We get our first look at the tenants of Tent City at lunch, when we sit in the crowded NCO mess near the flight deck. I’m sitting with my back to the hatch, and when I hear a sudden increase in conversation buzz behind me, I turn around to see a group of troopers stepping into the room. They’re all wearing standard NAC camo fatigues, but the berets tucked underneath their shoulder boards aren’t fleet black or SI maroon. Instead, they’re a subdued shade of green.
“Homeworld Defense? What the fuck are they doing here?”
The new arrivals look around with that particular expression of subdued anxiety that’s exclusive to grunts in a new and unknown environment. They spot the back of the chow line and walk over to claim their spots. Except for the color of their berets, they are every bit as hard-edged and lean as our SI troopers.
“You have got to be kidding me,” Sergeant Simer says next to me. “I’ve never seen any HD on a fleet ship, not in five years of service.”
“I haven’t, either.”
“Looks like we’re really down to the dregs this time, eh?”
“Hey.” I shoot him an unfriendly look, and Simer raises an eyebrow. “Can the shit talk, Simer. I was HD before I joined the fleet.”
“No kidding?”
“No kidding. Back when it was still the Territorial Army, before all the unified service bullshit.”
The newcomers are keenly aware of the fact that most of the people in the room are staring at them, but they ignore the attention. After a minute or so, the novelty has worn off, and the noise level in the room returns to its regular mealtime volume.
I eat my lunch while half-listening to the conversations around me, and keep an eye on the HD troopers that end up clustering at a table near the hatch. When they get up to stow their meal trays, I do the same and head for the hatch at the same time.
I loiter in the hallway outside until the HD sergeants come out of the mess room. They walk down the corridor in small groups, still looking out of place and unsure, like kids in a new school on the first day. The last HD trooper out of the hatch is a sergeant, one rank below me, but close enough to negate rank etiquette. I fall in beside him as he walks off to follow his comrades.
“Sergeant, wait up.”
He gives me a reserved smile.
“Staff Sergeant.”
“What’s Homeworld Defense doing up here in space? I thought you guys don’t do hard vacuum.”
“I guess we do now,” he shrugs.
“Andrew Grayson,” I say, and offer my hand. “I was TA for a few months, back when I joined. 365th AIB, out of Dayton.”
“No shit?” He shakes my hand. “John Murphy. I’ve never heard of a TA grunt going fleet.”
“Yeah, it hardly ever happens. I was lucky. Or unlucky, depending on your point of view.”
He looks at my chest pockets, the cursory glance of the military man checking out someone else’s cloth patch credentials, and his gaze lingers for just a moment on my Master-level combat-drop badge, identical to the one he’s wearing.
“365th, huh? They’re still around. We did a drop with them a few months back. We’re the 309th, out of Nashville.”
“You guys run out of shit to do down there?”
“Hardly.” Sergeant Murphy lets out a brief snort. “We do three drops a week inside the periphery these days. You wouldn’t think those welfare shits had anything left to burn in there, but it’s a fucking war zone every ration day.”
“I dropped into Detroit with the 365th once. Five years of combat drops on the colonies since then, Lankies and all, and I’ve never been as scared as I was that night. Almost had my tag punched, too.”
“Detroit,” he says. “Boy, that’s the master shithole right there. What happened?”
“Squad got chewed up bad. I got stitched with an M-66, two of our guys bought it, and the sarge lost her leg.”
“Who was your squad sergeant?”
“Staff Sergeant Fallon. She made SFC just after. She’s probably a twenty-chevron sergeant major by now. Do you know her?”
He chuckles in reply. “Everybody knows Master Sergeant Fallon. She’s a freakin’ legend.”
He taps the unit patch on his sleeve with his index finger.
“We’re the advance logistics team for the 309th. The other battalion shipping out with us is the 330th, out of Knoxville. Master Sergeant Fallon is the main ass-kicker in the 330th.”