We The Peoples
Philip JN Cohen
Published by Philip JN Cohen at Smashwords
Copyright 2012 Philip JN Cohen
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
For Jessi,
the love of my life who pushed me to start writing and supported me through sleepless nights of editing and literary heartache. Thank you.
Prologue
There was so much blood and dirt dripping through his eyes and down his nose. Colonel Harris was convinced of failure before the next push had even begun. He lay in the mud on the side of “The Hill”, his breath hard and ragged. He was desperately thinking of some way to make things work.
It had all gone so horribly wrong. After four and a half years of fighting in the streets, they had become poised to take the most symbolic victory they could hope to manage. From just a few hundred meters away, the dome of their objective loomed.
The Colonel was one of fourteen that remained. The rest lay littered like spent matches to any given side of where the present battle raged. The smell of the dead and dying filled his nostrils. Blood and sweat and burning hair and bowels loosening. Men screamed for their mothers. For water. For the end to embrace them. The Colonel was certain he was losing his grip on reality. Disoriented and disorganized, the fourteen survivors of Delta Troop 2/1 Cavalry would soon be expected to charge. Again.
It was highly unlikely they would take their objective. The Loyalists had fortified the National Mall with everything the high command could spare them. It's strategic value was wan. It's emotional value could end the war. Nests of burrowed machine guns and small, mousy machine gunners flanked the steps that had once led to the chambers of the senate. The senate hadn't met in six years. Colonel Harris reflected that he was unsure whether or not there were still Senators. A small patch of land, maybe fifty meters ahead, had been cleared and planted with land mines and trip wires.
A sigh broke from the Colonel's lips against his will. There was no way they were going to make it. There was no way to make this work. Soon he and his soldiers would be dead. And with them the revolution. His mind resolved to the fate they were to face, he stood up amongst the chaos and bellowed out. A primal yell. Rage and anguish and a not-yet-dead dream of something better for his nation. His nation god dammit!
And so they charged.
And one by one, they fell. Never to get back up again.
Three weeks later a new flag was raised atop the dome of the American Capitol. The war raged on around them as a gaggle of seven men hoisted the red and black banner of a new nation. It was beautiful. Colonel Harris would have loved it.
Chapter 1
04.02.29 F.E. 1630
“If you don’t get moving any faster than that, I’m gonna break your skinny legs, Maggot!”
The Drill Instructor was bellowing at the top of his lungs. His slick, well treated beret crouched down his head to highlight fierce and angry eyes. The matte black of the Peoples military uniform combined with the black of a Drill Instructors head gear gave the man an almost sinister look. He was viciously beating the worn down soldier about the shoulders and back with fierce, stinging, rapports. Recruit Quinn pumped his legs harder and harder. His strength was failing him. The strikes landing squarely on his shoulder blades were hardly helping the matter.
Quinn had joined the Peoples' Army at eighteen, right out of school. His lean and graceful body had seemed made for the military and with a proud line of veterans in the family, the decision to join had almost been a given. With his shock of red orange hair and a field of stars worth of freckles on his face, he stood out sorely amongst the Recruits. Today was not the first time he had been set aside for individualized punishment. The Drill Instructors referred to the process as ‘soldier focused conditioning’.
“You’ve got thirty seconds to reach the end of this track, Recruit!” The expanse before Quinn stretched for what surely was miles. Thirty seconds? he thought, The man’s clearly lost his mind! Quinn knew, as did any other Recruit with half a mind, that the tasks in the first few weeks of training were never quite attainable.
He pushed himself anyways. The muscles in his calves felt close to popping. The blisters on his heels throbbed and broke, spilling pus and blood throughout torn and tattered combat boots. Moisture wicked off of his nose into the cool morning air. Lungs filled with air and emptied; rhythmically, if not peacefully. The sharp, cacophonous, thuds of two pairs of boots, rattled an otherwise quiet field of grass.
Thirty seconds was up. Quinn was well short of the stated objective and knew without thinking what was to come.
“Get on the floor and start pushing! I’ll let you know when enough is enough”. The Drill Instructor paced back and forth while Quinn dropped to the floor, pushing his nose repeatedly into the dirt.
“One, First Comrade!”
“Two, First Comrade!”
“Three, First Comrade!”
As he exercised his body and mind, Quinn rejected the creeping thoughts of how sore he would be later, how much he wanted to scream. Training wasn't supposed to be fun, he reminded himself. Besides, he would be a soldier, and that made it more than worth it to him.
04.02.29 F.E. 1715
Quinn’s head struck the pillow forcefully when he collapsed that night. Johnson sauntered into the room, legs gliding with a forced grace of nerve. Johnson and Quinn had met in the first week of training and become fast friends. As Johnson was the only black soldier in the unit, he and Quinn stood out from the crowd all the more when standing together. When he saw Quinn, he broke into a mischievous grin.
“Heya Caleb!” He spouted. “Old D.I. give you a good run around today, did he?”
“Heya Rich, “ Quinn muttered, “You can go to hell and take the damned D.I. with you”. Johnson laughed and took a seat on the bunk opposite Quinn.
“Regret your decision to be a ground grunt yet?” he asked.
Quinn bristled. “You know I don’t like it when you say that”. He sat up on his bunk and glared over at his friend. “There’s not only nothing wrong with being in the infantry, it’s an honor”.
Johnson didn’t look impressed. “So you keep telling me”. He stood up, fumbling through his pockets for the keys to his foot locker. His mouth opened for a moment, only to snap shut. The keys in his hand kept sliding through his fingers and he muttered curses under his breath. They crashed suddenly to the floor, startlingly loud in the awkward quiet of their bunk room. Johnson shouted something implying rather nasty things about the keys' heritage and slumped to the floor. He propped his feet up on the edge of the foot locker, letting his back fall until he rested serenely on cold tile. He gazed unblinking at the ceiling.
Throughout this circus, Quinn remained planted on his bunk, mind adrift. Johnson spoke up suddenly, “Your precious honor is worth even odds of dying you know”. Quinn remained mute. No answer was forthcoming. No answer was really expected. Instead, he stood up abruptly, grabbed the keys from underneath Johnson’s bunk and calmly opened his foot locker. Quinn dropped the keys on Johnson’s stomach and walked slowly from the room.
04.02.29 F.E. 1730
Quinn hadn’t a clue what he was going to do now that his brain had compelled him to march up and down the empty hallways of the billets. If a D.I. caught him, he would catch hell and more. The welts on his shoulders and back smarted in a grim anticipation. He let his mind wander rather than think about what trouble would be coming his way.
Johnson always talked too much. That was the first real problem. When a Recruit had thoughts like his, he was supposed to keep them to himself. It was arrogant of him to assume something terrible in the casualty rates, anyhow. It wasn’t the fault of our leaders that so many were being killed these days. If the Chinese would only let the matter drop, everyone could get on with their lives.
Having satisfied his conscience for the time being, Quinn considered his options. He didn’t really feel like putting up with Johnson anymore just yet. It would be at least another half hour before others in his bunk room came back from training. “If I could have just been sent to squad routines with everyone else, instead of hollering rubbish patrol, I would have avoided this whole damned nonsense!” Quinn hadn’t realized he spoke aloud until the sounds began to reverberate back at him from empty, soulless walls. The warmth it brought to stone, disturbed and alarmed him.
“And what damned nonsense is that, Recruit?”
Quinn felt every individual hair on his neck stand at attention well in advance of his leg’s military maneuvers. His heels drew together and with one toe down and one toe up, his body swiveled and snapped into the perfect posture of perfect obedience.
He was staring into a pair of eyes so cold, he would have wondered if the body in front of him were dead, were it not standing and speaking to him. The eyes gave lie to the myth of a compassionate leadership. Quinn allowed his gaze to drop just slightly, to the rank patches adorning the collar of the black military blouse and found himself staring at a Sergeant Major’s red and golden chevron grouping. The crimson eagle jumping out as if to sink sharp talons into easy flesh. Quinn was starting to feel as though he were going to faint.
The body breathing beneath those rank badges was broad and bulging. The military jacket on the man’s shoulders flexed and strained against muscles made from decades of service during countless wars and border conflicts. Quinn looked back up to the Sergeant Major’s face, noting briefly the ragged scarring across the side of the old man’s head. The close cropped salt and pepper hair did little to cover the brazen disfigurement of an otherwise perfect form.
“I asked you a question, Recruit”. The voice was soft and demanding. This man would never need to shout to be obeyed. Quinn’s mind raced through any of many possible answers to the statue of a man in front of him. He sputtered. It seemed a sentence was stubbornly refusing to form across his tongue. His mouth had gone utterly numb.
The burly man sighed. “Recruit, I’m not gonna break your neck if you supply a less than perfect answer”. That sign of humanity flipped whatever switch had been left in the down position and Quinn’s words started to flow through the sudden open dike.
“The dam.. um.. the nonsense of having to suffer through one of my fellow Recruit’s demoralizing talk about mine and my father’s military profession, Sergeant Major. I know that he is under a lot of stress, as we all are, but I know that our job is for the people and for the Peoples and that disenfranchising speech serves no purpose other than to detract ourselves from our missions and objectives as set by the state, Sergeant Major”. Quinn rambled, his mouth seemed unable to stop, even as his brain was screaming that enough was enough. “It seems to me that such talk ought to be regarded as treason Sergeant Major”.
His brain suddenly got through to the rest of him. Quinn slammed his mouth shut. Teeth crashed together and through tongue and cheek flesh. He felt his face flush. His mind was racing, the same thought repeating itself over and over again. This is not good.
The Sergeant Major looked appraisingly at the young recruit. His eyes pierced like needles across Quinn’s face. His pupils darting this way and that, as he searched for... something. He stopped, seemingly satisfied at what he had found.
“You know, Recruit, I think you’re right about that”. The Sergeant Major started to turn away, paused, and spoke over his shoulder. “I’ll make sure you get your fair credit for this”. With those parting words, he walked off.
Quinn stood shaking. His mind was running off in a thousand directions at once. What was a Sergeant Major doing in his billets anyways? Before he had time to wonder, the doors slammed open in the hall around the corner. Voices and boot steps filled the building. The warmth of laughter and sweat and a frantic desire to connect swept over him. A lanky, pale skinned Recruit came round the corner at a dead sprint, nearly running Quinn down.
“Heya Quinn!” The Recruit, Conwell, yelled, “Get out of the halls! You’re gonna get plowed over you keep standing there like a cow”. The smile on Conwell’s face as he yelled, erased any last troublesome worries Quinn might have had.
“Heya Conwell!” he shouted, “Wait’ll I tell you about this hollering smoke session one of the D.I.s took me on today!” Together, they ran down to their barracks room and started to jaw over the day’s tortures and triumphs. Johnson’s foot locker was gone. Recruit after Recruit filled the room. If any of them noticed that night, that Johnson never came back, none of them said or did anything so that you’d know.
Chapter 2
05.03.29 F.E. 0730
“Move your selector switch from safe to semi and... watch your lane!”
The go message for every training rifle range from time immemorial, came over the loudspeakers. Four dozen quiet clicks sounded down the dusty, dirty tract of foxholes and sandbags. Four dozen dirty, sweaty, tired Recruits lay heads down to peer over firing sights with eyes too strained to see much, if anything.
Quinn was squinting, struggling to see some clear shape of anything in the distance. Something jumped into his field of view off to the right. He started, swinging his rifle around, lowering his head, finding center mass, squeezing the trigger. The training kicked in without thought. The slanty-eyed, yellow painted, vaguely man shaped target went down just as his ears registered the explosive bang of primer igniting powder in the confined space of his rifle receiver. Down the line, pop after pop resounded as others in his unit executed their respective plastic Chinese soldiers.
Quinn was vaguely aware of the blood rushing through his system. Filling each of his capillaries beyond their normal capacity. His ears sensitized and desensitized in one fell swoop. Picking out the subtle sounds of targets rising while muting the numbing explosions coming from the end of his barrel and the barrels of those around him. He suddenly realized that he no longer needed to squint. He had both eyes open, his mind quickly registering the notion that perhaps this was the way to go about aiming. A vague motion caught his eyes as something flashed in the distance. Aim, steady, breathing, squeeze. Whatever had flashed, had fallen.
As the rotation of targets continued, little hint of thought could be found inside him. He was merely an extension of his weapon. A warm body with a set of hands made to execute a series of steps in precision order. His lungs took in air slow and steady. His body flexed and moved with grace. He was in his element.
Before he knew it, the rotation was over. He thumbed the magazine catch, dropping the slender triumph of polymer engineering into his hand. His fingers found the charging handle and jerked back on it roughly. A shimmering round popped from the chamber into the gravel next to him. His hand scooped it up and thrust it down into the magazine in his palm, pushing the remaining rounds down a step to make room for the new arrival. He locked the bolt open, slid his magazine into an ammo pouch strapped to the side of his body armor and took one last glance to ensure his weapon was on safe. He stood up and started to walk back behind the safe line.
One of the Drill Instructor’s had been standing not far behind his fox hole to act as one of many range safeties. The D.I. turned his head to face Quinn and almost seemed to smile.
“Good shooting soldier”. The D.I. muttered.
Quinn was so startled, he almost dropped his weapon. His hands sought a firmer hold on the suddenly sweaty, slippery, black rifle. He paused, considering, and walked off to where another safety would check his barrel and take his magazine.
His boots seemed to hardly touch the ground. In seven weeks of training, not a single Drill Instructor had complimented him on anything. Until today. It sent his thoughts off in a thousand different directions at once. The comment hadn’t sounded sarcastic. The comment hadn’t sounded put on in any way. The comment sounded, if he could possibly wrap his head around the notion, genuine. He was struggling to make sense of it still as he reached the safety check line.
The safety checked the selector switch on Quinn’s rifle while running a long narrow metal pipe down the barrel. With the bolt locked open it was easy to see the end of the pipe as it cleared into the chamber. Everything seemed well and good until the safety took Quinn’s magazine. He was about to simply toss it into a box with the others when something caught his eye.
“What the hell is this about, Recruit?” The safety was getting hostile. “Got too scared to fire off the rest of your ammo, is that it?” Quinn stood in a mild state of shock.
“I didn’t know I was supposed to use it all”, Quinn said. “I can go back on the line if you need me to”, the right thinking part of his brain caught up with him, “First Comrade”.
The safety looked aghast at the suggestion. Lips curled up in a sneer, eyes wide and incredulous. “And let you ruin my rotations?” The man scoffed, “No. Not a chance. You’ll get another chance next cycle. When your Drill Instructor sees how many targets you’ve missed, he'll kick you back to the start for sure”.
“Yes, First Comrade”. Quinn replied. His legs started to move him over to the resting area where other recruits sat on stiff benches. Some were awaiting their turn to fire, while others, like Quinn, had just come off the line. He forced himself to set down at the far end of one of the benches while he pondered his next move.
A Drill Instructor was pleased with him. The range safety was upset with him. Drill Instructors garner more respect than a lowly range officer, yet the range officer was surely more likely to know what was good or bad on their own range.
Before Quinn had had much time to mull things over, a D.I. came sauntering into the rest area.
“Recruit Quinn!” he bellowed. Quinn leapt to his feet, snapping to attention.
“First Comrade, yes, First Comrade!” Quinn barked.
The D.I. eyed Quinn with clear contempt and suspicion. “Come along”, The D.I. said, “The Sergeant Major would like a word with you”. Quinn went stiff as a board. Every recruit within hearing followed suit. Timidly, Quinn marched off, following the Drill Instructor to his fate.
Every foot fall brought him closer to his doom. He was led inside a small ramshackle building. In marked contrast to the perfect polish of areas like the billets, this office was crumbling from the walls and ceiling, the paint flaking unceremoniously to the dirt floor. Behind an aging, weathered desk sat the same dark eyes Quinn had seen in the billets all those weeks ago. As fate would have it, the eyes had even brought along their owner.
The Sergeant Major was made no less imposing having had warning to his presence. Seated and waiting, he looked as terrifying as any speeding artillery shell. As deadly as any singing bullet.
The D.I. stood before the Sergeant Major and spoke perfunctorily. “Sergeant Major, I have the Recruit you requested”. Without waiting for an answer, the D.I. turned and strode out of the room, closing the heavy, oaken door, with a heart pounding thud.
The Sergeant Major smiled. Quinn’s heart just happened to turn to ice at that exact moment.
“Well Recruit”, The Sergeant Major intoned. “It seems you and I have occasion to chat once more”. Quinn stood silently, uncertain as to whether an answer would be either expected or appropriate. The Sergeant Major continued with a frown, “You still seem to think I’m going to bite your head off”. He stood up and walked around to the front of the table. “I may not be your friend, but I do try to be less than vicious to my subordinates”. A grin cracked the Sergeant Major’s face, giving an unnatural air to every word he spoke. “Well”. Fingers drummed across the surface of the desk. Caleb was starting to sweat. Papers were shuffled and brought up to the Sergeant Major’s face. Beads of moisture were rolling to the end of Caleb’s chin, as he started to tremble. Eyes quickly scanned line after line of well printed, manicured lines and figures. The moment was dragging on. Caleb felt ready to explode. The Sergeant Major’s eyes snapped to meet Quinn’s, sucking the warmth from the room. “Here we are... it seems that you turned in ten of your fifty issued rounds”.
Quinn’s mind was in a flurry. The Sergeant Major wanted to see him over not firing all of his ammunition? This couldn’t be happening. Quinn felt drops of sweat beading across his forehead. The Sergeant Major was staring at him patiently. An answer was clearly expected this time around.
“Yes, Sergeant Major”. Quinn croaked out. His eyes darted to and fro across the Sergeant Major’s face, desperately attempting to determine what, exactly, was going on here.
The Sergeant Major’s lips spread until a line of gleaming teeth shone through. Quinn had the terrifying thought of a tiger preparing to pounce. The Sergeant Major spoke softly, “Are you aware how many targets you hit with those rounds you did deign to fire?”
Quinn gaped openly. The D.I. on the range had been being sarcastic apparently.
“You hit forty out of forty”, The Sergeant Major said, “And took down each target with only one round, and within one half second of it being triggered”. He looked over at the intensely confused Recruit before continuing. “You will not be returning to training with this company”.
By now so many thoughts had begun to crash against the sides of Quinn’s head, he barely registered the situation for what it was. The Sergeant Major allowed a few moments to go by before turning to pick up a few sheets off his desk. He pushed them in Quinn’s direction. Quinn allowed his hands to stretch out and take them. He glanced down briefly and saw, “Orders To Report: Designated Marksmanship School”.
The Sergeant Major was now openly smiling. Rather than doing anything to put the poor boy at ease, the toothy grin just pushed Quinn further and further into terror.
“I didn’t forget”, The Sergeant Major suddenly said.
His fingers snaked into one of his pockets, coming back into daylight with something glinting at the end of a multi colored ribbon. He strode forward and pinned it onto Quinn’s chest. Stepping back to admire his handiwork he said, “That’s your Peoples Service Medal, Second Class”. He strode around behind the desk again, took a seat, glared forward with blood in his eyes, nostrils flaring. “For bringing the traitor to our attention”. The moments ticked on endlessly before he spoke again.
“Thank you for your service to the Peoples, Recruit. Have fun at your new school”. He leaned back and closed his eyes. “You’re dismissed”.
Chapter 3
08.17.29 F.E. 1120
“Always wait until the natural pause in breathing at the end of your exhale before taking a shot”.
The instructor, a sturdy bull of man who probably couldn’t hide behind a brick wall if he tried, was going over guidelines for focused shots for what had to have been the ninth time today.
“There is never a good reason to rush your shooting. Your target will never be moving so quickly so as to warrant haste on your part. A man running is a man for the machine gunners to take down. It’s the officer standing calmly behind the lines that you want”.
Quinn felt as though he could recite the instructor’s lines by memory at this point. He was laying in a modified prone, rifle resting solidly on a smooth rock outcropping. His eyes scanned the horizon. Any and all signs of motion were subject to appraisal. Leaves rustled and fell, grass swayed gently in the morning breeze. A shrub less than a hundred meters off trembled as a small rodent brushed through it’s underbelly.
His eyes scanned past the shrub a second time. His brain was in overdrive, straining to work out, piece by piece, the logic to what his instincts had already told him.
There was a soldier with a rifle covered by that bush. He mentally rushed through the contact checklist. Movement abnormal from wind or breeze patterns. Check. A structure large enough to provide concealment and cover to a man sized object with weapon system. Check. Eliminate the possibility of a more innocent source of disruption. There are no rodents known to take refuge in shrubs in this geographical region. Check.
Aim, steady, wait for the pause in breath, squeeze the trigger.
A plastic target, eighty meters away and invisible to the naked eye from his position, disappeared into a cloud of pink smoke and fumes. He ran through the motions of dropping the magazine and clearing his weapon before getting to his feet. His military bearing lost the battle against his pride. His lips formed a thin smile of accomplishment.
The instructor was agog. The broad man had started walking here and there spasmodically.
After a handful of moments, he stopped, turned, and stared at Quinn as he rested behind his rock firing stand.
“That was amazing!” The instructor cried out. “How did you know that’s where the target was so quickly?” he peered intently at Quinn, waiting all together too patiently for an answer.
“Well“, Quinn began, “There are no shrub living denizens in this area that would have made that much motion”. The instructor looked just short of worship and began to clap with a glee made grotesque by the giant man’s scarred features and twisted form.
“I can see“, The instructor said, “That the Chinese are gonna have a devil of a time dealing with you”. He leaned forward, propping his arms on a thin metal walking stick. “Four more of you and we would take Beijing by the end of the week”.
Now Quinn’s bearing broke completely and he beamed at his instructor. “I’ll do what I can for the Peoples, First Comrade”, he said.
“I know you will Caleb”. The instructor’s use of Quinn’s first name hit him like a hammer between the eyes. Quinn cocked his head, throwing a questioning look his instructor’s way.
“Oh, give it a rest“, The instructor laughed, “We can’t all be formal to the point of artifice every waking minute of the day, can we?”
Quinn pondered this a moment before speaking up again, “In that case, First Comrade”, He hesitated briefly, but pushed on, “I’d like to ask you a couple questions”.
The instructor’s face drew together into a serious frown for a moment. Quinn was suddenly afraid he had overstepped his bounds a little too far. Or more than a little. After some apparent inner wrestling, the instructor’s face relaxed and he started speaking again, clearly choosing his words with care. “You can ask me any question that may help you in becoming a better defender of the Peoples, Recruit”.
Quinn’s face brightened. “Of course they’re all so I can defend the Peoples better. You’re my instructor and I seek guidance”.
They stared at each other briefly. Now that the necessary formalities were done with, the instructor was bracing himself for whatever Quinn might be about to say.
“Well...” Quinn began, “I would like to understand better why China started a war with us”.
The instructor's eyes went a little wider than the light warranted before he calmed himself enough to carry on with an answer.
“You know the war started fifteen years ago, yes?” He led off.
“Yes, First Comrade. We learned in school about the vile attack on Fort Crantin in the East Asian Islands”, Quinn said.
“That’s right”, The instructor continued, “Well the Chinese government was upset at the trade embargoes that the Unified National Front had imposed on them after the Capitalist faction took hold. The idea was that if the Capitalist pigs had no one to trade with, then they would go back to behaving as any right thinking nation should”, he took a breath and closed his eyes briefly. Thinking. After a moment he went on, “The actions of the UNF were of course right and justified, but the Chinese didn’t see things the right and justified way. No Capitalist can see justice, after all”. At this Quinn nodded absently.
“So in response, they sent their Republican Army into the East Asian Islands and destroyed the embargo bases, killing thousands of U.N.F. troops in the process. They gave no warning, no declaration of war”. The instructor’s breathing had become somewhat irregular as he continued. “So we did what had to be done to keep our people free. We attacked the Chinese mainland and there we remain today”.
“Fighting for freedom!” Quinn chimed in.
“Yes..” the instructor said, “Fighting for freedom...”
The instructor wandered over to the small table where they had left water and lunch waiting.
“No more questions now, Caleb”. He sat down and started tearing open a pouch of vacuum sealed peaches and cream. His fingers toyed with a plastic fork, moving it from knuckle to knuckle as he stared at the mess of food in front of him. With one last heaving sigh, he sank the prongs into a brightly colored, artificial looking, orange peach, and began to eat.
Chapter 4
03.14.30 F.E. 1522
“As you carry on from this point in your lives, you will live as a beacon of pride for the glory of the Peoples”.
The Sergeant Major was standing at a podium off to the side of a brightly lit stage, crowded with smartly dressed and mildly embarrassed Recruits, now Soldiers of the Peoples. The Sergeant Major was decorated from neck to stomach with a peacock worthy display of colorful ribbons and medals. The only Recruit who had earned a medal was Quinn. No one wanted to ask how he managed a People’s Service Medal of any class, let alone second, while in basic training. The Sergeant Major continued speaking to the assembled families and friends.
“Enjoy your time at home with your loved ones. This time next week they’ll be standing proud with their comrades in their new units, ready to help the Peoples end tyranny in Asia once and for all!” At this, the crowd started to cheer. The ceremony was over.
Soldiers filed down the stairs to either side of the stage one by one, order slowly dissolving into chaos as young men met up with families not seen for fifteen long weeks. Quinn looked across the crowd, calmly scanning for any sign of someone who may have come to see him graduate. He wasn’t terribly surprised to note that there wasn’t any loving mother or father or girlfriend waiting for him. Indeed, he had taken to wondering how it was he was going to spend his home leave, when there was no home he felt much like going back to. He briefly considered taking this time to ask the senior Drill Instructor about the matter, but quickly vetoed the idea as a touch too rude.
Instead he allowed his legs to carry him around the room as he tried to find the one person he had met here that he could connect with on some level. He moved his way in and out and around the crowds. His well trained gaze settled briefly on every face before moving on. His sharpened senses and mind remembered each being checked. He wouldn’t glance in the same eyes twice.
After several minutes he gave it up as a bad job. His marksmanship instructor simply hadn’t bothered to show up.
Quinn would have registered disappointment if his senses were still capable of it. Instead he made his way out into the harsh midday sun, maneuvering himself into a suitable position by the buffet tables and wine glasses. His hand stole a wine glass before he knew what he was doing. It rolled across his fingers, resting snugly in the joints of his knuckles.
“I see you’ve found the booze”. The teasing voice startled him into nearly dropping the fragile vessel. He turned to face his attacker.
It was someone from his early classes. He couldn’t recall a name. “No“, Quinn said, “Just the booze glasses”. He felt like he should say more. Felt like some connection was trying to form. Tendrils of emotion and companionship looped around him only to fall away, having found no purchase.
The two men stood eying each other blankly. The moment passed before it had found a chance to form.
“Oh”, The other soldier muttered, “Okay then”. They looked at each other a moment longer, the scene having grown quite awkward. The other soldier walked away, leaving Quinn to wonder just what it was that had gone missing while he wasn’t watching.
Chapter 5
03.21.30 F.E. 1730
“So that’s where you’ll be staying for the time being”.
The Sergeant had just led Quinn into a small room with a kitchenette falling to pieces. The sink was tarnished, the faucet leaking. A pair of electric burners stood proudly in a corner, looking for all the world as though some creature flying by had simply dropped them there through the roof. The single-wide bed sat unceremoniously on a rusted springboard. The flaccid looking thing was wrapped in a torn, stained sheet that may have once been white.
This was home all right.
The Sergeant continued on, “So, if you have any questions about where to find mess or anything, just head down to the billeting office and they’ll get you sorted out”.
“Yes Sergeant”, Quinn replied.
The Sergeant made his way out of the room, closing the rickety door behind him. Quinn looked around the sparse furnishings before dumping out the contents of his duffel bag on the floor. With nothing to really get in the way, he had chosen the middle of the floor as the best choice for that task.
His belongings spilled out every which way, socks rolling towards the sink. The cluster of objects before him was made up entirely of military clothing and gear. Quinn had no personal effects. The closet opened to reveal a small, but suitable, chest of drawers. Quinn set about putting sock and pant and shirt in place. The uniforms were hung on thin wire twists so that the red and black flag of the U.N.F. faced out into the room. He took a moment to admire his handy work. Four red eagles from four black backgrounds glared at him from the sleeves of four pressed and starched blouses.
Everything was in place after an uneventful ten minutes, leaving him with little else to do for the remainder of the day. He set himself down on the dreary bed. Springs beneath him squeaked and creaked. Quinn stared off into emptiness and a wall, dangerously drifting along into sleep when something shook him from his peaceful reverie.
Someone was knocking.
Quinn stood up and faced the door. The day’s schedule passed through his mind. He wasn’t expected by anyone or expected to be anywhere until tomorrow morning. He was sure of it. Since the knocking had continued and seemed unlikely to stop anytime soon, he walked over to answer it.
As the door creaked open, a joyfully obnoxious face poked through to greet him.
The joyfully obnoxious face spoke, “Heya Quinn! I’m one of your new squadmates. I live down the hall in Section 2. How’d you like to go for a brew down at the enlistee’s club?”
Quinn stood blankly, wishing the man would go away. He paused. The man wasn’t going away. Resigned to the reality of things, Quinn scooped up his keys and tossed them into his front pant pocket as he headed out the door passed the uninvited ‘friend’.
“Sure thing”, he said, “I’d love a beer”. He hated beer. He also hated company, but it had been drilled into him repeatedly during training that units needed social cohesion to be successful.
They walked through the pristine cut parade fields, their slick polished boots sliding through fresh cut grass, throwing wave after wave of that beautiful smell into their faces.
When they reached the enlistee’s club, a short and slender Sergeant blocked their way.
“How about this then? New Recruit?” The Sergeant said. “Did you tell him about the curse?”
“It’s not a curse“, Obnoxious Face was saying, “It’s a part of our proud unit’s glorious history”. The voice putting out those words sounded serious. The face attached to said voice looked like it wanted to vomit.
“What’s the curse?” Quinn asked. The Sergeant leered over at him.
“You’re now in the very same unit that was killed to the man during the last major war. They were trying to take the National Mall from the Loyalists and some crazy Colonel led a suicide charge”. The Sergeant was enjoying the discomfort on Quinn’s face, his lips having pulled back in a sort of impulsive horror.
“Don’t worry“, The Sergeant continued, “Our Colonel isn’t that insane, we’re not all going to die in some ill-fated charge for symbolic glory”.
And with that, Obnoxious Face pushed the Sergeant aside (“Don’t ever do that anywhere but the club”, he had said later) and the two of them strolled in for a pint.
06.21.30 F.E. 2125
“So it looks like we’re making the jump next week”. The Obnoxious Face, his name was Sorell, was discussing up and coming news. “Word says Beijing”.
Quinn’s mouth dropped, his tongue seeming to shrivel into his head. “No way we’re dropping into Beijing“, he whined, “We don’t hold anything close enough to secure a zone”. And lest his new friend think he was being demoralizing all on his own, he continued, “Sgt. Perry just said so yesterday. He’s been downrange at least four times now. You think you know better?”
Sorell gave a sneer and a chuckle at the same time. How did he do that? “No, I’m not saying I know better than him. I’m just saying what the word is”.
Quinn leaned back, pulling another draught of beer down his lips. After his throat forced the pallid, tasteless, pilsner down, he went on, “Well the word is dead wrong. Besides“, he was on a roll now, “Why would they drop designated marksmen into that zone? We wouldn’t have any targets. Too many civilians and too many smart officers that close in to Beijing”.
Sorell shot him a dangerous look. It didn’t usually pay to admit that the enemy’s officers could be smart about things. Quinn absorbed the look and shot a smirk back.
“It’s not treason to know that a dog who keeps getting kicked in the same spot is gonna start hanging out somewhere else”.
Sorell, and the myriad of soldiers within earshot around them, relaxed a little. There was a trick to discussing the strengths of the enemy. Compare them to a reasonably intelligent dog or pig and one was in the clear.
Sorell picked up on the conversation again, “So you say. I think the word’s right on this one”. He wouldn’t elaborate, but Sorell had an annoying tendency to know before anyone else what was about to happen in the unit. One of the other soldier’s said it was because he hung out with the base prostitutes, and they knew everything. A military’s secrets always pass through its bed chambers.
Quinn finished off the last of his beer and started to put his coat on. “Come on“, he said, “I’m done. Let’s get back to the billets”. For once, Sorell didn’t argue. He just put a handful of bills down on the counter and started out the door into the night.
Quinn glanced at the paper money as he walked past the bar, slowing down briefly to count it. Sorell had left the barkeep three times the amount listed on their tab.