's survivable. Just need to keep him alive, let me get my advanced kit."
He pulled a canvas bag out and started running his fingers across all the materials within.
"Can you hear me, Ian?"
"...hurts."
"I know, just stay with us. If you live, you can say you got bridal carried by a Spartan, not award worthy, but one hell of a conversation starter," the Angolan said with a chuckle.
Ian seemed to not notice the comment as a piece of gauze was wrapped around the side of his head. His right eye moved from the ceiling of the Falcon to her before he made a pained smirk.
"Hey."
She scrambled to release her helmet as the VTOL's door closed, placing it at her side. She heard a few gasps of surprise, but it was something she was used to by now.
"Ian."
"Eleanor."
She moved her hand to grab his, a confusing storm of... emotions, in her chest.
"Eleanor. Ellen? Ellen!"
XXXXXX
"Ellen!"
She gasped as her head shot up, looking around in confusion.
"What?"
"You alright?"
She blinked and rubbed her eyes, looking down to see her dress whites and that stupid hat in the cushioned seat next to her. Ian sat across, the copy of his speech in his hands.
"Was I sleeping?"
"You certainly were. Must have had a nightmare or something."
"Nah, bad memories. I blame it on being in a Falcon again."
"Yeah, I know the feeling," he said as he rubbed his left cheek. "Last time I was in one of these things was... you know."
"What do you remember?"
"Everything up to the Rod hitting us. Then it's a blur, except me looking up at that dumb helmet of yours."
She rolled her eyes.
"It's not dumb."
"Why that one, out of all the kinds you could get?"
"I dunno."
She looked out the window to see the savanna slowly turn into shanties and other ramshackle buildings. The civilian version of the Falcon was much nicer than its military equivalent, comfortable seats, clean interior, and even sound dampening.
"Actually, I'll tell you, but you have to promise to never tell anyone else."
Ian lowered the script and raised an eyebrow.
"Of course."
"It's hard to explain. But it made me feel like... a hero. Like I could run a marathon, cut through everything in front of me and win."
He shrugged at her.
"I believe it. This beret kept me through everything."
The rattle and whine of the VTOLs tiltrotors moving to upward vector signaled that they had nearly arrived.
"I got to say, looking out the window, I'm not all that impressed."
"I hate this city, so I'm with you. Dad dragged us here so many goddamn times that even if I liked it, I'd get sick of it."
"Well," she said looking at her watch, "We got here quick."
"More time to waste. I can show you around."
"You know I don't like crowds."
"If you're going to live with us, no staying in your comfort zone."
"Ian!"
"I don't make the rules, you just have to follow them."
She crossed her arms and looked out the window, Ian trying to keep a stern face as the Spartan pouted like a child. No sooner had she done so, the jolt of the skids hitting the ground pushed them back into their seats. As the engines revved down, the door opened to reveal the pilot.
"Hope you enjoyed your flight."
"Of course, Frank. You got us here early. Now I have to find something to do while I wait to publicly embarrass myself."
"Ian-"
"I'm joking."
Both unbuckled themselves and stepped out onto the landing pad, the morning heat starting to pick up.
"Bet your glad you wore your whites, eh Petty Officer?" Frank asked.
"Yeah. Navy?"
"Seven years, Pelican pilot. Flew a couple of folks like you around. Only some of them came back."
"Yeah," she said with resignation. "Why so late before you come back to pick us up?"
"Actually, I don't normally do return trips. Fly from here to all the minor towns, picking up what I can, business types normally. But I owe Ian a favor or two, so it's your lucky day, Spartan."
"And we thank you for it. Did they say anything about a taxi picking us up?"
"Not that I know of. Good luck at the ceremony, I got to fly out to Mukumbra."
"See you tonight, Frank."
The pilot waved them off as they left the pad.
"Try not to drink too much!"
Ian laughed as they headed out to the street, the sounds of the city filling the air. Crowds of people of all races and creeds moved about alongside, across, and sometimes in the middle of the street. Ellen flinched slightly as she looked up at the tall buildings and crammed conditions around her. She never liked cities, and New Harare did little to change her mind.
"Well, it looks better than Havana," she grumbled.
"Cities on Earth have a certain flair that's not replicated on the colonies, for better or worse. Least that's what dad always told me."
"Too crowded. Noisy. I like where you're living at."
He looked at her and grinned.
"Me too. But as I said, you're going to be flexible to stay with us. Even if it kills you."
A few passersby gawped at her or tried to keep their distance.
"It might."
"Hey now, play nice. I'd like to get out of this hellhole alive."
A black saloon car pulled up in front of them, the back door opening to reveal a man in a well-trimmed suit.
"Color-Sergeant Ian Walls?"
"Yes, and you are?"
"I'm a member of the president's staff, I was told to pick you up and transport you to the ceremony."
"T-the president?"
"He will be in attendance. I take it... she is with you?"
"Yes."
Ian looked at her nervously and moved his hand in a gesture of chivalry. As she passed him to get inside the car, he whispered to her.
"If this is a ruse, he wasn't expecting you. We may have a chance."
"If you think it's a trap, why are we going through with it?" she hissed.
"Because we can take whoever's in that thing and get a free car. Duh."
She raised an eyebrow and shook her head as she got inside. He chuckled before sticking his hand in his jacket, prepared to pull the Fairbairn-Sykes knife he always carried, just in case.
XXXXXX
As it turned out, the president did send the car. It pulled up to the small park, a stone pedestal with a sheet over it the only sign that they were at the right place. Stepping out, Ian adjusted his jacket and turned to find Janni De Vries and Sebastian Novias, fully decked out in their dress greens.
"Oh God, I have to deal with you all day," he groaned before moving over and embracing the Afrikaner.
"Ian! And I see you brought a friend with you!"
The Spartan approached and shook hands with the two.
"I heard from Janni you were here, but I didn't believe it! Last I heard you were on Earth."
"We're made of tougher stuff than the rest of you," Eleanor simply answered. "It's good to see you're alright."
"If it's you, me, Janni, and Ian, then I guess Fireteam Delta is back together again!"
Ian's face turned grim.
"Not without Herb it isn't."
The others turned sullen, the Afrikaner shaking his head.
"Poor bliksem. Luck held with him all those years and went away as soon as he got home. He tell you about what happened?"
Eleanor nodded.
"I'm sorry for the loss."
"We all are. "Well, we got..." Seb checked his watch. "Two or so hours before everything starts, then the politicians will show up half an hour before that, so we all have plenty of time to catch up. Ian tell you about our mess on Persepolis?"
"Mostly the end of it. I heard you allied with Elites."
"And a few Hunters," Janni said with a chuckle.
She looked at the two as if she refused to believe such a thing was possible before turning to Ian.
"Is that true?"
"I forgot that part of the story. Yeah."
"Interesting. I thought they had no independent thought of their own."
"For a bunch of worms, they're pretty dependable," Seb said. "Sim, color?"
He looked over at Ian, who was staring at the wall next to the hidden statue. He stepped towards it and inspected it, realizing that it wasn't gold inlaid for artistic reasons. It was names. Hundreds of them. He ran his fingers over a few of them before standing straight and sighing.
"They didn't tell you about this part?" Janni asked.
"I thought it was just an art piece. I didn't know it would be... this."
"I heard the guy who designed it based the idea off something in the old American capitol," Seb added. "Vietnam Memorial or something, very famous over there."
The color sergeant blankly nodded before looking over the names again. Eleanor was next to him, not recognizing any of the names. After her first mission with the DLI, she was placed into a fireteam under the command of Ian, and for the most part stayed that way with few changes. Even when he was supposed to be commanding two fireteams as a corporal, the realities of having a Spartan under his command meant that as much as the rules were set in the Army, there were always "other rules" and never commanded more than five people, at least if they were together. He gently placed a hand over one name and took his beret off before pressing his forehead to the wall.
"Goddammit Donnie," he muttered.
He felt a hand on his left shoulder, lifting his head and turning to Eleanor.
"Are you alright?" she asked.
"Old friend. Died a hero. Maybe I'll tell you about him one day."
She looked at the name in golden letters.
PVT DONALD MCALLISTER
It meant nothing to her, but it did not take years of being at Ian's side to know it meant a lot to him. She was about to ask him for more information before footsteps loudly approached. Ian turned and quickly placed his beret back on, adjusting it perfectly before snapping to attention, the other two DLI men quickly doing the same.
"Colonel," he said quickly with a palm facing salute.
"At ease color."
William Pearce extended a hand to Ian, who took it firmly.
"Good to see you showed up. If you have my knack of public speaking, and that I mean none, I wouldn't have bothered."
"I promised, sir."
"Yes, well- my God, is that you 74?"
"It is colonel. I'm surprised you didn't notice me, as tall and bright as I am today."
Pearce laughed as he shook her hand.
"Bloody Navy and their uniforms. Any complaint I ever had about the Army goes out the window anytime I have to see you poor squids wearing that getup. How do you clean it?"
"You don't get it dirty."
The four laughed, Ian grabbing his jaw a moment later as his became more of a chuckle. She winced at the action, but quickly recovered.
"I hear you're living with him now?"
"Yes sir."
"I pray to God he isn't the one cooking."
Eleanor smiled, moving a hand to hide it before resuming her poise.
"He does alright."
"That's a lie and I know it," Pearce said with a hint of disappointment. "I hope you take care of that."
"Sir, do you think Ian could convince someone like her to be a cook? Right Eleanor?"
Her expression stayed firm, while the man in question scratched the back of his head. Janni and Seb instantly lit up.
"Oh, meu Deus."
"Hy het 'n Spartaan mak gemaak!"
"Shut up!" Ian said, his face reddening.
Pearce, ever the British-bred officer, watched with amusement, but got involved before it would cause any issues.
"Anyway, I'm sure the color sergeant told you a bit of what we got up to since you were last with us, but I think we can spend the time waiting for the bigwigs to show up catching up. Well, what you can tell us at least."
Eleanor, happy at this evasion, quickly agreed.
"It wasn't all that much, colonel..."
XXXXXX
As with any ceremony, the guests of honor's arrival set off an hours-long torture session of vacuous nothings, flowery words, and no substance. Sitting in the front row, medals gleaming, Ian and Eleanor suffered through it with commendable grace.
"Who's this woman again?" the Spartan asked as she looked over to him.
"The minister for communications."
"I haven't understood a single word she's said in the past ten minutes."
"Her uncles the president of the Broadcast Corporation board. Also, there was a tribal member quota."
"Ah."
"It never hurts to know the right people," Janni said with a mumble, fighting to stay awake.
Sebastian was next to Ian, Pearce next to Janni, and all were thoroughly miserable, Eleanor especially, even when she was between Ian and Janni. There were about 150 people at the ceremony, and almost all of them either glanced over or looked at her strangely, even the DLI veterans in the row behind her. Her height, impressive even out of the armor which made her gigantic, the muscular frame, the realization of what she was, it all bothered her to no end. She was starting to get fidgety, regretting ever coming to this nightmare. Even Ian's snide remarks and jokes did not help much.
"How much longer?" she asked, a twinge of nervousness in her voice.
Ian blinked in surprise.
"Another... hour or so. You can just ignore all of this until I get up to speak, hopefully you'll pay attention then."
She grinned before trying to listen to the thickly accented English of the speaker, almost unintelligible. Giving up, she leaned behind Janni and got the colonel's attention.
"Sir, where's RSM Ncube? I hope he's still around."
"He is, unfortunately medical issues arose and he couldn't be here."
"Nothing serious, I hope."
Pearce grimaced and shook his head.
"Kidney stones."
Janni made a grunt of pain and shuddered.
"Sorry to hear that."
"I'd rather have stones than listen to this kak for another hour."
"I wouldn't say that sergeant. When I visited him yesterday, he was screaming bloody murder."
"Eish."
The woman finally stepped away from the podium, receiving polite applause as she did so. As she sat back up, Ian gave a look of amusement, silently implying that the applause was the result of her no longer having to talk. President Douglas Spencer, a tall, well-groomed Scotsman with the accent to go with it, quickly took the podium and cleared his throat.
"Thank you, Mrs. Gondwe. The Prime Minister was hoping to be here, but he unfortunately has been dealing with more pressing issues that needed his time."
A few uncomfortable glares and nervous coughs followed. The situation with the federation plans was getting more and more pressing with every day, and it seemed as if the worst was about to happen.
"But I am proud to be here, to give recognition to a group of men that proved what Dzimba was: a place that strong men and women could forge and give back to the fight against the greatest threat in human history. The Dzimban Light Infantry, smaller than any of our other units, quickly earned a reputation for bravery, success, and honor that exemplified the ideals our colony stood for. But it came with sacrifice, a terrible one: in the nearly twenty-five years of service it gave to the UNSC, 493 men fell in combat. While their casualty rate was not as high as most other regiments, considering the unit was never larger than a thousand men at a time, losing even a few hits hard. And now, to honor this sacrifice, I wish to dedicate this memorial wall with the names of all those fallen heroes, and this statue, which will stand as a symbol of this remarkable regiment."
He stood back and pulled a bright yellow cord removing the sheet over the statue, which finally revealed itself. While the crowd clapped at the action, the men and woman in the front row looked at it, the prevailing opinion being that it was not all that bad. The bronze figure wore standard armor and BDU set, a beret on its head. The lone figure was standing on a rock, exhausted, but determined, cradling an M392 as he looked out into the distance.
"It reminds me of you," Eleanor said to Ian.
"He was the basis for it," Seb said with grin.
"Is that true?"
"I got asked to show up for a photo shoot in my battle rattle. Thought it was some nonsense for a magazine. Now I get immortalized in bronze. What an honor."
The president went back to the podium and began to speak.
"For this occasion, we are honored by the presence of members of the DLI, all of them who served with the highest credit. One of them has the distinction of being awarded the highest honor of the UNSC, the Colonial Cross-"
"Oh God," Ian muttered as his palm made contact with his face.
"And whose father, the late Colonel Albert Walls, founded the regiment. Color-Sergeant Ian Walls is among the finest soldiers to have fought against the Covenant, not just on Dzimba, but the entire UNSC."
"I'm gonna be sick."
"Ian!" Eleanor chided.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I ask you to welcome him to the stage."
"Time to shine, color," Pearce said matter of factly.
"Yes sir," he sighed as he stood up to applause.
"You'll be fine," she said, the simple gesture seeming to push him forward.
As he got onto the stage, he shook a few hands, saluted the president before shaking his as well, and took the podium. He adjusted the microphones before pulling the speech out of his pocket and clearing his throat. To his surprise, he did not feel nervous looking out to the crowd, the chirping of birds and the gentle hum of the city around the park all he could notice.
"My father, Albert Walls, founded this regiment. He believed the past had lessons for the present and the future. At 25, already a captain in the Militia, he put a theory forward for a new specialized unit that would strike fast and eliminate Insurrectionists during a time of near constant bombings, kidnappings, and murders by the DLF. Inspired by the fast-moving Rhodesian Light Infantry, he was given permission, begrudgingly, we should admit, to make a company size unit, and to adapt Fire Force tactics that proved effective against the Zimbabwean rebels during the Bush Wars in the country most of our ancestors came from."
A few African faces crumpled at his description. Some would call it the Liberation Wars, or the Second Chimurenga, not the term used by the white minority regimes in Apartheid South Africa and Rhodesia itself. Ian continued anyway.
"The kill ratio of the RLI was the highest in the war, and maybe in history. 80 to 1. Within six months, the men who would form the nucleus of the DLI would have a 55 to 1 ratio. My father, proven right, was given a whole regiment. By the next year, the DLF was almost crushed. Despite the unit's size and its unique tactics, they had almost single handedly beat the Insurrection on Dzimba. A year after that, and two years before I was born, dad would hear the news about Harvest. He quickly made a motion to use the regiment as an effective fast strike force for the UNSC Army. It served with distinction, saving outposts with fast paradrops, eliminating small groups with an efficiency that would earn us a highly respected position with our commanders. It also…"
He paused, looking at the scribbles he wrote the speech on. What the hell did he write? A summary. Just a repeat of facts that only a few cared about, talking a lot and saying nothing. President Spencer frowned and leaned from his seat.
"Are you all right, color?"
"Yes sir, I just-"
He looked at the crowd. Mostly civilians, some high-level bureaucrats mixed with families of men who had given their all and had a name carved in gold on the wall next to the statue. If it weren't for them, he would have walked off in disgust at the people before him, people who sat at their desks while the real men and women fought and died horrible deaths for what seemed to be nothing for those long years. He saw Colonel Pearce and Janni start to stand up, worried that he had finally cracked and was about to melt down in front of this crowd, the president, and the commander of the Militia. Maybe he was about to. What else could he really say? He could walk off in disgrace, pass it off as re-living trauma or some nonsense. He needed someone, something.
Then he looked over at Eleanor. She was sitting there, ramrod straight, her dress uniform and medals gleaming in the sun. He grinned at that dumb little hat the UNSC forced her to wear. But just as he thought she was not even paying attention or was so dedicated to maintaining the disciplined focus that Spartans were famous for, she smiled and raised her right hand with a thumbs up. It was like she hit him with a lightning bolt, and he suddenly stiffened, slammed his fist on the podium, surprising most of the crowd, grabbed his speech and crumpled it, throwing it at his feet. He cleared his throat.
"My father's dedication to history led him to try to learn from the leaders of the past. When I was eight years old, he handed me a book: Infantry Attacks, by Erwin Rommel. The arguments about his legacy continue to this day, but I remember one section, the introduction written by his son, Manfred. He asked his father what a hero was. The Desert Fox would answer simply, "One must above all, survive." Despite my father being born in Zimbabwe, and his father before him, my family was, and still is in many ways, British. And like a good Briton, he disagreed with the German."
A light rumble of laughter came from the crowd. He looked back at Eleanor, who was trying to hide a grin. He was smirking, the slight pain in his left cheek ignored before he turned serious.
"Dad thought that a hero is someone who never truly dies. Even if their body is dust, the stories and tales of their actions live on forever. Either in books, stories passed down, or legends. The actions and deeds that made them worthy of the title ensures their death is only physical. Before we all sat down and began this ceremony, I looked over the names of my comrades and friends who fought and died in a war that nearly saw our entire species wiped out. Some I never met. Others I knew somewhat. And more than a few bring memories back that I wish I could forget. But every name in gold has a story, and a reason why they will never be forgotten, either from their surviving comrades' stories, biographies, medal citations, or other means."
He leaned back from the podium and closed his eyes. One name stuck out, and he thought it was time to tell the story that earned him a place on that wall.
"One of those names engraved here is Donald McAllister. Donnie came from Shuruvane, part of a family of miners hunting for the gold hidden under the mountains there. Some of that gold may have been used here for the engravings. Scotsman, thick accent, big bones, never gave a damn who said what about him. The kind of man you want on your side, and never against you. He was eligible for a draft exemption, seeing how gold was used in so many pieces of technology and to help pay for the UNSC's orders of weapons and experiments through their bullion reserves. Donnie didn't want that. He signed up and said he wanted the best, and quickly got permission to join the DLI. When I was a fresh lance corporal, he joined my squad, and I served alongside him for a year. Quiet, respectful, and always willing to help anyone with anything. Didn't even chase the nurses on the troopships. Smarter than most of us for that."
Janni and Pearce were stifling their laughter as the rest of the crowd chuckled or grinned at the statement. He waited for a bit of quiet and continued.
"May 8th, 2549. We were on the colony of Eluigwe, one founded by Nigerians I believe. We were chosen because the environment was like the ones we were raised in. We engaged Covenant forces in a small village on the southern tip of the continent. Moving through the jungle and swamp, then urban environments, we were fighting for our lives. We ended up in a street battle, and we were trying to break through their line at the end of the road. Plasma and needle spikes flew everywhere as we returned fire. In the confusion, a door to one of the ruined houses opened up. Four-year-old girl stumbles out into the middle of the street. She panics and sits down, curls into a fetal position. We kept firing, trying to not hit her and get her out of there. Our commander said to leave her, harsh, but given the situation a fair order. A plasma grenade landed right near her a few seconds later, and Donnie, without a word, charged out DMR blazing, and threw himself in front of her. The blast stunned him, and he was hit with three plasma rounds and ten needles. We couldn't get to him; the fire was too heavy. For fifteen minutes, Donald McAllister slowly bled to death, not moving away from the girl, not a sound, not a word, no cry of pain. We got tank support and forced them out, but by the time we got to Donnie, it was too late. We-"
His voice cracked, and he quickly put a clenched fist over his mouth. After a few seconds, he cleared his throat and continued.
"Got him on a stretcher and evac'd him. He died mid-flight, cardiac arrest from blood loss. The little girl was completely safe and unharmed. When we evacuated the colony, we found her parents, and the family left intact. Her mother grabbed me and sobbed on my shoulder when we reunited them. She was so certain her daughter was dead; she couldn't believe it."
He stiffened his lip and quietly sighed.
"That was the kind of man Donnie, and the others on this wall, which made up our regiment. He didn't know that girl, never knew her name, why she was there, and what her background was. He saw an innocent life in danger, and he was willing to die protecting it, at the greatest cost."
He thought for a moment to stop there but saw a liaison officer in her ODST dress uniform, her eyes slightly red, but able to control herself. The rest of the crowd looked somber, one older couple in the back looking distraught, the wife burying her head in her husband's shoulder, his face one of barely controlled grief. He decided to end the speech with a real punch.
"One mission a year ago, our regiment fought alongside ODST's. For those who've never served, we have the decency to jump from decent heights out of a Pelican or a similar craft and parachute on target. ODST's are loaded into pods, then shot out through orbit from a ship. It takes a special kind of crazy to be a paratrooper, but it's sheer lunacy to be an ODST. I made two parachute jumps in a day, and I just returned from the last drop. A trooper comes over and asks me, "Why are you doing this?" I think he was referring to parachuting, but I thought about it on a metaphysical level, and simply replied, "Because someone has to." But here, in front of all of you, I want to say I found a better answer. A few days ago, I had dinner at my neighbor Piet's house."
Janni sat up a bit, surprised at the reference to his brother.
"Piet and his wife Annalie have three kids, Daniel, Aletta, and Cornelia, 10, 8, and 6 years old respectively. When Annalie was pregnant with Cornelia, I joined the DLI. Things were already bleak, most of the outer colonies were burned, the inner colonies starting to be destroyed. Piet and Annalie… they started to think that bringing her into the world was unfair to her, because it seemed nothing would be left by the time she was grown up, if it even was possible. She decided to allow Cornelia into their lives, because it was worse to simply give up on her. I would come home once a year on leave making a visit each time to them, and I remember their faces. Piet tried to be happy as the news got worse and worried about his brother, a fellow member of the DLI, while Annalie watched her children and was tortured by the thought of their bleak future. Their kids didn't understand what was going on, but they could see their parents were scared, and that made them scared."
He looked at Janni, who simply nodded at him.
"When I visited a few days ago, I watched those three kids play foursquare with a friend of mine. They were happy, laughing, playing, being kids. Not having to worry about some alien ship coming in and burning everything they knew to glass. Not having to learn the evacuation routes should an attack come."
Ian paused, feeling a tear or two welling up, but continued.
"THAT is why we did it. Why we fought, and why we were willing to die. So that they could smile and never have to fear the things I did when I was their age, and when they grow up, they won't have to worry about being drafted into the UNSC to fight a seemingly unstoppable enemy, so they won't have to fight like I did or see the things that haunt me every night. Every wound, every friend lost, every nightmare I have was worth it, because kids like Cornelia once again have hope. And I can assure you, every man on that wall would think the same. We held the Covenant off, we gave it our all, and now we have peace. Everything I went through, and all the men memorialized here, it was all worth it. Thank you."
He stepped off from the podium, shaking the hand of the president, whose face was one of appreciation. There was a good amount of applause, nothing crazy, but Ian didn't care. He said his piece and just moved back to his seat.
"Nice job color," Pearce said approvingly.
"You actually made my doos of a sister-in-law sound sympathetic, hell of a thing."
"Thanks, Janni," Ian said with a chuckle.
He sat down, Seb patting him on the shoulder with a wink as the president introduced the colonel, who prepared to make a speech of his own.
"What'd you think?" he asked Eleanor.
"It was very nice. I liked that last bit about Dannie and the kids. And thanks for not saying my name. Need some secrets."
Ian nodded, looking straight ahead. She looked over at him for a moment and quickly realized something was off. He was a bit pale, a few beads of sweat running down from the band of his beret, and he let out a quiet, shuddering sigh. She looked down to see his hand shaking almost uncontrollably. She was somewhat baffled by this reaction, he had seemed perfectly fine and controlled during the speech, but now he seemed on the verge of collapse. Was he nervous? Something else? She looked over at his hand again and... She did not know why, but she gently moved hers on top of his. She jolted slightly as he grabbed it and squeezed it tightly, biting his lip and looking at the ground before his other hand patted hers.
"Thanks Ellen," he whispered.
"Of course, Ian," she quietly said.
XXXXXX
By noon, the ceremony was over, the VIP's whisked away to whatever government duties required them and the crowd slowly filing out of the park. Ian and most of the DLI veterans were still there, joking, insulting, or talking to one another.
"Riggers," Janni snorted derisively.
"Hell did you call me?"
"That joke was only funny the three hundredth time you said it, Joshua. Point was, we could barely trust those people to read, let alone pack a combat 'chute."
"And we only lost what, ten men to accidents sergeant?" Pearce asked. "Given our optempo, that's damn impressive."
"Zero is impressive, with all due respect sir."
"You learn what's acceptable when it comes to casualties when you become a leader. Anyways, I think we all should get something to drink. O'Leary's anyone?"
Ian snorted.
"Irish? Really sir?"
"We're not going there to eat, color."
"True. Mind if Eleanor comes along?"
The others found no issue, either out of respect or concern about what she would do if they said no.
"You guys go on ahead, I'll find her."
The fifteen or so men waved and headed off as Ian walked around the empty chairs and workers disassembling the stage. After a few minutes, he was baffled that he was unable to find a Spartan, especially one in a pearl white dress uniform. He was about to call out her name when he saw her on the edge of the park, cornered by-
"Oh no," he grumbled.
Two old ladies seemed to be asking her questions, and were refusing, though they were probably unaware they did so, to let her leave. She noticed him approaching, her facial expression a plea for salvation.
"Excuse me ladies," he said with as suave a voice he could muster. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything."
"Oh, apologies sir," one of them said. "We just wanted to ask this young lady a few questions."
"I see, I see. Well petty officer, they haven't been bothering you too much, have they?"
"No," she said barely above a whisper.
"Good. Ladies, can I speak with you for a moment?"
With little issue or argument, he pulled the two away from Ellen, who finally relaxed for the first time in ten minutes.
"Ladies, I'm her commanding officer, and I don't want to upset you, but she's not much of a public person, and most of her actions in the war are classified."
"Were we upsetting her?" one of them said, aghast at causing any problems for the tall, respectable looking soldier.
"No, she just isn't much of a talker and is a bit private."
"I told you she looked uncomfortable Loretta!"
"I'm terribly sorry sir, we didn't mean-"
"It's alright. I'd just thank her for her service and leave her alone."
"We'll do that, thank you."
The two went back to Ellen, apologizing and thanking her before moving away. As they left the park, Ian moved in.
"You ok?"
"Torture. Utter torture."
"You can take a Brute with no issues, but two old ladies make you break down?"
"I just..." she started wringing her hands, unable to find the right words.
"It's alright. The others are going to get some drinks before we head out, you want to join us?"
"You're my ride home, so I don't have a choice."
Ian grinned.
"Knew you'd see it my way."
"I'm not much of a drinker, but- oh no."
He looked over his shoulder to see two older people moving towards them. He recognized them as the ones who got emotional during his speech.
"Excuse me, are you Ian Walls?" the woman asked.
"I am."
"I'm glad we could speak to you before we left," she quickly said. "I wanted to thank you."
"For what?"
The man cleared his throat before extending a hand.
"We never got the full story on how our son died. Robert McAllister, this is my wife, Doris."
Ian swallowed before straightening up and taking the hand.
"Your son spoke very highly about you both. And I was honored to have served with him."
"We were only told he was killed in action. We didn't know that he was-"
The woman paused, wiping a few tears away.
"That he died trying to protect someone."
"I'm... surprised no one told you what happened."
"Donnie always had a big heart. I wish he was here with us, but I think he would have been satisfied knowing he died for a good cause," his father said with a slight tremble.
There was an uncomfortable silence as the two noticed Eleanor, unsure if to say anything to her before the woman finished wiping her tears away.
"Thank you for coming and telling your story. It meant very much to us."
"Of course, ma'am. Thank you for finding me. Donnie was a great soldier, and I wish there were more men like him."
The two nodded, shaking his hand again before leaving. Ian slouched a bit, his mood sinking with every passing moment.
"Are you all right?" Ellen asked.
"No. I..."
He rubbed his eyes.
"I don't know."
He went quiet, struggling to deal with the emotional punch in the gut he was dealt. She put a hand on his shoulder and gently squeezed.
"Let's go find Janni and the others. I think a drink would help you."
"Yeah," he said numbly. "It might. Let's get out of here."
He looked at the wall and statue before shaking his head and walking off with her. Nearby, two figures watched them leave with interest.
"War hero. Man could be a valuable asset."
"Agreed."
"Did you ask where he's living now?"
"New Cashel Valley. We have a few men out there. I'll tell them to reach out."
"Good PR value as well if he joined us."
"Agreed."
"UNSC had the decency to allow us to honor our dead."
"About the only decency they have. We'll be free of them soon."
With a grunt, the two went their separate ways from the park.
XXXXXX
As the truck pulled up to the farmhouse, Ian nearly leapt out the passenger side and bent over, swaying slightly as he retched.
"Oh Christ!" he slurred, the world spinning around him.
"Only a few drinks?" Ellen chided him slightly.
Like most of the DLI men, he had gotten completely drunk at the Irish pub, a mix of beer and whiskey, and one margarita taken on a dare. After nearly throwing him in a cab and prodding him into the Falcon, a flight that was spent trying to ignore his rather frank assessments of the young female ODST officer who joined them after the ceremony, he had thankfully been quiet most of the drive home, not so much from shame as the nausea of drunkenness. At the very least he kept his dinner inside, but for how much longer?
"God, I haven't drank like that in a while. Glad I don't," he said before gagging. "Anymore."
"Are you going to be alright?"
"I'll be-"
He stood up and nearly toppled over, Ellen grabbing and trying to steady him.
"Fine. Just get me to my room."
She nodded and opened the door, Artemis meeting them again.
"Artie! How are you? Here kitty-kitty."
"He reached out to pet her, but received a disapproving sniff and scampered to the kitchen.
"Bloody cat," he grumbled, nearly falling over himself.
Finally opening his door, she gently guided him to his bed, which he flopped down on.
"Cheers," he sang, sitting up and starting to take his somehow still intact and immaculate dress uniform off.
"Good night, Ian. If you need anything-"
"Thank you, Ellie."
She started at the name. No one had called her that except for a few people, and never Ian. His coat and shoes were already off by the time she was walking out of his room.
"Wait!"
She turned back to him, leaning on the side of his door.
"Can I tell you something?"
"Sure."
"Can't tell anyone. Promise me."
"I promise," she said with an irritated sigh.
She was tired, having had enough of being his caretaker and wanted to take the dress uniform off as soon as possible.
"You're the best thing that's ever happened to me," he said with a smile, not even showing a bit of pain.
She stared at him for a few moments before taking a deep breath.
"Glad to hear that. Good night."
"Night!"
The door closed as she moved back to her room. She walked in, Artemis right behind her, and as she sat on her bed, she took another breath. Her chest felt tight, and it had nothing to do with the uniform. She nervously rubbed the back of her neck as she tried to process... She sighed and tapped her fingers on the bed before burying her face in her hands.
"Idiot," she whispered to herself.