[GZG] Fiction -

G'day,

Latest story from Jock. Its a wee bit of a filler before we get back
into
the campaign proper.

Cheers

Beth

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

In Memoriam

After the recent attack in Marin most of the 2/34 had been pulled back
to
San Juan and from there evacuated to Henna Dimashq, a large Martian city
to
the north of Coprates Chasma. Like many Martian settlements it is built
in a
crater, with the original settlement right in the centre and
agricultural
land in a ring around that. This city had become a hub for local
commerce
however and there were extra urban districts in large notches in the
crater
wall both east and west. A smaller area in the southwestern rim had
become a
fairly well established military base. It wasn¹t the wholesale
requisition
that had effectively occurred in Nirgal, but it was still an extensive
presence.

Here many of the worst of the wounds could be patched up and everyone
could
get some R&R. Some of the most critically wounded would never be
returning
to combat, though the Seige of Sol meant they wouldn¹t be shipping
straight
home either. They could help out in a desk position or try and find some
other job. Young Gary Lewis was talking about becoming a VR pilot now
some
of the booster stations along the new Margaritifer Line were up and
running
again. I didn¹t think he¹d live let alone be thinking of still
fighting the
Kra¹Vak, but the fight in these kids is amazing.

As for me I¹ve chosen to return too. I was given the option of calling
it
quits after I took the slug to my throat. It went in just under my chin
and
came back out through my cheek. Busted my jaw up. It still aches a bit,
but
all is ok now. They even grew me some new teeth. So I¹ll be going back
in
with the 2/34 when they return to the Tokalau Isthmus.

Today however, we have a more solemn purpose. We¹re here to remember
the
fallen.

We¹re sitting at the top of the parade ground in Camp Henna. I can see
crowds of civilians snaking back down the crater wall to the big
cathedral
down in the old quarter. Martians have such a different take on things.
At
home there would be black and flowers and tears. Not so here. Well not
completely. There will be tears, but the place is a riot of colour.
These
people come from families used to battling the elements, scraping a
living.
They celebrate life no matter how short or how it ended.

³Jock.² Iron George nods, as he pulls up a chair by me. He plants his
feet,
legs spread akimbo, his walking stick balancing across his knees.

³Guday shir.² I slur, the mobility of my healing jaw still hindered by
the
braces clamped around it to hold it in place as it knits.

Turning to look at him I can see that Baxter¹s face is ashen, his eyes
sharp
edged and glittery, his jaw is rolling.

³Shir?²

³Shit start to the day.² He says quietly, eyes locked on to the far
distance. ³Lost Higgs and Al this morning.²

³But I shought Al wash doing well² I protested incredulously.

³Yeah I know. Why the fuck is it always ones with kids?² he asked, raw
grief
evident in his quiet tone.

I didn¹t know what else to say, so we lapsed into silence, there
starring
off into the distance, consumed by our individual thoughts.

			* * *

I first met Sergeant James Wilson Higgs VC in the sandbagged ops room in
the
compound at Marin. He had this way of leaning up against the back wall
keeping a quiet but vigilant eye on everything. He also seemed to have
this
sixth-sense of when something was about to go wrong. He could read the
real
time 3D projections of the battlefield better than anyone else I knew.
Iron
George included.

Some of the feed for the projections came from unmanned drones that
roamed
overhead, others from sensors on high altitude balloons. For the very
fine
scale detail needed in close combat specialist handlers on site released
nanite OEmotes¹. When I asked him how he knew he asked if I played
music,
when I said no, he asked if I water rafted. Again no. He asked if there
was
anything that I did that was especially my thing. Football is my thing.

³How long¹ve you been playing?²

³Nearly twenty years.²

³Any good?²

³Kinda. Not that skilled.²

³But can you read the play? Know that the opposition is going in that
hole
or that your winger will be by the far post?²

³Yeah, I can do that ok.²

³Same thing. You can just read what¹s going to happen, it flows past
and you
just feel it. Nothing conscious necessarily, you just know.²

Zen battle fighting. ³Very Jedi.²

³Can tell you¹re a lit major mate. I had to watch those things in high
school. Remastered but they never really got it, no holo depth at all.
Not a
patch on Khorramshahr Campaign series. Now that was story telling!²
Despite
his disparaging words, turns out Sergeant Higgs was an avid vid buff and
we
spent many hours breaking the boredom of deployment discussing vids or
exploring the contents of each other¹s OEcasters.

The laid back persona, soft drawl and easy smile hid a fairly serious
combatant. A significant asset in the ops room he was also a very
professional soldier in the field. I remember one action in the core
industrial district to the north of the compound. We would have walked
straight into a major ambush if Higgs hadn¹t figured it out and sent us
roofward instead. He got us set up in amongst some energy vanes and put
the
snipers from recon platoon up on some water towers. Then by jury-rigging
a
field server he slaved the spec feed and coordinated fire down along
about
1500m of the Kra¹Vak¹s planned kill zone. Starting with coordinated
launches
of grenades and IAVRs to flush them out of their forward positions and
then
using SAWs and machine-guns to OEwalk¹ the Kra²Vak back away from our
position. When one of the gunners went down he took over that position
and
still didn¹t miss a beat in his directions. I have this beautiful still
of
him, feet braced against the building edge, intent expression,
mid-command,
eyes alive, arms tight as he wrestled the MG, casings collecting in a
small
mountain around him.

That was an intense firefight. The Kra¹Vak came back in full force,
followed
close on their heels by the telltale early signs of a major dust storm.
We
needed to extricate ourselves quickly. Amidst the clouds of dust and
enemy
fire Higgs called in for an evac by VTOL. It felt like an age later, but
was
really only minutes when a gunship took up position above us, sitting up
high trying to keep the way clear for a troop-carrying variant of the
Mantis
to come in and get us. The Mantis couldn¹t land on the roof - the clear
space between the clutter of towers and vanes was too small for its
bulkier
body. So it came in low and the able bodied had to leap onto a cargo net
they¹d rolled out the loading ramp and then clamber up. If that wasn¹t
hard
enough with the enemy still firing on our position, it was jinking
to-and-fro to make it hard for any rocket toting Kra¹Vak. Even the few
guys
who were hit but still ambulatory went up that way. When it go to the
two
seriously wounded though Higgs waved away the cargo net and pointed away
back toward the compound. For a heart stopping second I thought he was
telling them to leave him and the seriously wounded behind, but then he
must
have been in direct link with the pilot because the VTOL slid over to
the
camp-wise roof edge and hovered landing ramp down, backed into the
building.
Higgs shouldered the wounded gunner first and then sprinted full pelt at
the
VTOL, slugs flying around his high profile, and as he reached the roof
edge
he kept right on coming, leaping into the VTOL with his final strides.
After
laying the man on his shoulders in the back of the VTOL, Higgs turned
round
and went back for the other man. Sprinting back out of the VTOL, back
across
the roof (bent double but still an attractive target), bloody body onto
his
shoulders and then back again for that final leap onto the VTOL. Just as
his
boots hit the ramp we were rocked by some kind of hit and the VTOL
whanged
into the building hard. I thought we were going down and that the
Sergeant
would topple out. Instead Higgs hurled himself forward into the body of
the
transport. He and the man he¹d been carrying ended in a bloody mess by
the
rear seating, but he¹d saved them from a fall to their deaths. He was
quickly on his feet though as it was clear something was badly wrong
with
the VTOL, which was shuddering and grating against the building. Higgs
slid
his way back to the loading ramp where the loadmaster was perched on the
edge of the ramp, hanging one armed from straps above his head and
pointing
down off the ramp to the wall. He was obviously yelling, but with the
wall
of noise that filled the VTOL I couldn¹t make out what he was saying.

To my utter disbelief, Higgs grabbed the MG, slung his feet through the
cargo net and then his upper body and the gun disappeared over the edge
of
the ramp. I could see his body judder, so I guessed he was firing. Five
short bursts from what I could tell. The VTOL shot forward, nearly
sending
Higgs and the net careening out over the ramp, but we were free. The
loadmaster and Pancho pulled Higgs back in as we rose and then zigzagged
our
way between buildings back to the compound. Just watching that my heart
was
racing so hard I never thought it¹d settle again.

When we were back in the relative safety of the camp and the noise was
confined to the usual raucous discussions and the background thud of
explosions and mortar fire I sought out the loadmaster and asked what
Higgs
had done. Turns out the VTOL had been snagged on a fire escape so Higgs
had
used the MG to shear the balustrade clean off. I asked Higgs about it
later
too, he shrugged it off and simply said. ³You just get in and get shit
done.²

Losing Higgs meant that 2/34 was bereft of perhaps its finest soldier.
To my
mind at least they were all astounding, but Higgs was exceptional. This
war
was marked by any number of souls willing to put life on hold to rid us
of
the Kra¹Vak, this saw a level of dedication and on-going morale that
made
them the embodiment of professional soldiers.

			* * *

³Looks like we¹re on lad.² Baxter¹s words pulled me back from my
thoughts.
The Lt Col had risen to his feet and was watching his troops form up to
lead
the parade of mourners down to the memorial service in the cathedral. I
rose
and turned to make my way over to where the civilian marchers were
gathering.

³No son. Come and with us², I looked at Baxter quizzically. ³You
earned your
place.² I was humbled and honoured to the point my throat constricted
and I
couldn¹t say a word.

Following Baxter I moved over to the 2/34. He broke off to take up his
position at the front, whereas I hung back intending to hide away
amongst
the rear ranks. I noticed a clutch of colt-limbed troops, laughing and
wrestling over some hidden prize and darted over for a quick look. There
was
Turps, in a hover chair. He¹d been hit during the attack and had lost
both
his legs to a direct strike from a rocket while he¹d been manning the
heavy
MG in a sanger on the roof of the compound. He¹d been little more than
a
rag-doll torso when he¹d been airlifted out with almost no chance of
survival. While he was still a little pale he seemed a long way from the
maimed corpse-like body I had seen carried aboard the airship only a few
weeks before. The friends he hadn¹t seen since were coming up, clapping
him
on the shoulder or tousling his hair. As ever he was talking fast to all
around him, joking, showing off his new implants and graft points.

³They reckon it¹ll be about another seven weeks before the grafts are
fully
prepped and then snap they just click in my new legs² he said,
cavalierly
clicking his fingers with a big grin. ³They reckon I could even do the
carta
course for the forward combat artillery corp, get some mecha-link
points.²
His excitement was palpable. Instead of death or becoming a crippled
shell
he was actually turning his misfortune into an opportunity. OEGetting
grafted¹ may be accepted part of some cultures now, but it¹s still
typically
not a life style choice too many in the main stream opt to follow. For
one,
it is typically prohibitively expensive, unless you do it for a job or
you¹re willing to run the risk of lower grade goods. However, the war
had
created a demand for OEenhanced¹ bodies on the front line, in some of
the
most extreme environments. Consequently if you were willing, and deemed
suitable, the options before you ran from the full spectrum from
OEminimal
enhancement¹ to OEcomplete conversion¹.

³And see this?² Turps said leaning forward and showing off a scar
running up
the back of his shaved head and in behind his ear. ³Neural graft and
rear
attachment for my new eye. How¹s this for freaky?² he glared almost
imperceptibly and his pupil dilated and took on the hint of a dull
almost
black-red glow. CEV. Cybernetically enhanced vision. It seems he wasn¹t
missing a trick. ³Oh nice frilly bra Cath² he said with a grin.

³I¹ll still knock your block off Turps, if you don¹t behave
yourself!² That
brought hearty laughs all round. This is perhaps one of the moments that
exemplify this current war with the Kra¹Vak for me. It has been a long
hard
war. Its not just a conflict on some far off world between mercenaries
and
career professional soldiers, all boxed up and nice. It is dirty,
frightening, horrific and universal. Yet it appears that our will is
universal too. Despite all that they have experienced they can still
laugh,
feel the exhilaration of survival. Yes they are mightily aggrieved over
the
mates lost or injured, but they get on more determined than ever. They
say
their own kind of goodbyes, tell the odd joke, clean their weapons and
get
ready to go out and kill some more of those xenobastards.

With a whistle from the CSM, all grew quiet and solemn and lined up
ready to
move out. The parade moved slowly down the ribbon of onlookers, who
clapped
and cheered, augmenting the beat of the military band. Then one of those
odd
Martian song-chants began - the words indistinguishable, but beginning
low
and maudlin, but slowly growing to fill you with a thrumming buzz of
excitement.

Once down in the Cathedral a familiar mix of funeral rituals were played
out
in honour of the latest group of fallen, to provide safe passage for
their
spirits and solace to the living. For some there were songs, others
dances
or symbolic rites, for many there were eulogies. Some sorrowful, some
darkly
humourous, most delivered by steel-eyed, rigid-jawed friends who
chokingly
tripped over feelings that went unspoken in life. People who had been
inseparably tight knit, eating, sleeping, drinking, laughing together
now
dealing with being the remaining individual. Many hinted at grief to
come
when the fighting was all done.

By the end of the service there was a strange mix of celebration and
hard
knots around your heart. I had been crying and looking to my left I saw
that
even Baxter had let a single tear run down his lined face. Looking right
I
spotted the CSM as he rose to speak, but his eyes were dry and his face
was
set in a mask of anger. He walked stiffly to the front, back ramrod
straight. Turning sharply he gripped the podium straight armed, white
knuckled, looking fixedly at his page before raising his head and
explaining
how this was the ³campaign of their lives², that he was ³immensely
fuckin¹
proud of the courage they¹d all shown², that ³each death is a hole in
our
hearts that would never heal² and finally that ³they have not left us,
they
will be with us on each patrol and will stand behind us a silent source
of
inspiration as we keep fighting the Krek scum². Until then I¹d
forgotten
that Private Mitchell Clarke, killed by a Kra¹Vak slug to the throat,
had
been the already much decorated teenage son of the CSM. The lanky,
blonde
maned and always smiling kid had been so different to the bull-necked,
tattooed and severe CSM, but he was a son who wouldn¹t be going home; a
son
who would be mourned deeply.

The last to speak was Iron George, his deep gravely voice forcefully
filling
the cathedral. "They died as soldiers choose to die. Boots on, guns hot,
shoulder-to-shoulder with their mates, defending our homes from an enemy
that would consume us and end us once and for all. In the years to come,
in
the quiet moments of the day we will remember them. We will mourn them
properly. For now though we have to continue the fight. We must continue
to
walk out and fight so that those who died did not die in vain. Our
mission
to clear the Kra¹Vak paitya from under every rock on Tokalau and from
there
the solar system and form there the Outworlds. The fallen we honour
today
would not have wanted it any other way. "

I stayed in the background the rest of the day, watching, listening to
the
men and women, young and old, share their stories, share their grief.
What I
heard confirmed something I had long suspected. I had heard tales from
my
own father, who¹d served on Bradley in 2179, and I was on Kayleigh as a
young TSNN correspondent in 2181 when Vortsheimer was over run by the
LLAR
mercenaries. Neither was a patch on this fight. This was a new kind of
war.

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