“Yeah, well, so did I. Division says we’re on loan, so we pack our shit and go. Trust me, I’m not ecstatic about it.”
I haven’t seen Sergeant Fallon in person since my last day with the Territorial Army, half a lifetime ago. She hasn’t changed much at all. Her hair is neatly gathered into the same tight ponytail I remember, and her features are still hard and sharp. From her service history, I know Briana Fallon is about ten years older than I am, but I never asked her exact age, and she never volunteered it. I could no more guess her year of birth than estimate the manufacturing date of a well-serviced drop ship. A weapon maintained at peak efficiency is all but ageless. The only obvious difference between this Sergeant Fallon and the one who led my squad into Detroit five years ago is the rank device on the chest of her battle armor. She has gained two ranks since then, and now wears the triple chevrons of a master sergeant.
She taps the single chevron of my staff sergeant rank sigil with the finger of her armored glove.
“Climbed the ladder a bit, huh?”
“Yeah. You know the fleet. They give those things to everyone.”
“You did good,” she says, and nods at the combat controller flash on my helmet. “I’m glad you didn’t stick with that console jockey job Unwerth shoved you into.”
“They never have enough nutcases for the suicide track. Whatever happened to Major Unwerth?”
Sergeant Fallon shakes her head with a disgusted snort.
“Major Unwerth is now Lieutenant Colonel Unwerth. He’s the new XO of the 365th. Place ain’t what it used to be, I tell you that.”
“How come you switched units, Sarge?”
“Had no choice, Grayson.” She lowers her voice a little. “The 330th is a penal battalion of sorts. It took a mauling in the New Madrid riots last year, so they dissolved it and rebuilt it with all the misfits and malcontents the brigade wanted to dump. Keeps us all in one place, you see.”
She looks around to check if anyone is close enough to listen in, but the range master is on the other side of the range door, and we’re alone in the vestibule.
“I have to get back to my troops, Grayson, but keep your schedule clear. Meet me after evening chow, at 1900. We have a bit of a club set up in one of the maintenance sheds. Foxtrot Deck, F2029. We have stuff to talk about.”
I spend the rest of the day sighting in my rifles and running my new battle armor through all its self-test protocols. My specialized combat controller kit is two generations behind the stuff that burned up in my locker on the Manitoba, but all the comms and network modules work as they should, and my armor doesn’t have any dents or leaks. Without a bug suit, my combat endurance on a Lanky world is measured in hours instead of days, but since none of the other grunts have been issued a HEBA kit, I consider it a fairly safe bet that we’re not going head-on against an established Lanky colony.
Like a good soldier, I head down to Foxtrot Deck fifteen minutes early. Unit F2029 is a maintenance and storage cube in a corner of the grease monkey zone by the hangar, partitioned from the rest of the deck with plastalloy mesh wiring. Two HD troopers stand by the open entrance, but they don’t do anything to keep me from entering. In the storage cube, someone has piled up stacks of modular equipment crates all along the mesh walls, forming a sight barrier eight feet high. Inside the makeshift privacy walls, more equipment crates have been requisitioned as furniture, serving as benches and tables. There are a dozen HD troopers lounging in the storage unit, and all of them turn their heads my way when I walk in.
“Get lost somewhere, Sergeant?” a first lieutenant asks me, with only the barest hint of cordiality in his voice.
“Looking for Master Sergeant Fallon,” I say. The stares from the HD troopers aren’t exactly hostile, but they’re not welcoming, either. I’m suddenly keenly aware of the fact that I came down here unarmed, and that every one of the HD grunts in the room is wearing at least a combat knife.
“He’s okay,” Sergeant Fallon’s voice comes from behind me. She steps past me into the room, still in battle armor. “Grayson was one of my guys in the 365th. He’s been in the shit with me.”
The suppressed hostility dissipates from the room. I notice that even the first lieutenant instantly defers to Sergeant Fallon. She walks over to one of the makeshift benches and drops down on it with a grunt.
“Come and have a seat, Grayson,” she says. “The guys don’t bite. We’re all friends down here.”
I do as directed and sit down across the makeshift table from Sergeant Fallon, who is opening the latches of her chest and back plates with practiced hands. She pulls off the hard shells of the outer armor and lets them drop to the deck.