Chapter 06 - Respect is Earned Both Ways

Drills on the Stamm Basin training field continued into the long, sweltering days of Rychter's hot season, where the twin suns climbed highest and beat their wrath down upon the humans who'd carved out a home there. Engine fumes and the smoke from practice munitions thickened the air into an oppressive haze, shimmering over the heads of the soldiers.

It had been a several days since his confrontation with Colonel Harcourt, and Ryke still didn't feel any better disposed towards the northern officer, or Lieutenant Miquelon. Getting Thaye back into her Hunter-Killer had been a victory, but it had not addressed any of the underlying problems that the new human army faced. Resentment was brewing into outright hostility between the two camps, despite the best efforts of their senior officers.

All he could thing to do now was buckle down and try to make it work. The northern soldiers weren't going anywhere, which meant if he wanted to live through the next bloody chapter of this conflict he needed to keep his squad at their sharpest. Maybe then they could make up the difference. So he worked his pilots hard.

The northern Hunter-Killers were getting better, but they still had a long way to go to keep pace with the veterans from Brekka. Even the youngest, most inexperienced local pilots were worth three of their northern counterparts, having been trained for months with instructors who knew exactly what they would be facing out there in the badlands.

But at least they were getting better.

Although Miquelon never admitted it, Ryke could tell that the man learned his lesson from their earlier debacle, thinking twice before taking the bait laid by the training program creators. Small steps were enough to prove to Ryke that the man wasn't a complete imbecile, but not that he deserved to command a multi-force battle group.

He eased his Hunter-Killer back into its cradle after another long, dubiously successful day on the training field, muscles and nerves throbbing dully from days of being hooked into the war machine's physical feedback loop. Even in the simulations it took its toll on the body.

Clambering out of the mech, he gratefully let his feet touch the solid floor of the hangar, rolling his right shoulder to loosen it up as he walked. The members of HK-Rupture spilled from their own machines, groans and sighs of exertion and relief in equal measure following them.

"Nice hustle out there, kids," Ryke said as they gathered around him.

"There's a lot of slack ground to cover," Preese muttered. "I guess we'll be front of the line for medals after dragging these clowns through a war, eh?"

Brigg snorted.,"I'd as soon leave them behind."

"Well, our commanders, in their infinite wisdom," Ryke continued. "Have seen fit to give everybody the night off. We've been grinding hard, so time for some well-earned R&R."

"Think they could spring for a massage?" Marylee asked innocently. She was a heavily built girl with a tangle of red-orange curls, and was a consummate close-combat specialist. She grinned, making a show of rubbing her spine. "My back's real sore from carrying all that dead weight."

A chuckle of laughter passed through the other pilots and Ryke could stop the smirk from crossing his face. More stiff-souled officers might've disciplined their subordinates for such remarks, but he'd found that the best way to keep things from spilling out onto the training field was to let his people vent.

"I'm sure there's some lads on base that'd be happy to offer their services," Scantlin chimed in, winking mischievously.

She shot him a wry smile. "Still trying to find me a date, lover boy?"

"I'm a charitable guy."

"Hit the medical centre if you're feeling the strain," Ryke interjected before the conversation could get any more derailed. "I don't want anybody sidelined from extra curricular activities, understand? Word is we're not going to be sitting around in Brekka much longer. Get yourselves untwisted, have a drink and get some rest. We're back at it tomorrow with bells on."

The pilots dispersed, still competing to dish out the best insults for their supposed allies. He hung back, a heavy sigh sinking into his body as he looked back at his Hunter-Killer. It had seen him through a lot of bad things in this world. Hopefully it could carry him through the next phase of the bloodshed too. All around him the hangar reverberated with the sounds of an army girding up for war, engines growling like caged beasts, welding torches snarling in work bays and the heavy thunder of Hunter-Killer steps echoing in the rafters.

His head hurt. His pilots weren't the only ones who needed some rest. Locking away his misgivings for another day, Ryke trudged his way from the hangar and out onto the Stamm Basin concourse. The twin suns were setting fast, leaving a lurid smear of orange and crimson across the horizon and bathing the city in a warm twilight. He felt a rare breeze struggling its way through the heat and exhaust fumes that formed a constant haze over the base. Feeble as it was, it still offered some welcome relief from the natural, blistering heat of the planet.

Ryke opened his face to the breeze, making his way across the concourse along the black painted route marked out, keeping any unwary wanderers from stumbling inadvertently into a combat exercise. The half-barrel of the barrack block squatted on the eastern edge of the complex nestled in the midst of a line of storage yards, military forges and billets.

Already he could see several of Brekka's resident Hunter-Killers lounging at trestle tables set up outside the building. Most of the northern contingent had been billeted in a different block a few hundred yards further down. At first they'd been placed because of a lack of space in the main Hunter-Killer block. Now they stayed there to keep the two groups from clashing in their off duty hours.

He walked through the garrulous pilots – most of whom were indulging in tumblers of home-grown shiner or the local, officially sanctioned scorch beer – trading insults and greetings in equal measure with pilots he knew, but he wanted to find a quieter corner, if at all possible. After collecting a beer for himself from one of the open coolers, Ryke wandered his way into the smaller collection of tables scattered down the right flank of the building, lying in its shadow and illuminated by pale floodlights.

"Vannigan, that you?" called a voice. He blinked; peered into the half-light. The speaker lounged at a table right at the end of the row, as far from noise and bustle of the front of the barracks as one could get.

He recognised her HK-Praxis' Sergeant Charpente, who's squad had been drilling as part of his unit for the better part of two weeks now. Off-duty, her frizz of red hair was no longer tied in a tight bun, instead hanging in a loose, wild halo around her face. She was maybe a year or two older than him, and her skin had retained a level of paleness in spite of Rychter's aggressive sunshine, She had her feet slung up on the table, a bottle hanging loosely between forefinger and thumb.

"Looking for a little quiet?" she asked, gesturing to her surroundings.

"Looks like you beat me to it."

Charpente smiled and nodded to the chair opposite her. "Pull up a pew, sergeant. I don't mind sharing."

"Thanks." He sank down into his seat, breath leaving his body in a rush of unwinding muscle. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting his spine ease against the seat back.

"Long day, eh?"

"By the Everflowing, that's an understatement." Ryke opened his beer and took a gulp, letting the cool, crackling liquid burrow down his throat. "How long have we been at this, huh? How long is it going to take for Harcourt, Llewellyn and the rest of them to get the message?"

"What message, exactly?"

"That they don't know what they're doing!"

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "Steady, Vannigan. They mean well."

"You think so?"

"Drown me, we're all soldiers on the same side. Cut them a little slack!"

He sighed again and shrugged, extending his beer towards her. "Well, here's to those who know what we're getting ourselves into."

"I can drink to that."

Their bottles clinked.

Quiet descended on them and for a while they sat with their thoughts, sipping at their drinks and basking in the calm until Charpente spoke again.

"How's your squad holding up with all this?"

Ryke shrugged. "As good as they can, I guess."

"I heard you had a bit of a run in with the new colonel."

He smiled wryly. "That's one way of putting it. What about you?"

"It's been good seeing some of the old faces from training again." She frowned. "Well, good in some ways I guess."

"What do you mean?"

"Well if they're here, it means things aren't going so well, doesn't it?"

Ryke felt his hackles rise at that. "We didn't ask them to come."

"C'mon, Vannigan, I've been getting this Brekkan supremacy garbage from enough people in one day. Don't tell me you're on that train."

"Not when you say it like that," He took a sip, searching carefully for the words. "Obviously we're not superior people, but as soldiers we have a different mentality; a different world. You need to understand, we've been fighting this war since we were born, one way or another." He tapped his temple with one finger. "People from the north just don't have that way of thinking."

"Guess we're all still getting used to each other, huh?"

"You, I'm used to. Them? Most of them are a bunch of drowning, overgrown children playing wargames."

Charpente shot him a black look. "You know, for someone who wants respect so badly, you don't seem willing to give it."

"Why should I?" Ryke snapped back. "I'm sorry if those are your friends out there, Sharps, but I can't rely on them and can't trust them. And if we go to war together a lot of them are going to die. They can't pull their weight. Explain how I'm supposed to just pretend I'm okay with that?"

"Fine." She took a sip of beer and planted the bottle on the table, spreading her arms wide as she looked him in the eye. "Do you respect me?"

"Of course I do."

"And why is that?"

"You've been stationed in Brekka a long time – you've earned it."

"You can bet your soul I did," Charpente said. "We were sent here to help you, and five of my friends died here. Those people out there are just like me, there are just more of them."

"You followed our lead!" Ryke answered, returning her glare. "You came here and were put under Brekkan command! You followed orders from officers who'd been fighting down here for years and that's the only reason you're still alive. Llewellyn, Harcourt and all the boot licking, arrogant bastards they brought with them from Rubicon? They came here and took over, and they're going to get us all killed. I'm not going to just roll over and let that happen."

Charpente stiffened, her fingers pressing tight around her beer bottle. "You're not helping anything by fighting with them."

"I'm not trying to fight them. They just...don't want to listen." He threw up a hand in exasperation. "And if this war goes wrong – which it will with them at the helm – it is my home, not theirs that is going to pay the price."

"Damn it, there's more to this world than just Brekka!" Her boot slid off the table and she leaned forward, placing her elbows in front of her and looking him in the eye. "Where am I from, Ryke?"

The question hit him like a stun gun. For a moment all he could do was stare, trying to bring a name up from the void. It took him several seconds to admit to himself that he had no idea and a surge of embarrassment brought blood rushing to his cheeks. Charpente smiled smugly, leaning back in her chair again.

"Exactly. It's all just 'the north' to you. For all you know I'm from Rubicon."

He raised an eyebrow. "Well... are you?"

"Luckily for you, no. I'm from Helloc Mera."

Ryke groped frantically in his memory to find anything to link to that name.

"See! Helloc Mera is a few hundred kilometres from where we're sitting and you've never even heard of it." Charpente stood up, shaking her head. "I didn't come here for you, or for Brekka, Vannigan. I'm here for my home. We all are. You'd do well to remember that."

She started to walk away and suddenly he was glad to be rid of her company, conflicting emotions fizzing in his head and his heart. But she stopped as she passed him, placing a hand on his shoulder. He flinched but she didn't move her hand away.

"You're a damn fine pilot, Vannigan, and I'm glad you're on our side – I mean that," she said quietly. "But if you don't get that chip off your shoulder you'll only have yourself to blame for the consequences."

All he could do was listen to the clump of her boots as she walked away. He felt the metal of his jaw twinge as the muscles in his face tensed with anger. With a spitting, wordless snarl he flung his half-empty beer into the nearest wall.

It shattered against the darkness.

*

Ryke suffered sullenly through another week of intensive combat manoeuvres as part of their battle group, his confrontation with Charpente raw in his thoughts even as he directed his squad through their simulated combat. On some level he knew she was right. Someone had to extend the olive branch first, but he just couldn't bring himself to be the one to do it. Every sneering, sidelong look from the Rubicon pilots only compounded his anger.

To him, they were a gang of soft-weathered aristocrats playing at war. To the newcomers, Brekka's natives were violent savages. It didn't breed trust.

But at the end of that week the commanders of the joint force decided they had waited long enough. Reports from increased Scout Cadre flights confirmed that the Scraegans continued to build up their strength in the badlands, with increased pack movements and violent clashes between skiff flights and packs on the fringes of the contested southern territories. The enemy was digging in. If they wanted to dislodge them, the time was now.

There were around fifty people in the briefing room, made up of the full compliment of thirty Hunter-Killer pilots along with the senior officers of the infantry, scouts and armoured units. Lieutenant Miquelon stood at the front of the room, his uniform immaculately pressed in a way that Ryke found somehow infuriating. He kept his thoughts to himself, however, settling into his seat to give the officer his moment. The last few commanders took their places, muttering and murmuring to one and other until they eventually subsided into silence.

"At 0600 Brekkan Standard Time, the first phase of our military operation will begin," the lieutenant announced without preamble. "Colonel Harcourt will be consolidating our main force at the staging area in Crescentscar. Advance units will move ahead of the main army group to seize strategic targets along our projected route."

"Our target," Miquelon continued. "Is the town of Ozzmar."

A flick of his wrist sent the screen behind him zooming in on an area south-west of Brekka, past the fortified town of Crescentscar to the dark valleys of basalt that preceded the western range of semi-active volcanoes.

Ryke cast a sidelong glance at Thaye to gauge her reaction. She'd come from Ozzmar, a refugee from Scraegan assault that had levelled the town. He didn't know exactly what she'd seen when the enemy attacked, but she had arrived in Brekka very much alone. Whatever horrors she'd experienced fuelled her vaunted ferocity.

For now she kept herself in check. He saw her posture stiffen and she pressed back deeper into her chair, but her expression remained neutral. Satisfied, Ryke let his gaze flicker back to the front of the room, where Miquelon strode to the opposite side the screen, gesturing the darkened smear of metal that marked the settlement. Dotted green lines appeared on the display to show their routes of advance, sweeping in from the north east of the destroyed town.

"We deploy our main strength through this open terrain to the north," Miquelon clarified. "Avoiding the narrower approaches so there won't be any surprises. According to reconnaissance from Sergeant Brackenshaw's flight, the town has a substantial Scraegan force defending it, scattered through the streets."

"At least three full packs, battle ready," piped up a woman sitting behind Ryke to his left. He craned his neck to look back to find a weathered-looking young soldier leaning back in her seat, one booted foot slung up on the empty chair in front of her. She caught his eye for a brief instant before her gaze flicked back to Miquelon. "We lost two skiffs in just a fly-by and there's nothing to say they haven't been reinforced since."

Her tone made it clear she was hardly enamoured with the prospect of trying to wrestle control of the town back from their foes. Ryke dimly recognised her – Brackenshaw's flight had taken part in a handful of drills with their joint unit, and had now been assigned as their Scout Cadre support for the attack on Ozzmar.

"They'll be ready for us, that much we know." Miquelon gave a respectful nod of his head to the veteran scout. "But that does not change our objectives. The salvaging of the geothermal plants and weapon forges in Ozzmar will provide a staging area for our forces to strike further to the south west, potentially encircling the main Scraegan forces in the centre of the barrens."

The display zoomed in again. "This operation will proceed by doctrine. Scout Cadre units will move in first to draw out enemy positions. Once targets are identified, our armour will launch a storm bombardment to drive them from entrenched positions where the Hunter-Killer units will then engage." A sweep of his hand brought all green lines converging into the town itself, with one arcing out to the east. "Armoured and mobile infantry units will support the Hunter-Killer push with Scout Cadre elements protecting the flanks, exploiting any ground that is gained, before corralling the Scraegan defenders out of the town. We are not here to exterminate them and we are not trying to box them in. They will fight to the death if cornered which will result in needless casualties."

"With all due respect, it's gonna be a mess no matter how we play this, sir," Brackenshaw said flatly, her hoarse voice ringing out clear. "In the open it might be fun and games for our big guns, but the Scraegans are in Ozzmar, tucked into the buildings and under the roads. Your tanks are going to vulnerable. We can't cover every flank in a warren like that."

Ryke allowed a smirk to cross his face. The battle-tested Brekkan scout was not pulling her punches.

Miquelon was less amused, turning a grim look onto Brackenshaw. "I have the fullest confidence that you will carry out your duties," he said icily. "This is a plan that will flush the Scraegans from Ozzmar without critically damaging the infrastructure of the town. Speed is of the essence if we are to capture the geothermal sites intact."

"We'll need to strike at both plants at the same time," Ryke interjected, reluctantly adding his opinion to the plan. "As soon as we try to take one the Scraegans will just level the other once they understand what we're doing."

"I'm aware of that." More lines on the map cut into Ozzmar's streets. "HK-Strident and HK-Praxis will lead the main armoured battalions through the centre of the town and the primary plant. You, Sergeant Vannigan, will be tasked with the second plant." The glimmer of a malicious smile pricked at the corners of Miquelon's mouth. "Supported by Sergeant Brackenshaw and Commander Gaul's armoured brigade. You will move to the east of the town once the main battle has commenced, coming in on the flank of the enemy."

Ryke stiffened, seeing where the new line of advance would take their splinter group. While Miquelon's force would enjoy the open manoeuvring of the plains, Ryke would be leading his battle group into the much narrower gullies in the east. In theory if they timed things correctly it would allow for a pincer movement, but if not they could find themselves in a close-quarters brawl with any Scraegans defending that entrance to the town.

Pressing his lips tightly together for a moment, he glanced back over his shoulder at Brackenshaw. The scout's face creased into a bitter smirk and gave him a small nod. Ryke turned back.

He got the distinct impression that the officer from Rubicon wanted him to put his money where his mouth was. A grim determination filled his bones as he stared the man down. With HK-Rupture under his command and Brackenshaw's experienced brigade to back them up they could carry out their orders, with or without the armoured brigade they had been saddled with. If Miquelon wanted to test Brekka's soldiers he would soon see the proof of their prowess on the battlefield,

"Looking forward to it, sir," he replied, throwing a breezy salute the lieutenant's way.

"I'm sure." Miquelon straightened up. "There will be no combat drills today. I suggest you all take the time to rest, gather your strength and get a good night's sleep. Tomorrow we fight, and may the Riverlords guide us all."