The Gala: 15 Summer, TN1919. Tessa Lin's Diary

Dear diary,
I know, I know, I said that I wouldn’t write in you anymore, that I was too
old, but last night absolutely needs to be, I don’t know, like documented
for posterity or something. Like when I am old and 30 or something, I’ll
want to know what it was like to be young and going to my first ball. Of
course, by then I’ll be rich or powerful or both, but whatever.

So without further a due, it was cosmic! We all paraded around in our
fineries before leaving the caravan to go to this huge landship parked
right in town! I was wearing this super pretty dress with real horn
stiffeners and pink lace frills. We traded for it with the Merkado clan who
brought it from a homestead that just makes these super special dresses, I
was really lucky to get one or I might have got something from Timmins oh!
I mean Natty looked amazing all in purple, but I don’t think I will ever
dress like that, plus she totally got called on it by some old hag later.
Anyway, the emir had his gears on parade with neat little capes, so cool.
We were announced, it was so grand, and then the people, so many people.
All the gentlemen wearing fine black suits and woman in stunning gowns.
Most were polar styles so nobody looked as good as me, well almost nobody.
Unfortunately I got stuck with a chaperon, so unfair, except that
Carmichael let me drink which was pretty OK I guess. Eventually he made a
fool of himself and went all nutty on some corp dudes and they threw him
out. It was hilarious. I think the Doc tried to stop them, he was like gone
for a week and then suddenly there last night. I think he’s in trouble or
something because everybody was really cold towards him, especially Ellen
who looked totally gorgeous on Kain’s arm, in his fancy military tux, he
told me it was called something else but I can’t be expected to remember
everything he says. I think somebody important made a pass at her and Kain
totally kicked his ass, it was so cool. They had these fantastic
chandeliers and a live band and Gade, Oh prophet, he went up and had them
play some fantastic music and he went out there and danced with Natty and
Kain and Ellen too and the Doc and Karin, she looked really good
considering she wasn’t supposed to come, but I was glad to have her here
with me;) The Doc can really dance! Who would have thought from such a
stuffy guy? Karin says he bored her half to death with all his business
talk and contacts. We saw the Emir make a speech and the Spider, he’s kinda
hot, the Spider, not the emir, all scary and a lot younger than I thought
the way everybody talk about him all the time.

I think Natty drank too much because the Doc had to take her home, she and
Gade are so cool, she totally let him stay and have fun but he was such a
gentleman, I could tell he didn’t have as much fun without her. Oh My
Prophet, Gade shaved! Like with a blade and wore clean clothes and ..and,
words just fail me. :-o

An Interlude 2

Anatol Medalev was sweating. He muttered to himself about the blaring sun overhead and cursed the Badlands heat. He looked at the man next to him as they rode across the Western Desert and considered asking him why he was smiling. What was his name? Updike? Upton? He gave the man a surreptitious glare, half-detesting his resilience in this heat.

Up yours.

They stopped.

"Why have we stopped?" Medalev spoke calmly into the comm.

"Settlement up ahead," came the reply.

"Alright," Medalev slowly dismounted and with Upton found some boulders to climb onto. He took out some binoculars and watched.

"Looks like another homestead, complete with work gear and solar power," Upton nodded, passing the binoculars back to Medalev.

"How are we for fuel?"

"Low. Do we hit it?" Upton nodded his head at the homestead that was some two kilometers away.

"Yes. We'll need to build up our fuel before we cross the mountains," Medalev shrugged.

"We're hitting it," he spoke calmly into the comm as he hopped off the boulder. Upton followed.

The two men climbed back onto the HPC-64 hover-carrier.

"Sir, something coming in on the secure frequency," Medalev's driver reported.

"Bring it up." Medalev punched his password into a keypad and looked down at the display. With a frown, he closed his console and keyed the comm to the group channel.

"New orders," he spoke gravely, "we have to make it through these mountains with all due haste. We hit this homestead, fuel up, and move."

With that, Major Anatol Medalev of the Colonial Expeditionary Force waved his forces forward. His own HPC kicked up dust with the rest of the group. He could hear the first shots from the lead hovertank before he closed the hatch.

Blasted sun. I hate this place.

Tools and the Trade

Gade spent most of the night by Nat’s side. She was asleep when he came in but she was coherent enough to mumble a question about the gala. Gade had no mind for that, regretting letting her go off without him. She brushed off his concerns explaining that her weakness had simply been the result of neglecting herself: not enough food or sleep the last few days because of all the work and excitement. Natty urged Gade to forget about it and come to bed.

The next morning Gade was still fitful, looking for ways to help. He found Doctor Chambers at a computer terminal in the Hang-Out. Here was an opportunity to at least put something right - though not the one thing that had the duelist really troubled.

"Look Doc” he started without preamble, “it’s come to my attention that Sam's little hissy-fit is starting to have an effect on the rest of the caravan.” Gade's tone was dripping with a healthy dose of piss and vinegar. He picked up a chair by its back and slammed it down backwards in front of the Doc.

Doc Chambers surreptitiously shut down the medical information he was researching.

“Personally I don't care about his problems, but when they affect the others they become OUR problems," Gade continued, hoping his demeanour would fool the Doc into thinking he was telling the truth. It was clearly a lie. Gade did care. Sure, it hadn't yet dawned on him how much he cared, but he had found a bone to gnaw and he was setting his teeth in it properly now.

“Problem with a broken tool is it doesn't care if it's broken, it's just a tool. Well I'm gonna really break it, knock a little sense into him, I just need you around to make sure he survives."

Doc Chambers sat at his desk quietly; he clasped his hands together under his chin and let out a long sigh. Sam was a problem, and the Doc was affected by him too. Tom's renewed interest in the crew made his inner deliberation a short one.

“Alright Gade, I appreciate the metaphor but a cracked tool needs to be broken so that it can be re-forged. And given the tool in question, I’m not too certain that either the breaking or the fixing are very straight forward proposals. So what do you have in mind?”

Gade settled a bit into his chair. Now he was no longer on a mission of converting anyone to his cause; he lowered his level of enthusiasm to a more conspiratorial tone. He leaned forward, into the back of the chair, before beginning again.

"I've seen people in Sam's place before. He's just digging deeper and deeper believing there is nothing else. I'm going to show him what his limits really are: with blunt force. He's only gonna smarten up if the sense is literally knocked into him. And if he really wants to continue as he is, he'll do so alone and only worse for wear"

Gade found himself rubbing his forehead, realizing just what it was he was proposing. He knew it was necessary, that the caravan and its safety were the priority. 'That boy wasn't not gonna stop until someone got hurt,' he thought. He saw that the Doc was still listening so he continued:

"I don't want anyone else to know Doc, those who should be aware, those closest to him. They already know what I'm gonna do, so let's just figure out when."

The Doc’s brow furrowed as he eyed Gade, trying to gage the efficacy of his proposed blunt approach. To the Doc’s reasoning, Sam was on a path of self destruction. Could such a selfish act be helped along from outside sources? The means may be the same but it did not necessarily follow that the end would be. Gade had good intentions, below that filthy exterior lay a heart of gold, that much was evident in his care for the girls and the love he inspired in Nat…Tom suppressed the wave of emotion that last thought evoked.

“Look Gade, I know Sam needs to get better, but consider this: If someone is striving to achieve a personal goal, be it positive or negative, handing it to them on a silver platter probably won’t fulfill their aspirations. Sam has lost faith, not in his body; I think the stubborn ass actually believes time will heal all that," the Doc considered, "no it’s his soul that is broken. If what you’re talking about is helping him hit rock bottom, then firstly we can’t act directly; he can’t know we are involved. And secondly, we have to fix his spirit more than break his bones”

Gade started shaking his head before the Doc was finished before retorting emphatically:

"Oh I know that Doc! If it was just a matter of bone-breaking he'd be out for the count already. But it must be US he sees as responsible. Even if it's just me breaking his bones, it's seeing what he's pushed others to that will reach his soul. Don't get me wrong, I’ll have plenty of words to share with him during the process. And I don't expect him to like it any either. But if that’s what it takes to get his psyche jump-started, then that’s the cost I’m willing to pay."

Gade had risen from his seat during his impassioned response, but his voice had lowered to a more conversational level. He needed the Doc for this: someone who was calm, collected and could help explain to those who cared for Sam just what would be needed for his recovery. Gade was now convinced that there was simply no one else that could both handle the situation and care enough about Sam to carry it through. He couldn’t know that a week ago or even 36 hours ago, the Doc was willing to walk out on all of them, not least because of Sam’s state.

“Ok Gade,” Tom started cautiously, “I don’t know if I share your conviction that he blames us, but I guess this is as good a way of finding out as any”

The Doc felt Gade’s strength of purpose. But he didn't know that Gade wouldn't act without him. In Tom's mind, Gade might take unilateral action and make matters worse, thus alienating Sam to the point of no return. Tom agreed however that action must be taken. Not knowing what, just yet, he had to buy time.

“Two days. I’ll start him up on a routine of daily medical care again, check what he is capable of enduring and it will give me some time to research the more subtle side of what we hope to achieve. Two days, then we do it. We’re also going to have to let Kain know that we are vanishing”

Gade was nodding in agreement now, logistics already running through his mind, like a mechanical problem to fix. He started making mental check lists.

"Two days then, I'll cram as much of my training in as I can until then. I'll leave explaining it to Kain to you."

“Thanks,” Tom said nearly to himself, as Gade headed out with renewed vigour and a purposeful gait. Tom switched his medical pad back on and saved the information on M.D.A. he was collecting. Letting out a sigh, he cleared the search parameters and called up psychological conditioning and psychoanalytics. He slumped a bit in his chair and, in spite of his more pressing concerns, he let his mind rest on Gade for a moment: the upstanding guy in the middle of his two patients. Tom knew he wouldn't let Gade go through with the plan, of course. That would piss off the would-be duelist mightily. Still, if a better solution took its place, Gade would get over it and find another means to vent his anger.

Two Speeches: Redux

Emir Bolivar Inoto III, on the occasion of the Khayr-ad Din Dueling Circuit Gala event, on the evening of the 15th of Summer, TN1919:

My friends. Welcome to my home, aboard the Prophet's Dream! Tonight we honour those of you who are about to engage in gladiatorial combat in Heavy Gears. Heavy Gear Dueling has a long and honourable history, and this tournament shall only add to its proud traditions. I wish you all good luck and many happy returns. And now, it is my pleasure and honour to introduce to you all your patron, the founder of the Khayr-ad Din Heavy Gear Dueling Circuit, Saddik Jahmoon!

Saddik "The Spider" Jahmoon:

Thank you, your highness, for this wonderful event, your beautiful landship, and your patronage. Duelists, friends, Northerners, Southerners, Badlanders, I welcome you all to Khayr-ad Din, the city of trash. This is a proud place, with deep, profound traditions and a fierce joie de vivre that is unmatched anywhere on this planet. But it is also a dark place, a place of pain and of sorrow. It was here that the settlement of Monroe met its end in a White Sand tempest we call the Great Tempest. And it is here that the polar governments began dumping their trash, hoping to bury the legacy of Monroe and those who perished. But we have persevered. And it is my vision for Khayr-ad Din that has brought us all together tonight. A city with something to export, with something that makes us all sit up and take notice, is a city worth saving. So I present to you the Dueling Circuit. This is what will make Khayr-ad Din great. This is what will turn the city of trash into the rough diamond of the Badlands. This will be the centre of Heavy Gear dueling on Terranova, so long as we nurture young duelists and protect established competitors.

Yes, I know that this is gladiatorial dueling I am talking about. Yes, pilots do die. I will not mince words: some of you will die. It is the nature of our competition. But I ask only this: do not murder. Rivalries are healthy, but vendettas are not. Our Dueling Circuit will not be a bloodthirsty one. You must remember that the entire world will be watching you compete. Every match in this tournament counts. Every underhanded move will be seen by viewers the world over. Your honour is at stake. Remember that.

Up Close and Personal with Becky Sharpe

Becky arrived alone at the terrace on the Core Tower at 26 o'clock. As she stepped out, she smiled wryly. Khayr-ad Din didn't have a particularly inspiring view. Though the panorama below her was clear and bright, the fact was, looking out over a jumble of slum housing, haphazard building and dunes of trash really did nothing to evoke wonder, awe or anything other than an inward wince. Becky looked around quickly, surveying the medium-sized terrace with its round ceramic tables and sturdy chairs.

"Right here, miss Sharpe," a gruff voice called from behind her.

"Sorry I'm late," Becky smiled apologetically at the older man as she let him pass through the doorway and to a table, "I'm still having trouble navigating the streets."

Carmichael nodded. He shuffled to a chair and sat, looking the young woman over. In his younger days, he would have already laid on the 'Trishaw Charm' as he referred to it. Now, he judged her on appearance, on poise, on how she handled the video recording gear and the way she looked at him. Interest twinged with sympathy, he noted. He waited until she took a seat opposite him before reaching into his breast pocket for a cigarette. He lit it.

"I don't usually smoke. Mainly because of the War."

"Really?" Becky leaned in, interested. She discreetly turned the recorder on, "from what I've seen, the War turned lots of people into smokers.

"Yeah, that's true. Unless you worked with fuel and ammo."

"Is that how you lost your legs?" she regretted it the moment she said it. Watching Carmichael scowl, Becky chided herself for a tactless comment, "let me rephrase that. Did you work in fuel convoys?"

Trishaw Carmichael took a long drag of the cigarette, let the smoke haze around him as he exhaled and gave Becky Sharpe the thousand-yard stare that only combat veterans can muster.

"For a while, yes. Let me tell you the whole story, alright, miss?"

"Becky is fine, Mr. Trishaw."

"Carmichael, please," he replied, turning up the Trishaw Charm ever-so-slightly.

"Well then, Carmichael, from the beginning," she watched him nod and relax.

"I was born in a homestead outside of Fort Henry in 1857. The Trishaw family is considered a member of the Zucco clan, but that's not important. No, what is important is that my family was very large, nearly 20 people on that homestead. So I was farmed out to relatives in Fort Henry at a young age. In Fort Henry, I was exposed to machines, and buildings and..." he smiles, reminiscing for a moment, "well, I fell in love with engineering and design. I got into Western Technical in Fort William, graduated suma cum laude and was hired by Paxton Arms not too long after that."

"You must have been some talent to have gotten Paxton's attention so quickly," Becky was no stranger to being charming.

"Oh well, now," Carmichael chuckled, butting his cigarette out while looking bemused, "hard work, no sleep, and some luck. There were five of us who were hired by Paxton right out of school. We all went down together."

"Was that your first trip into the Badlands?"

"No. My uncle in Fort Henry did business in the Barrington Basin, so I tagged along often enough."

"Alright. But Peace River, back then, must have been something."

"Oh you bet it was. Young man, coming from up North, a little money, a little talent...working for Paxton on contract. I have some good memories, sure."

"Like what?"

"Oh, like being taken out for dinner after my engine mod was chosen for the Warrior III upgrade. By the time that night was over, I didn't know my own name, nor did I care to."

"Paxton was good to you?"

"Sure. Back then. Before the Judas Syndrome, and before the Worker Caste became politically aware." Carmichael flagged a waiter over and ordered a glass of water. He looked at Becky before continuing, "and then it went downhill. Because I was a foreigner, I wasn't trusted, even though I was technically Management Caste. I got relegated to side projects so that by the time the CEF landed I was running quality control simulations for a line of bicycles," he couldn't help but chuckle.

The water came, and Becky watched Carmichael take a long sip.

"What happened in Peace River and at Paxton after the war started?"

"Well, you know the story. Paxton declared Peace River neutral and started building up a resistance network. They also built up their forces. I volunteered for the 1st Brigade, Peace River Army. With the whole planet under attack, they didn't care if I was a foreigner. In fact, because I was a Westerner, they didn't even give me a second thought. I was put in charge of an engineering and supply company. Our job was mainly bridge-building," Carmichael paused. It was going to get messy.

"And then?" Becky leaned in, sensing the story was here.

"Well, when Paxton finally declared for Terranova, we shipped out," Carmichael's voice was gravelly suddenly, "and we hit the CEF hard. By then, Baja was a real meat-grinder, and the CEF was caught completely by surprise by the Peace River Army. When we hit the Westridge Range and started pushing through the mountains towards West Base, my unit was really busy. Lots of bridges, lots of ramps, building. We started running ammo to the front too," he patted his pack of cigarettes, "fuel, food, the whole thing. Instead of just being engineers, we got to be quartermasters. It was a real headache."

"It sounds like it, really," Becky wished she had ordered a glass of water. The video rig she was wearing was heavy after all that walking, "where were your men from?"

"Peace River mainly," Carmichael nodded, "though we had some guys from Baja, and a few from Massada too."

"Massada, really?"

"Not everyone in Massada is a pacifist, Becky," Carmichael pursed his lips, "anyways, the only real action I saw cost me my legs..."

----

"Do you hear that, Captain?" Young, one of the sappers in Carmichael's command group, had sharp ears.

"No, I..." Carmichael froze. He heard it. The whine of hover-engines.

"Cover!" a cry went out, only to be silenced by a loud explosion that kicked up so much dust . High in the Westridge Mountains, Yukon company, 1st engineering battalion, 1st Brigade, Peace River Army, was under attack.

Everything went into slow-motion for Carmichael. He found cover, found his RTO and radioed for support. He knew he was yelling into the transmitter, but couldn't help himself. The air was hot and dry already. The laser fire from the Earther hover-APCs and the GRELs' rifles made it even hotter. Everywhere, explosions cascaded from airburst shells and fuel-trucks going up. It was an inferno of death. Young kept close, keeping an eye on his CO, and making sure that they weren't noticed. He was only partially successful.

One moment Carmichael was guiding mortar fire for a Crusader heavy gear. The next, he was on his back, ears ringing, legs tingling. The air tasted of explosives and charred flesh.

"Uggg..." he groaned. The concussion of the airburst round had knocked him down. But what was on his legs? He looked. It was Young. Or whatever was left of him. The charred hulk of the sapper's body was splayed over Carmichael's lower legs. He pushed as best he could and then shrieked in agony as he saw that much of his lower body was decimated by shrapnel. Carmichael suddenly tasted bile. He scrambled for his first aid kit. It was undamaged. One dose of coagulant, another of analgesic. He rolled onto his stomach and grabbed Young's rifle.

----

Becky looked a little pale for a moment.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes," she nodded, swallowing hard and then sipped some of Carmichael's water, "yes, I'm fine. Go ahead. After you treated yourself, then what?"

----

"Sir? Sir!" a young soldier grabbed Carmichael and pulled him into the shell-hole he had taken cover in, "holy shit Captain! You alright? Do you need a radio?"

"Shut up and shoot, boy!" Carmichael was running on adrenaline. Where was the support? How the hell did the Keff get through the lines? He growled and took a shot at lumbering Mordred GREL. The supersoldier fell, but then got up and kept moving.

"Goddamn!"

"Captain!" the soldier's warning was shrill. Behind Carmichael, one of the company's Warrior heavy gears toppled sideways into the shell hole. Carmichael rolled to the side as the gear's arm flopped down just where he had been. The gear looked intact, but Carmichael could see laser burns through the head and the chest. He crawled over to the cockpit access and punched in an override. A moment later he had released the dead pilot's safety harness.

"Help me get the pilot out!" he yelled, eyes wide with anger, as he tried to tug the dead soldier out of the gear. His legs wouldn't support the effort.

The young soldier crawled over in disbelief, grabbed the pilot by the shoulders and pulled him out of the sideways prone gear.

"You know how to pilot one of these things sir?"

"Pilot? Shit son, I damn well built this thing!"

----

"I rallied my men, and drove the Earthers back. Nothing overly heroic," Carmichael shrugged. He had been awarded the Paxton Medal for Bravery for his actions that day.

Becky Sharpe frowned, "I looked up your file. You've got a Peace River Army decoration for heroism. And the surgeon who had to amputate your legs because of the toxins to which you were exposed was Dr. Chambers, who set up this interview."

"Yeah, he's a good guy, Tom Chambers. After you interview me, you should interview him and the others about the Caravan Guild."

"I just might," Becky smiled, "now, Carmichael, tell me: afterwards. What happened?"

"Well, Paxton agreed to regrow my legs, even though I wasn't a Riveran. They couldn't just turn me away, what with the medal and all that. But I guess they put me on a lower rung than a management caste veteran. So here I am," Carmichael stood. His knees buckled after a minute, and he sat down.

"Usually, with limb regrowth, there's a battery of physiotherapy," Carmichael continued, "I didn't get any. Wasn't in the budget. Didn't get the anti-cancer drugs either, so I can't tell you how long I'm going to last. I know that the Riveran guys in my ward got all the right treatment, especially the Executives. In Peace River, even the sick and the dying aren't equal. But don't get me wrong. I made some good friends in Peace River, before and during the war. And I am grateful to have served in the fight against the New Earth Commonwealth. I just wish I had served in the Western Army."

Becky nodded and turned the video recorder off, setting the camera rig down on the table, "we'll see what this does for you, Carmichael."

The older man growled and grabbed his cane, "now you listen here lady. I didn't do this for money or sympathy. I did it because I believe in the reformers in Peace River. Helena Hitachi, Gerald Simosa, those guys. So you make sure that this thing gets broadcast into every Riveran's home, no matter what their caste, you hear?" he stood, his voice angry and loud.

Becky Sharpe nodded, slowly comprehending, "so that stunt you pulled at the gala?"

"It's always been about the workers, about equality," Carmichael nodded, relieved that Ben Cantor would never hear him say that, "I get by alright."

"Alright. Alright," Becky relented with a genuine smile. She flicked the hidden switch on her belt, turning the camera off for real this time, "I'll see what I can do."

Ellen tells a story

Kain... you've been asking me about Sam, and I haven't really given you a straight answer, and there's this letter and I don't know what to do, and -- but -- just listen, okay? I should probably start from the beginning. It's...

The thing is, "Samuel Tarmalin", whoever that was, *died* during the war. I don't know what he went through out there, what he saw, but it completely destroyed his mind -- there was nothing left. When my Pa brought him in from the desert, babbling about the Old Woman, we basically had to teach him everything from scratch. How to walk, talk, tie his boots... the only thing he knew how to do was shoot, that's it.

Now, we eventually tracked down his service record for him, which is how we know about his past. But the Sam that came out of the desert wasn't the Sam that went in, you know? He created this dopey naive gunslinger out of bullets and desert myths and homemade breakfast, and we watched him do it right in front of us. And we loved him for it. He was *our* Sam, right? He was my brother.

But now, that dopey gunslinging Sam is dying, too. He thinks the gunslinging bit is why he failed in Malachi Flats, why Father Lelland died and why he got shot... so he's throwing it all out, the Old Lady, the gunslinging, even the breakfasts. He hates himself so much for what happened that he's killing himself off, bit by bit... and there's nothing left, underneath. I've been *trying* to bring him back, like my Pa and I did after the war, but it's -- it's not working...

So there's a guy I know back in Peace River, helped him keep some indiscretions quiet... He knows a lot about all that occult mumbo-jumbo, I figured he might have heard about some Old Lady magic that could bring Sam back, like it did before, right? But he sent me this instead. It's *hopeless*. I'm going to have to watch Sam die, aren't I? I'm going to have to watch my brother die, and once he's gone, there'll be nothing left, you understand? *Nothing*. I -- I can't do it, Kain, please help me, I can't do it, please, just... please...

* * *

My dearest Miss Cranby --

received your latest missive with great interest /
am rather convinced your Mr Tarmalin is currently dissolving in Chronozonic acid /
nothing to be done but to see what takes his place once "he" is gone /
if you would be so kind as to keep me apprised, & c., & c. /

Forever your servant,
Lysander Morwin, esq.

Please find enclosed excerpts from an ancient Terran text pertinent to the subject.

* * *

"Aleister Crowley embodied the destruction of Egoic Self structures as Chronozon, the Devil 333. Chronozon, we are told, is the all-devouring guardian of "the Abyss" (The Abyss being a suitably dramatic and evocative term for an experiential "gap" in human consciousness.) The term can be applied to that state of mind during which Individual Egoic Self-consciousness begins to cannibalize itself rather than confront the usually frightening fact that Personality is not "real" in the existential sense and is simply a behavioural strategy... Think of the chattering mind annihilating itself in unstoppable self-examination and you will hear the voice of Chronozon.

The rewards of a successful crossing of the Abyss are many, but a failed attempt can leave the magician broken inside."

A Day With Sam

1. Another nightmare. Another night of bullets and blood and the bodies of my friends. Doc says I need rest to get better, but what he don't get is, any more rest'll kill me dead. Alone in my bed with Father Lelland and Koldur and Preston Hill rotting to bits all around me, I can't take that shit anymore. Gotta drown it out. Gotta get away.

* * *

2. All I do is shoot people. All I do is get people shot. I'm like a gun. Can a gun have friends? I don't want Kain to get shot. Or Gade, or the Doc, or Ellen oh god Ellen don't die bleeding in my arms, don't die Ellen, don't die, I can't save you, I can't save you...

All I can do is shoot people. All I can do is get people shot.

* * *

3. Been drinking for a while, now, but it isn't working yet. I can still see Father Lelland spitting blood. I can still see that Gilmore kid trying to find his leg with red little fingers. I can still see poor old Sam Tarmalin holding in his guts, bleeding out on the basement floor. Why isn't it working? Why is shooting the only thing that lets me forget? Two more hours till work. Two more hours until I can shoot again.

Two more hours with Father Lelland, with PFC Gilmore, with poor old gut-shot Sam Tarmalin.

* * *

4. This asshole wants a gun duel? Can't he see I'm busy having a drink with my ghosts? I managed to get rid of Gilmore, I think one more drink might do it for Koldur...

A gun duel ain't shooting. It's waiting, and thinking, and thinking, and thinking. About Preston Hill sitting bleeding against the outside wall of the bar. About Koldur lying crushed under a burning car. About Ellen wheezing, wheezing, trying to breathe with a punctured lung. Why won't this fucker draw already?!

Don't fucking shoot my holster, you asshole, shoot me, shoot *me*! A gun is for shooting people! A gun is for getting people shot!

* * *

5. I open the door and leave the world behind -- there's work to do. Costume, gear check, prepwork... There's a rhythm.
Entrance
two, three
Draw
two, three
Shoot
two, three
No time to think. Gotta shoot.

* * *

6. Time for bed. The gang isn't here yet, but they will be by morning. Goodnight, PFC Gilmore. Goodnight, Preston Hill. Good night, Koldur, and good night, Father Lelland.

Good night, Sam Tarmalin. See you all tomorrow.

Looking in the mirror

Kain stood alone in the small cabin/office he used to oversee the caravan's operations, store his arms, and, when there was time, sleep in. His discharge mess dress uniform hung from a hook, and he held a small flat case in his hands. His decorations lay nestled into their velvet compartments. He ran his thumb over the smooth face of the kill badges, passing over them and withdrawing the wound badge. It was strange; Kain had generally been unusually lucky. Most of the men he had come up with had suffered serious wounds, some disabling, but Kain had avoided injury entirely until the raid on the hovertank compound. There was no doubt he's earned that medal. The doctors assured him otherwise, but on the damp mornings, Kain swore there was still some shrapnel left inside.

The Infantry Assult Badge, the Tank Destruction, Close Combat, and Sniper badges he left in their spaces. Above the Wound Medal, he affixed the War of the Alliance Ribbon, adding only the Battle of Baja Campaign pin, leaving the rest. He placed the Onyx Ring on his finger; the Legion could not be left behind.

Briefly, he considered the rank insignia. He'd been proud that day, and ashamed. Proud to have been recognized, to have been measured and not found wanting. The shame, well, that came from being recognized too. There were things a man should not be congratulated for....

The sword, of course, was essential. With the Spider's rules, no weapons would be permitted, yet Kain knew they would not deny him his right to carry the weapon. He'd never killed with it, but it had drawn blood for honour.