The yellow sun filtered through the Acacia trees, already bringing the heat to noticeable levels.
"Reminds me of home," one of the men said, his accent twinged with the Australian brogue. "Just missing some baobabs."
"Pipe it Ned. It's bad enough we're stuck on this damn planet, even worse if I got to hear you being homesick."
"Sir."
They were professionals, ODST. Orbital Drop Shock Troops, the finest soldiers the UNSC had to offer. And now they were on a mercifully spared outer colony, whose small populace had given only three regiments to the Army. But if even half of the stories of the Dzimbans were true, what little they offered was made up in skill rather than numbers. But most of those troops had been de-mobbed half a year ago, either continuing their service as volunteers or joining the planets militia, what was normally a group or ragtag civilians on a part time rotation, barely able to do even basic tactics.
"Attention all squad leaders," said Colonel Sadir, commander of the ODSTs battalion. "Charlie Company has been eliminated by OPFOR. Adjust plans accordingly."
"Shit," the squad's heavy guns growled.
"They took Foxtrot only an hour ago!" another whined.
"Shut it, that means they're close. Goddamn, we just beat the Covies and you all are getting sloppier than goose shit."
The lieutenant in charge of Bravo Company's Third Platoon was angry for many reasons. To be an ODST meant being elite, unbeatable, and if they went down, they went down hard. And now, some Colonial Militia unit was wiping their entire battalion as if it were nothing. Normally, Marine or Army units would train with the militias, giving them advice or a rude awakening if they were a bit arrogant. But these guys… they were different. They asked for an ODST unit specifically, and over three days of exercises, the Shock Troops found out this wasn't arrogance.
It was a challenge.
Moving slowly through the long grass that covered the savanna plains, the LT and all his troops were on guard. Their nearest comrades, the ill-fated Foxtrot, had fallen, and if the enemy was anywhere, they were getting close. Too close. The officer was sweating now, either from the heat or… hell, he dropped into New Mombasa for God's sake! How was he getting nervous over this? The worst a training shot would do is give one a slight shock, and then inform one they were "out". Compared to fighting brutes or split-lips, what the hell did this matter?
"Where's Oda?"
"Hasn't reported back yet," a corporal said.
"And you didn't bother to-"
The LT stopped in his tracks, looking down in the grass. Sitting in the grass below him, almost lounging, was a man in the brushstroke camo pattern that the local troops preferred. He was pointing an MA37 almost comically at his opponents chest.
"You're out, boitjie," the militiaman said in a Dutch-like accent.
Before he could respond, he felt the slight jab of electricity through his body, and as he turned, he saw his troops twitching, groaning, and cursing as they all fell. Third Platoon was out.
"Son of a bitch!" the serjeant yelled as he tore off his helmet. "How. How!"
"Take it up with my baas. I'm only a private."
His assassin stood up and dusted himself off. Other than the camo, his equipment was all standard UNSC issue. He rolled shoulders and laughed, speaking in some strange language to a few of his comrades. A whole squad had appeared from nowhere, baffling the ODST entirely. The patch on his left shoulder armor was a shield with a roaring lion, mane and all, the insignia of the Dzimban Militia. His other shoulder was blank, showing he had not served anywhere else, or not joined in time to get sent off-world. They were an eclectic mix: white, black, some Asians, most speaking English, some kind of Dutch, or other languages, all not bothering to hide their joy at the humbling of the Helljumpers. One of them, average height and non-descript build, walked towards him.
"My apologies sir. My men didn't find wiping out Foxtrot all that exciting and were hoping for a little flair."
The man at least had the decency to stick out his hand, which he reciprocated. But the newcomer was… different, from the others that had ambushed them. Yes, same armor and camouflage. But this one had been through the wringer, that was certain. No helmet, just a green beret. And his face… something had happened to it. Nothing obvious like a scar or anything, but definite signs of reconstruction. It was most distinctive in his eyes though. One looked blank, normal. The other looked open, alert, as if a threat was nearby and only he could see it. Even though the ODST was taller and more bulky than his opponent, he was instantly unnerved.
"Your men are in excellent shape," he said before returning the crisp salute he received, surprised it was the palm-facing version in the British style. He noticed the three stripes topped with a lion, indicating a staff sergeant, and was unsurprised to find a badge with a parachute, wings on its left and right and edged in gold, above a red diamond with a white number two in the center. Given the protocol of using the unit insignia they fought with the longest with on that shoulder, it was all the proof the officer needed. This man went through a wringer and a half.
"Thank you. Color Sergeant Ian Walls, pleasure to meet you."
"Likewise. Lieutenant Alex Mihalovich."
Walls' accent was recognized by Alex, South African English, or something similar. He served a guy who talked exactly like that before he fell at Beta Gabriel.
"I must apologize for Private Malan's rather flamboyant action against you. These new kids have no idea what it's like to really get caught in the thick of it."
"Most militiamen wouldn't even know an ODST was in a mile of them, and he got the drop on me, even had time to prepare a welcome. If most militia units were even half as good, we wouldn't be trying to clean up most of Kenya by now."
"Aye. Well me and the old hands taught them well, picked up on things. Like your boots. Left prints miles away. We figured you were going to move through here because you thought the riverbed was too obvious."
Alex blinked and nodded.
"You a damn mind reader?"
"No. Hard training here on Dzimba, and then six years in the Light Infantry."
"That's the beret."
"Aye. And got the scars to prove it."
Alex was already a bit off put by the eyes, but the way Ian spoke was freaking him out even more, though he refused to show it. He was being polite, almost jovial, but his face was empty and blank. It was as if he was happy, but was unable to smile. But the mans service was just as much of a shock. The Dzimbans were damn good fighters, quickly standing above the average units in the UNSC Army. But their Light Infantry regiment, while not as famous as most, was spoken of highly in the ranks. High kill ratios, taking dangerous jobs, and somehow coming out on top every time. They'd would've been more famous if their missions had delivered more dramatic victories, or if the Marines and ODST's were not, somewhat unfairly, covered more by the propaganda machine of the UNSC.
"How did you take my scouts?"
Ian looked over to one of the men and jerked his head.
"Show him Laurenco."
One of the militia men grinned and raised a silenced M6S pistol.
"You weren't issued that!"
"Borrowed it off one of your friends in Foxtrot," the man said, sounding almost Brazilian by Alex's guess.
"How did you convince a Trooper to part with their weapon?" the color sergeant asked.
"Used my Latin charm," the militiaman said with a grin. "I promised I'd meet her and give it back when we hit ENDEX."
"Which should be soon," Ian said with nonchalance while looking at his watch.
"What do you mean?" the Australian ODST asked. "We still have half our companies out there."
"What were the conditions of victory again?"
"Complete destruction of one team or the elimination of their command company. Those guys won't make it easy."
"What, the same ones who put up their field HQ under a couple of trees near the big rock? Hundred feet from the road sign pointing to Devizes and Manyika?"
The whole squad of ODST's looked at Ian in horror, and as if on cue, three loud screeches went through every soldier's comms device.
"ENDEX, ENDEX, ENDEX," said Colonel Sadir, who sounded exasperated as he did so. "All units, exercise is over. Green team has captured command of Blue Team. Exercise Poldark is over, victory to…"
There was a silence, almost as if the Colonel didn't believe it.
"The Dzimba Colonial Militia."
"Ey bru, you Troopers get paid enough to keep us all happy? Loser buys winners drinks, that's the rule, right?"
"Malan, I can tell you from experience," Ian said with a smirk that seemed to be painful, "They don't get paid enough for the shit they do."
XXXXXX
By nightfall, the non-commissioned officers' mess was full of laughter, some singing, and plenty of drunks. All wore dress uniform, the dark blue and white of the ODST mixing with the Dzimban green. The ODST NCO's seemed to have salved their wounds from the defeat, the first in many years from fellow humans, and were now living it up with their militia counterparts, either telling stories, jokes, or other such merriment. More than half had patches showing their service, either in the Dzimba Regiment or the Rifles, the two standard units that the planet gave the UNSC. Four of the latter wore green berets, but they all were watching the on-goings from the bar, leaning against it and watching the festivities.
"Either they've gotten sloppy, or we're as good as we think," Sergeant Janni De Vries grumbled as he took a sip of Muscat from a wine glass. "I remember when the ODSTs were the best mankind could offer. Other than… you know."
"Peace is a real sacana, isn't it?" Sergeant Sebastian Novias joked, his humorous mood brightened by his Iberian features as he sipped at his beer, frowning as he realized it was the cheapest available.
"Then God help me, maybe we have to chase the Covie stragglers or rebels for another century before I feel ashamed of this uniform," Regimental Sergeant Major Oliver Ncube groaned.
A single grunt came from the last man, Color Sergeant Walls, who sipped a cup of steaming tea. He was too busy watching the glances come from a few of the ODST men, seeing the others at the bar with a line of medals, but all he had was two. One was unfamiliar, the Grand Cross of Valor, awarded only on Dzimba, but the other didn't need to be figured out: the blue, red and yellow ribbon finished by the Colonial Cross: the highest decoration offered by the UNSC, more often than not posthumous given the actions that normally allowed such an honor. Two corporals looked over at him, blinked, and turned away, speaking only to each other.
Ian hated it. Hated wearing the green dress uniform with its choking tie, having to talk about old times, having to listen to others stories, and having to re-live those terrible, dangerous years that he spent his young adulthood on. He especially hated that goddamn medal, that golden cross and ribbon that turned any soldier curious, that meant he now had to be above the standard for the rest of his life, all because of a piece of metal and strip of cloth. He stayed at the bar, being amongst the men he served with in the DLI. He took another sip of tea before turning back to the barkeep.
"Michael, if I remember correctly, the loser of an exercise pays the bill, correct?"
"Yes sergeant."
"What did the Helljumpers buy?"
"Green Dragon Lager."
The four groaned and sneered.
"Blery typical," Janni snarled. "Bliksems lose one time and buy nothing but piss for everyone."
"Correct," Oliver said. "But when the bar is open, does taste really matter?"
He raised his glass, and the four clinked their drinks together. Ian finished his tea and nodded to the barkeep, who poured a fresh cup.
"Ian, I have to ask, given recent events in your end of the valley, I thought you would drink-"
"Don't bloody start," he grumbled, much to the amusement of his comrades.
His home, the farm his father had left him in the New Cashel Valley, was a paradise for any crop. The first few years were spent growing food, trying to feed the refugees and their military protectors. Then he had been mobilized, served the UNSC for six years. And what did he come home to? Not grain, not vegetables, but fields of beans. And not just any bean.
"Coffee grows well there," Ncube said, trying to make the best of his subordinates' mood.
"Sir, I didn't go through six years of hell and all the pain or scars that came with it to spend the rest of my days supplying coffee to limp-dick baristas in Paris or some upper-class colonial jerkoffs."
"Everyone goes for organic stuff," Janni grunted. "Twice the cost, twenty times the taste. I know you hate it, but believe me, the kak they've been supplying us and the civvies the last decade or so is on the way out, Dank God."
"Hooray."
He took another sip and turned to face the crowd again, picking up a conversation that one of the ODST's was having with the locals.
"...so we then dive straight onto their base, some of our boys land on top of the goddamn split-lips! We pop the pods, go in guns blazing! Man, you should've been there. You can't make 'roids that rough. Thank god for the cod-piece, or I would've stabbed a Hunter to death with my hard-on."
The militia NCO's around the loud mouth laughed. They never saw war, and all they could rely on was the books or the stories.
"Course, we were only the mop-up. Bugs wiped out a whole regiment of Marines, and they needed help. Any chance of us winning our glory was taken away by you know who. All they did was put a nuke in a base and ran off. Big deal."
"Who?" one of the NCO's asked.
"Spartans. Goddamn glory-hogs. You know, it takes a real man to go and do the shit we Helljumpers do when you're packed in a massive suit of armor."
The militia men laughed, but the four at the bar didn't take it so lightly. They had served with Spartans before. They had seen them at their peak serving alongside them, making the impossible possible. Long story short, they knew enough and had fought with them to know the Trooper was completely and utterly full of shit. But one in particular didn't take the jab at the elite super soldiers in particular. The three Light Infantrymen turned to Ian, knowing what his reaction would be. Though his face was unable to show it, his eyes were both squinted, his hands behind him grasping the bar.
"Sir?" he asked with venom in his breath.
"Ian, if you go over there, promise me you won't go too far."
"I just want to… correct his opinion."
The RSM looked to the other two, who nodded.
"Best of luck."
"Sir."
He let go of the bar, handed the half full mug of tea back to the keep, and walked over, slowly and with purpose. The militia members around the Helljumper tensed up as he approached. Wearing the green beret was one thing, but the rumors about the color sergeant in particular were enough to cause concern. They nodded as he stepped up to the Trooper, who was half a foot taller than him.
"Pardon my intrusion Lance Corporal, but I overheard your conversation, and have to say that they are not anything you just called them."
"Well, did you serve with any Spartans? Staff sergeant?"
The tone was aggravating, but the accent… American. Nothing made his blood boil like an American smartass.
"Yes. Saved my life more than a few times actually. Saved one too. Got wounded doing so. "
"Ah. My apologies."
Ian nodded, satisfied that he got his point across. He was about to stalk back to the bar, but as he feared, there had to be one last thing the ODST had to say.
"Maybe going back wasn't worth it, eh?"
He stood still and looked at the man, about half a foot taller than him. He cocked his head slightly and blinked.
"Hm," he mumbled, and with little warning and not allowing for a quick reaction, drove his fist squarely into the Helljumpers lower jaw.
The unfortunate victim reeled over, falling into a table thankfully empty but covered in empty glasses and bottles. The noise silenced all conversation, a few shocked gasps and mumbles of confusion, asking what happened or who fell. The man groaned, his mouth dripping with blood.
"Friggin' psycho!" he slurred, trying to get back on his feet, but went still as a hand grabbed the back of his head and pulled it up.
"If you had any hair, I'd pull you by it," Ian hissed, lowering himself to his victims eye level. "If I hear you speak another word about Spartans, I'll send what few teeth you have left out the door into the goddamn parade ground, do I make myself clear?"
Before the Trooper could respond in word or action, his head was pushed down and his attacker stood up. Most of the fallen man's comrades were still in shock, but he could see a few looking for vengeance, and brought up his fists in challenge.
"THAT MAN THERE!" a voice roared from the bar, sending every man in the mess, regardless of rank, into attention, barring one trying to lift himself off the floor.
"I will be damned if this mess is disgraced by some petty insults!" RSM Ncube finished, his face calm, but his body language belied the fury he hid.
There was nothing more terrifying to any man in the UNSC than an angry senior NCO, let alone one like a sergeant-major, whose kind were the feared backbone of discipline and tradition that were hated by all men, but respected just as equally for their professionalism and sheer grit that a lifetime enlisted career could give. Given Dzimbas British military heritage, this was even more emphasized. Janni and Sebastian had bounded from the bar, getting on either side of Ian.
"C'mon Ian, this isn't worth it," Sebastian said, his nerves letting his Portuguese accent flavor the warning.
"You don't need to escort me," Ian hissed.
RSM Ncube was moving towards him, his equivalent from the ODST not far behind.
"You promised me Ian. You promised," he whispered.
"He said-"
"Shut up. This is my problem now. Ah, Sergeant Major."
"What the hell is going on here! Jesus Christ, you broke his goddamn jaw! Ncube, your man is way out of-"
"I agree. Color Walls?"
"Sir?" Ian said, snapping to attention and saluting.
"You are confined to barracks until tomorrow morning, where you will be brought before Colonel Pearce for summary hearing by the commanding officer, is that made clear?"
"Sir!"
"Arrest his ass, I want a court-martial for-"
"SERGEANT MAJOR!" Ncube roared. "Under the UNSC code of military justice, which you should be aware of, any serviceman is to face non-judicial or summary judgment from their commander before it is elevated to court-martial as outlined by Unified Ground Command Military Law!"
"Well, yes, but-"
"Color! Dismissed!"
Saluting again, Ian marched out of the mess as if on the parade ground, smart and quick. Having stomped out the door with no escort, he made it another ten or so yards before he took a more relaxed stance and even put his hands in his pockets, slowly walking away. He looked up at the flagpole, seeing the flag of the Militia fluttering in the breeze. He sniffed and continued walking back to his barracks before he heard a pair of boots moving towards him. If Janni and Sebastian were coming to escort him, he would be angrier than the idea of two Troopers coming to get even.
"Staff Sergeant!" an unfamiliar accent said.
He turned, preparing for a fight, but he found two curious ODST's, the two eyeing him up earlier. He didn't bother to correct him.
"What do you want, corporals?"
"We wanted to-" the man tried to figure out what he wanted to say. "Ask you something, but didn't get to. We're shipping out tomorrow, so we won't get another chance."
He looked back at the two, brushing non-existent dust off his uniform.
"Go for it."
"What's the badge on your right shoulder?"
"This?" he raised his arm, pointing to the parachute that received a nod. "Fifty or more combat jumps. Parachute, none of that drop-pod nonsense."
The two looked at him as if he grew two heads.
"You use 'chutes?" the woman said in amazement.
"DLI was only a thousand men, and the colony had other units that were bigger and needed the supplies. Do more with less or cheaper was the theory. UNSC supplied all of us, but the Regiment and the Rifles were bigger and less specialized, so they got the majority of it. It's why our standard weapons were DMRs. Any idiot can get thrown an MA37, MA5, whatever you call it, toss 30 or 60 bullets downrange, but when you only got so many soldiers and so many rounds issued or made, you make every shot count."
"Holy hell," she said.
The pair then looked at each other, as if they needed to build up their collective courage. He held a hand up and tapped the Colonial Cross.
"Battle of Criterion. Did three drops into hostile territory, either on top of the Covies or where Marines and the others were about to get wiped out."
"In a week?" the man asked.
Ian laughed and shook his head.
"A day."
"Jesus Christ!"
"Not good on the knees, let me tell you. Last jump was to help a Spartan. Got surrounded and needed help, but wouldn't admit it."
"Is that why you punched King? He's a prick, deserved it by the way."
"I noticed, and yes. Pelican we flew in got damaged and couldn't come back. Had to jump because they couldn't land, too dangerous. Cleared the area and took out their triple-A, or what passed for it. Called in a couple of Falcons to drag us off when they had nothing else on hand. Got about…"
His normal eye squinted as he thought.
"Hundred or so yards from the LZ when a plasma 'nade landed near us. Blast wave threw the Spartan down, KO'd. Buggered up their leg too. Split lips started moving past the Grunts and Jackals trying to take us, complete mess. Dragged that bloody armor the rest of the way-"
"But Spartans are at least 500 kilos!"
"Yeah, and my arm muscles took two weeks to heal. Course I had a couple of guys helping me. Was about 10 away, took down a Split-lip waving a sword with my DMR, thought I won."
He frowned.
"Grunt with a fuel rod gun got a shot near us. Far enough to not be lethal, but close enough to throw enough rock and slate as shrapnel."
He rubbed his face and sighed.
"Face had thirty seven foreign objects in it. Left leg about ten. Hurt like hell, but got myself and the Spartan out."
The two looked at him in amazement.
"And that?"
"You know how it only takes 17 muscles to smile? Well, my lucky arse had the most important sliced. Hurts like hell when I try to. I tried, believe me. Pretty rough facial reconstruction too. Means one eye looks like I'm about to kill someone and the other like I'm about to ask for a drink."
"Er, I meant the cross."
"Oh. Well, the triple drop in a day, saving a Spartan, getting wounded, and a few other things I did during the battle got me it. Course, you wouldn't read or hear about it in the news. Ceremony happened the day the first Covies hit Reach. Got the award and applause then walked down the hall to see the ships crew sobbing or watching the news screens."
He remembered their faces. Terror, shock, agony, grief. He couldn't remember how he felt. It didn't matter. Some would be angry that their day in the sun got so cloudy, but he just went to his quarters and prepped for the next fight. He shook his head and sniffed.
"Anything else? I'm supposed to be confined."
"No staff sergeant," the man said.
"Thanks for answering," the woman added.
"No problem. Hope your friend learned a lesson."
He watched the two walk back to the mess, not even hiding that he put more focus on the female ODST, watching her six in ways deemed highly unprofessional. He sighed, disappointed that he still had one weakness. Getting to his quarters, he walked up the barracks staircase and found his room impeccable as he left it. All his uniforms and belongings were packed, ready for a quick departure as soon as the party ended and the sun rose. He had a four hour drive ahead of him, and who knew what time he'd get back to the farm now. He should have asked Oliver what uniform to wear at the hearing, standard BDU's or dress. He decided to pull one set of the former out and began to take off the dress uniform, hanging it up piece by piece. He had pulled off the tie and put it on a hanger before he thought it was too quiet.
"Koba, you there?"
A panel on the wall lit up at the question.
"Hello Ian. You are early."
"Got sent home."
"According to recent input, you are confined to barracks as of: 2338 ZULU. Is this correct?"
"Yes."
Dumb AI. Certainly lived up to the name sometimes. But how many Militia bases had a local network?
"Is there anything I can help you with?"
"I need some music. Play a bit."
"Would you like to hear Classical, Modern, RNB, or something else?"
"What playlists do I have?"
"You have Jazz for Your Soul, Victory, Dad, Riding Tunes-"
"Dad."
"Playing music from the playlist: Dad."
The room filled with the noise of a drum, and as Ian put up his uniform, he frowned, trying to recognize it. Then the guitar kicked in.
"Bloody hell!" he said out loud, having not heard it in years. Bass, then a guitar that sounded like a bagpipe. Seconds later, the lyrics.
I've never seen you look like this without a reason
Another promise fallen through
Another season passes by you
In A Big Country, his dads favorite song. He belted out the words from memory.
I never took the smile away from anybody's face
And that's a desperate way to look for someone who is still a child
In a big country dreams stay with you
Like a lover's voice fires the mountainside
Stay alive
The words felt as good to him as when he was a kid. He hadn't heard it since the Covies surrendered, God knows why. Down to a t-shirt and boxers, he flopped on the bed, pulling the pillow under his head and chuckled. Despite his injury, he made a go at a smile. He twitched at the pain, but the effort was worth it.
XXXXXX
The dirt road was surprisingly easy on the suspension, but given that Ian was in a Hog, the civilian version of the old M12, that was no shock, pun intended. Few vehicles were even half as hardy or smooth on the worst of terrain. As it turned out, he needed to wear barracks dress for a hearing that lasted all of ten minutes. Colonel Pearce and Oliver lost what little sympathy they had for the Trooper upon hearing the last comment, especially when the man himself admitted it. Other than being told to not punch anyone in the near future, he was packed up and driving home less than an hour after he woke up. He had a lot on his mind though. He should have been happy, winning against the Helljumpers, getting away with breaking the jaw of a dumb asshole, but he felt nothing. Was he missing the service? Was he dreading farming? He shrugged off the idea. He did like farming, especially when it was so easy. After all, most of it was automated, so what could he complain about? 850 acres of good land, split into crops, with about 350 just to let nature take its course. A self-funded wildlife preserve, at least that's what his father told him. He respected his wishes, even if he found them questionable. He hunted on it occasionally, mostly for the Springboks or similar animals. Terraforming had brought life to Dzimba where nothing existed before, meaning all of its natural flora and fauna was imported at one point or another.
"Jy luister na Radio Afrikaans, klassieke van die Rand tot Transvaal. Ons onderbreek jou program vir 'n spesiale nuusuitsending."
He snapped out of his thoughts and moved to switch the station, looking for an English station.
"This is the Dzimban Broadcasting Corporation with a special report. A memo from the Colonial Administration Authority, leaked under uncertain circumstances, has revealed a proposal to federate the colonies of Dzimba, Saare, and Ndako into a single political entity. In response, President Spencer has requested Prime Minister Hamis to summon the cabinet to prepare a response should this report be confirmed true. The Prime Minister is currently traveling to New Harare as of this report. The corporate governments of Saare and Ndako were recently declared insolvent, and it is believed the CAA is wishing to stabilize the colonial region, which has seen a noticeable increase of Insurrection activity. A statement from the Dzimban Peoples Front is believed to arrive soon, and the office of the colonial governor has announced a press conference to begin at 6 PM New Harare time. We now return you to your regularly scheduled program."
Ian shook his head in disappointment. The UEG and its cronies were tearing the peace that the War had created to shreds, taking an opportunity to finally heal the centuries old wounds with the Insurrection and throwing it away. The worst part was it was totally expected by him. He banished the thoughts of a possible guerilla war in the offing as he passed a familiar sign: Avon Fields. His fathers family had lived in Zimbabwe since the 1890's, one of the first to follow Cecil Rhodes, but before that, he figured out the family had come from a small town in Western England. He thought it was a good name, and it stuck. He pulled up to the farmhouse, single floor, nothing fancy, and grunted as he jumped out. His legs were stiff enough from the two week long exercise, and sitting for nearly four hours certainly didn't help. He pulled his gear from the backseat and threw it over his shoulder. He looked at the veranda that doubled as a front porch, seeing a figure wearing stained and well worn clothes, a pipe in his mouth as the rocking chair he was in moved back and forth.
"Did you win?" he asked, a puff of smoke following from his lips.
"We did. I don't know if we're that good or the UNSC is getting worse."
"Could be either. Galaxy's gone tits up everywhere and we can't figure out which way is normal."
"True. Did you make any iced tea?"
"Jesus boy, you leave for two weeks and think I've become a bloody barbarian. There's some fresh stuff in the fridge. Made it yesterday with the leaves we got from the field."
"Cheers. I'm only kidding."
"Yeah yeah."
Stepping inside the house, he felt the cool blast of air-conditioning cool his skin. The terraforming program had been specified to make a climate familiar to the intended settlers, south-eastern Africa, and while it did mean that in some areas things would grow, but the heat could be ungodly sometimes, even to a native. The interior was more modern than the exterior, built along the standard line of a Reach kiva, back when those were the industry standard of isolated self-sustaining settlements. Throwing his equipment in his room, he changed from his green pullover and BDU pants to a t-shirt and shorts before going to the kitchen and pouring himself some of the tea. It tasted as good as he hoped, at least. Stepping back on the veranda, he sat in the chair next to the man and took a sip.
"Any issues?"
"One of the sprayers broke down. Good thing we ordered parts and I got a knack for those things."
"Does that mean the coffee beans will make it?"
"They're growing fine."
"Damn."
Arthur Walls nudged his nephew before scolding him.
"You've no vision for the future, boy. Food is no longer the important thing. Your uncle may be a possibly brain-damaged old bugger, but I got a skill for bumbling into brilliance. See, these UEG bastards are no longer desperate. Food supplies are coming back to normal. When necessities are fulfilled, the luxuries are desired. And coffee, good coffee, will make us dosh. Economics, I promise."
"It better be. Honestly I'm amazed that you could say that many big words without having a stroke."
"Well we couldn't all have that university ed-u-cation like your father."
The two sat and watched the green leaves of the coffee plants glow under the sun.
"Ain't a day that goes by that I don't miss him."
"Me too Unc. Me too."
"When's your mother coming here?"
"She's too busy finding bodies back on Earth. I talked to her last week, it sounds like it'll be decades before East Africa gets back to normal. There's already been riots in the colonies they evacuated people onto. They want to go home, but it's completely trashed. Without the space elevator the entire protectorate is in deep money trouble, and New Mombasa is just… gone."
"I'd be lying if I felt bad."
"Old feelings die hard, eh Unc?"
"Only good thing Earth has done for us is make the Covies bee-line for it and avoid us. The taxes, the police actions… they can kiss my arse."
Ian clanked his drink in agreement.
"True, they give us subsidies thanks to my veteran status and a few other things, but those sods couldn't organize a party in a brewery."
Unc burst out laughing at the comment, and did so hard he started coughing so hard he couldn't breathe.
"You got your fathers sense of humor, that's for bleeding certain!"
He spat onto the dirt and cleared his throat.
"There is something we need to do. Fences need fixing on Piet's side. Pulling the wire, digging the poles. I held off till you came home, I can't do it myself."
"Thanks for waiting."
"We can do it tomorrow. Did you eat?"
"Got something on the road halfway, snacked on biltong the rest of the way."
"I think we'll take the day off to celebrate, do it tomorrow, eh?"
"Sounds good to me."
"Piet delivered that bull. Enough meat to last us a year in that freezer."
"Lekker. Told him I knew a guy who knew a guy.
"A good trade. Shame though, beautiful grey."
"Like we know anything about bloody animals, let alone horses."
"True. How 'bout we have steaks for dinner, with veg from the garden."
"Cheers."
At least he would go to bed happy.
XXXXXX
The FOB was full of activity, but Ian had his chute ready, pouches full and 392 loaded. He strapped on his helmet and moved to the Pelican with purpose, looking up at the battle in the night sky, blooms of orange and yellow impacts lighting up the sky above. The Battle of Criterion was going as well as the rest of the war against the Covenant: badly. Yes, they were taking down plenty on the ground, but what did it matter when planets were falling? The Army and Marines could win, but the Navy never could. He spat on the ground as he moved to the craft readying for take off. Sebastian gaped at him as he walked on board.
"Cristo, Ian, you've already been on-"
"Don't start Seb, I'm going."
He took a seat, looking around at the 12 other paratroopers loaded up and ready. All DLI men, some had already jumped once today, the others were fresh. He had already leapt twice, but he didn't give a damn. This was different from saving a couple of leathernecks or downed pilots. This was personal. Two men stepped into the hull, and if they couldn't stand, the men inside certainly snapped to attention. It was Colonel Pearce and RSM Ncube.
"Gentlemen, this is a bad one. You already heard the basics, but I'll go a bit deep. High command received a distress signal in the Shenyang valley twenty minutes ago. Normally this would be a standard rescue mission, but this is deep trouble. Sierra-level broadcast. You know what that means."
They all did. It was almost as important as a general or admiral needing help. Spartan in trouble.
"Some of you already know what this entails. Some of you have jumped already, digging our friends out of the muck, but if it's a standard Spartan op, then it's deep, deep shit. If it's to the point a Spartan can't make an extract, you're jumping into a complete disaster. But the UNSC needs Spartans. One of them is worth a thousand of us, and I don't give a damn if they truly are un-killable, if we can save one for another day, I think it's worth the sacrifice. You'll be in for the fight of a lifetime. If you want to get off and get another man to take your place, do so. I won't blame you. Hell, no one will."
Pearce scanned the faces of the men, who to a man gave him a look of determined ferocity. He did however stop at Ian.
"What are you doing here corporal?"
"Sir?"
"RSM, how many jumps has Corporal Walls made today?"
"Two. Get off Walls, you've done plenty already."
"Gentlemen, with all due respect, look at that report. Look who we're going to help."
Pearce looked at Ncube, who opened the folder. They both looked at the name before turning back to Ian.
"I've been at 74's side plenty of times these last three years. I owe-."
"Fatigue or exhaustion is going to set in soon," Ncube said rationally. "Don't get all heroic and let yourself be killed."
"I owe a debt."
Pearce scratched his chin and shook his head.
"I'm not calling MP's to drag a volunteer out. If you think you can take it, go. But if you turn out to be dead weight-"
"I never have and never will. Sir."
Pearce looked at Ncube, who shrugged. The colonel hated to admit it, but he needed fighters, and a man willing to jump three times in a day, fully knowing what he was getting into a near unwinnable battle, was what he needed for this mission.
"Very well. You're leaving now. Godspeed men."
The RSM stopped at the end of the ramp and looked back inside.
"We Dare!" he bellowed.
"We Win!" the fourteen yelled back.
He grinned, winking at Ian before stepping off. The ramp closed, the Pelican shook, and they were off. Fifteen minutes later, maybe less, the red light at the front of the vehicle began blinking. The crew chief stood and looked at his cargo.
"Right, you all know the deal! We get over target, light goes green, you leap! Not hard concepts. Stand up, hook up!"
The men did so, connecting their parachute hooks to the railing above. The crew chief started from the back, checking each man's pack. He pulled on Ian's and stopped to look at him.
"Didn't you jump already?"
"Twice, actually."
The chief shook his head.
"You're a brave one."
"No chief, I'm a bloody idiot."
The others laughed, the one behind him slapping his shoulder.
"All good, one minute!"
Ian stood there, not sure what to do. No matter how many jumps you did, practice or combat, you never got used to leaping out a good aircraft. His leg was shaking, his teeth chattering slightly. The one behind him prayed, the one in front, the third one out, took a sip from a canteen, his hand trembling. Ian closed his eyes and said what he always did.
Our father,
Who art in Heaven,
Hallowed be thy name,
Thy Kingdom come,
Thy will be done-
He felt a rush of air as the ramp opened. He took a deep breath.
On Earth as it is in Heaven-
"Ten seconds!"
He lost track of the words, as he always did in these situations. A buzz.
"Green light! GO! GO! GO!"
The first man leapt, then the second, then the third, and then he walked off the ramp.
"Deliver us from evil," Ian gasped as he was thrust forward unto death.
XXXXXX
The buzzing wasn't the same, but it was just as jarring. His eyes opened, and as he lifted himself off the mattress, he reached over to slap the alarm's snooze button. He rubbed his eyes and sat on the edge of the bed. He hadn't dreamed about that day in a long time. He grasped at a glass of water, kept cool by the bed stand, another bit of kiva tech Ian enjoyed. His throat was parched, and he was sweating like a stuck pig.
"God damn exercises."
They always brought the worst out of him, getting back into the kill or be killed mindset he had spent the last six months trying to get away from. Militia service was different, part time soldiering, as he would have spent his whole life had the Covies not tried killing all of mankind. He grunted as he sat up, his knees beyond sore. He had some problems walking over to the medicine cabinet in the water closet, a toilet and sink, the only other items of interest. The shower was given its own room in the house, an oddity that made sense to his father and no one else despite its lack of convenience. He took an ibuprofen and washed his face before realizing he needed food. His plain white shirt and shorts were fresh, and lumbered into the kitchen. He was about to put some bread in the toaster before he noticed a half finished piece on the counter.
"Unc? You up?"
No response. He shrugged and poured some tea. He took a slice of bread and turned to the toaster-
And promptly dropped the bread as he saw his uncle hiding under a veranda window, cradling the Lee-Enfield he used for hunting. He and his brother had always loved history, and decided to pull some of it to the present, the rifle very much included. But it was of little use not aiming at anything, and Ian dropped to the floor, crawling towards him.
"What's wrong? Is that damn lion out here again?"
"No. It's… bloody hell boy, I don't know."
"Describe it."
"I walked out to check the windmill, and at the end of the drive… someone or something in armor. It's big. Bloody big."
Ian tensed up a bit and nodded. He crawled back to his room, staying low the entire time. He pulled out a case from under his bed and pulled out his faithful 392. He grabbed two magazines, shoving one into the end of the rifle, throwing the bolt forward with a familiar clack. The other he threw in his pocket, just in case. He moved to his uncle's side and nudged him.
"No aggression? Didn't try to attack?"
"No, just stood there. Hasn't moved for ten minutes."
He frowned. Strange. If it wanted them dead, it would have done it now.
"I'm going to meet them. When I go out, you go and aim, in case anything happens."
"Be safe boy."
"I survived worse."
He hovered a hand over the door panel, feeling his mouth go dry. Whatever it was, he needed to deal with it. Finally pressing it, the two doors pulled open, the morning heat sucking at his lungs. He stepped out, bringing his weapon to the ready. To his irritation, the Hog was blocking his view. He kept the weapon ready, slowly moving towards the end of the drive. His heart was pounding, the flushing sound of blood pumping through his ears. Christ, he hadn't been this scared since the war ended. He looked to the window, seeing the end of the bolt-action ready to fire. He took a deep breath and nearly jumped out. The three dots were hovering right over the target, and-
He froze. Then he lowered the rifle and blinked. He even rubbed his eyes. He couldn't believe it. The figure was in greenish-brown armor, wearing a helmet that looked similar to the ones security officers used. It wasn't any armor. It was Mjolnir armor. He moved closer, in total disbelief. He looked at the right chest plate, and the number was-
"74."
"Hello staff sergeant," the figure said through a voice somewhat warbled by the helmet's inbuilt speaker.
"You're…you're alive!"
"You say that as if it wasn't possible. If anything, I should say that to you."
"Yeah. What're you- oh, hold on. Unc! They're friendly, stand down!"
"Really? Oh, good!"
"Is he the uncle you always spoke of?"
"Yeah."
The two stood there for a few moments, unsure of what to say.
"So… what're you doing here?"
"Do you remember that promise you made on the Falcon? When we were evac'd on Criterion?"
He blinked and rubbed his rebuilt cheek. He couldn't remember much other than pulling 74 on board and passing out.
"Not really."
"You said that if we both survived the war, once we won, of course, you would give me a place to work and stay."
"I don't remember saying that… but I probably did. I just- you're listed as MIA. I checked. You were on Earth."
"I did better than we hoped. Spartans are a tough breed."
"So are Dzimbans."
They heard footsteps behind him, and turned to see Unc moving slowly, eyeing the new arrival as he lit his pipe.
"Tax collectors have gotten serious, Christ alive."
"No Unc. This is an old friend of mine. Needs help, and I promised an open room and a job."
"And you didn't ask me?" he said with a puff of smoke.
Ian turned to him with a bit of anger.
"I was busy doing other things. Anyway, they're more help than we could ask for. 74 is a honest to god Spartan."
Unc frowned. He saw the stories, the legends, the propaganda.
"Well, I don't know if I can trust him. He seems a bit… sketchy."
"Unc, you shouldn't-"
What sounded like a polite cough for attention came from 74's helmet. The two turned to the Spartan, who moved their hands to remove the wide-visor head protection. With a pop, it came off seamlessly. Ian grinned slightly as he looked back to his uncle, whose pipe nearly fell out of his mouth.
Hidden from view by the helmet was a face crafted from the finest genetics available, which gave off a feminine grace and beauty men could only dream of. Short brunette bangs fell on either side of her head before she smiled politely.
"I hope my sudden arrival will cause no issues," she said flatly with a twinge of apology.
"Uncle, may I introduce you to Eleanor-074. We served alongside one another for a few years.
"You never told him about me?" she said in slight amusement.
Unc grasped at the pipe and tried to be as dashing as possible, something he had been unable to do for about twenty years.
"Well, I mean… if you would have told me who it was, I would have been more than welcoming," he spluttered.
"Can she stay?" Ian asked.
"As long as she likes," he said with a lecherous grin.
Ian turned to her and stuck a hand out.
"Welcome to Avon Fields Eleanor."
She took the hand and shook it.
"I always wanted to see it. You've talked about it enough that I feel like I've lived here for years."
"Unc, can you show her the house?"
"Of course, boy, of course. Follow me ma'am, or is it madam?"
"Ma'am is fine," she said as she followed him to the veranda.
Ian moved towards the Hog and leaned on it before he scoffed.
"Wasn't expecting that," he said as he shook his head.