[IC] Wear a Badge, Carry a Gun

[ladyarcana55]

Kiloni awakens at 06:00. She stretches herself out and does some simple calisthenics before showering. After she gets dressed, she arranges her long, black hair into a French braid and applies some light makeup to her lightly tan skin. She carefully applies the eyeshadow to her brown eyes, giving her a more doe-eyed look that she likes so much. Then she checks her nails before going out and waiting for her parents before visiting one of the many cafés for a light breakfast.

Michelle Queldrona

Kiloni!

Kiloni

Mummy! Daddy!

She runs over to them and gives them both the biggest hugs she can muster. She is very excited to see them and her giddiness shows. Then, she notices four other figures behind them. She squeals with utter excitement.

Kiloni

Oh my gosh! Victor! They gave you leave? Marcus, Philip, is it okay for you two to get out of training for this long? Donny! I can't believe you came!

Emotion overcomes her and she starts to jump and squeal in her excitement.
Her family smiles at her, sharing her excitement but containing themselves. During breakfast, they plan their day and after breakfast they break off to execute those plans.

Kiloni and her brothers spend the part of the day in-line skating. Then they meet their parents for the Chinese Opera. Afterwards, to satisfy Mummy's curiosity, they go shopping. Later, Marcus and Donny escort their parents to their room. While the remaining siblings wait for them to return, they talk.

Victor

They're never going to say it, but they are proud of you. We all are. I want you to know that, sis.

Kiloni (She looks as though she is about to cry as she smiles)

Thank you! That means so much to me.

Philip (with a teasing smile)

You are still going to be our baby sister, you know that. Donny too, even though he is younger than you.

Kiloni

I know. <sniff> I can't believe you're not in your uniform!

Victor

<laugh> I'm on leave. As far as I am concerned, I am a civilian. I think I'll dress like one. Today, you're the one who has to worry about a uniform.

The pride in his voice very evident, it overwhelms Kiloni. She looks at her oldest brother and she hugs him as tears fall down her face. Her oldest brother towers over her 5'3" frame (160.02 cm) at 6'5" (195.58), it makes her loof far younger than she really is. She spends the rest of the time with her brothers and then they meet their parents for dinner. Then the siblings go out to visit the various forms of nightlife before she returns to her room to retire. She spends an hour or two staring at the ceiling, waiting for her excitement to subside enough to allow her to sleep. Knowing her parents, they will insist on taking her shopping tomorrow, she was eager to get some rest.

[t@nya]

Penny awakens at 6.00 am and, quickly changing into her exercise clothes, she does a brisk jog along one of the hiking paths.

Having returned and shadowed, she heads to one of the cafés for breakfast, where she sees a welcome sight.

Penny

Uncle Percy! You made it!

Perseus

Wouldn't have missed it for the world! After all, us black sheep Drakes have to stick together.

Penny smiles, though somewhat sadly.

Perseus

Seriously, I'm proud of you Pen. You've achieved so much, and all without the family's help. It takes a lot of effort to break away from the family, and I should know.

Penny smile brightens and she feels moisture gathering in her eyes.

Penny

Thanks uncle, that means a lot to me.

After that, the two of them eat a hearty breakfast, and her uncle gives her couples of his latest recordings. She can't help but laugh as he is recognised by squealing fans, and cheerfully gives out autographs. Having an uncle who was a semi-famous rock musician (having dedicated a lot of time updating the musical form and bringing it back into fashion) was pretty amusing, especially when she couldn't help but picture her family's reaction.

The two of them spend the day going from one musical event to another, her uncle's expertise in music (which wasn't restricted to rock) coming in handy. She feels guilty about lazing the day away, but her uncle manages to distract her from this.

Perseus

You work too hard, Pen. There's a time for work and a time for partying. You need to learn how to do both.

She only wished that she understood German, as her uncle did, so she could enjoy the Handel oratio as he did.

Finishing up the day with dinner and after-dinner drinks at a night club, she goes to bed later than she normally does, feeling very indulgent, and declining her uncle's offer to continue clubbing.

[Adina]

Lisa

If the ball is unbearably stuffy we can leave Liselle with her father and get ourselves thrown out for tangoing in Imperial dress uniform.

Bear (laughing)

Indeed we could but isn't that a little hard on Liselle?

I would be honored to squire your lovely daughter to the ball. You have taught her to dance?

Lisa

Of course! How else can she meet people?

Bear

Well then after the graduation ceremony I shall rush back to the barracks, change into evening dress, and come here to call on Liselle.

*********

A short while later Bear bows and makes his departure, wearing about half of his uniform and carrying the rest. He walks slowly through the crowd (briefly shambling a few steps forward to rear up with low growl when he spots a small boy of 5 or 6 looking at him - the boy then giggles and hides his face) a tall, broad-shouldered, attractive man with twinkling blue eyes set in a face amply supplied with reddish-brown hair and beard skillfully styled to suggest that of a bear.

Bear then finds a place to have his hair done and purchases a few non-standard issue grooming accessories.

He then spends the rest of the day clothes shopping. Among his purchases are a fine kilt with matching bonnet in Imperial Green tartan; a traditional Russian outfit with royal blue cossack-style trousers, red embroidered shirt, black boots, and fur cap; and a Greek fishermans cap.

He returns to his room around 21:00 stows his purchases, repairs his uniform and goes down to the dining hall to eat. He smiles wistfully as some of his younger classmates and their families wander through and looks around to see if anyone he knows is in the dining hall.

At 21:30 he returns to his room and spends the next three hours properly putting away his new clothes, making sure all of the uniforms he will be wearing tomorrow are perfect, and finally (after a couple of attempts) folding a suitable origami flower to present to Liselle.

At 00:30 he retires for the night.

[Icelander]

The low buzz of his datastick proclaiming 0500 Standard Imperial Time intrudes upon the consciousness of Specter Hart and he stands up from his bed to silence it. Despite his uncharacteristic indolence yesterday evening, Hart made it to bed well before midnight, so awakening at his usual hour posed no real hardship for him.

Draping a bathrobe over himself, Hart makes for the sanitary facilities. He takes care of his morning fluid deposit business quickly and returns to his chambers. Although Hart passes a mirror while in the student facilities, he does not stop to groom himself. A casual observer would see a full-figured man of above average height and graying hair just a shade too long for military etiquette, the result of insisting upon a monthly trim in lieu of a permanent treatment and then not bothering to schedule one until he happens to look in a mirror. There‘s no beard-growth, a slight skin-modification being preferable to the daily tedium of shaving. Apart from the close-cropped hair, Hart looks like a middle-aged banker or lawyer, complete with steel-rimmed glasses slightly askew and a faint suggestion of thickening to his torso.

Once back in his assigned living space, he throws the robe on the bed while moving chairs and tables out of the way. From a desk drawer, Hart recovers several pieces of sensor-padded cloth. He dons a pair of gloves, elbow guards and knee-height socks of this sensimatic fabric, placing several small adhesive buttons on other strategic locations of his body. Finally he takes off the glasses and places his visor over his face dialling it for an opaque setting to eliminate visual distractions. Hart then instructs the computer to load up a random problem-based tactical simulation and project data from it to his visor and the tactile sensors on his body.

These programs range in length from two to nine minutes and present him with a violent altercaration against simulated opponents that either develops from a routine situation or start somewhere in media res. Hart has an extensive library of such simulations and uses an automated smart randomiser to make sure that he‘s never presented with precisely the same situation. As his old company CO told him when he was a new officer, repeating training exercises teaches you nothing but how to beat the training program.

Strictly speaking, it‘s been more than forty years since Hart was assigned to direct combat duty and he has no need to engage in hand-to-hand training beyond the minimum. Even when he was an active duty soldier, the ability to handle himself in an unarmed confrontation would not have been very important on a high-tech battlefield of drones and long-ranged rifles. His habit is nothing more than a ritual that serves to reinforce in his mind that no matter how many years have passed since he left the battlefield behind for staff duty and intelligence work, his chosen profession is still the application of violence. With his impending graduation as an investigator in the Investigation & Enforcement Branch of the Justice Department under the Independent Commissioner for Justice, that‘s due to change, but a lifetime of habit is hard to break. And if a secret police chief found a warrior mindset invaluable to his daily work, it might be that an Imperial detective will find the same.

Naked apart from the tactile sensors, Hart presents a very different image from the prematurely aging functionary that‘s on display when he‘s wearing slightly rumpled uniform and askew glasses. The thickening of his torso is still undeniable, but without the concealing bulk of the robe to distort it, the robust remnants of an athlete‘s musculature are still quite visible. Stout, sinewy arms suggest a past interest in serious weightlifting and the powerful barrel chest is covered with a thick growth of gray hair. There aren‘t any regulations for length of body hair that‘s covered by the uniform in the South Oceania Armed Defence Forces and thus he‘s never bothered to have his thick natural hair removed or thinned.

When he starts responding to the cues of the program, his movements carry none of the grace of the martial art katas that many Imperial servants practise as a hobby or for health benefits. His motions are violently irregular, almost slipshod in appearance, and he consciously avoids the prescribed symmetrical combinations beloved of the aesthetic martial artist. But there is a deceptive speed and power to his actions, a kind of callous efficiency that‘s almost tantalizing in its animalistic brutality. Whether applying lethal or non-lethal force against his armed or unarmed simulated opponents, Hart acts with decisive speed to physically neutralise the threat. Even when he accidentally slams into a chair with a loud crash and hits the ground with a painful thump, nothing else exists for him but the destruction of the simulated threat.

After finishing four programs, Hart turns off the exercise system. He puts on his robe, enjoying the way it dissipates the dripping sweat, and turns his attention to the drink synthesizer. For himself, he selects an electrolyte rich hydration mix with a slight lemon tang to disguise the salty aftertaste. He also gets a large container of nutrition-blended water for his orchids. While watering them with exquisite care, Hart keeps a taped audio-visual data feed of the Parlimentary hearings for the establishment of the ICfJ running, trying to absorb as much as he can about the likely way his agency is going to develop.

At 0530, as on every other morning, Hart starts out for the communal exercise facilities wearing briefs under his bathrobe and carrying a towel. He‘s gotten into the habit of a short cardiovascular session before the start of the working day. While the working day is long and full, he has no trouble with the learning part of the curriculum. It‘s his physical condition that is his weakest aspect, with some of the younger and more vigorous graduands literally running rings around him during pursuit on foot and endurance tests. While Hart is intellectually aware of the difficulties involved in matching the physical capabilities of his classmates when they include, among others, a recently transfered Marine in his forties, that doesn‘t mean he‘ll not do his utmost to make sure that he‘ll meet and exceed every benchmark of Imperial service. Not to mention that he feels more productive after he‘s gotten up his heart-rate.

It‘s still half an hour to reveille, or would be if there was reveille this morning. The corridors are even more silent than they usually are at this hour and Hart encounters none of his fellow graduands on his way to physical training. At the entrance to the gym, though, he sees a fit and ruggedly handsome man in his early middle-age performing a standardised security check on the filtration system. The man turns when he hears footsteps and his alert brown eyes focus on Hart with a severe look, the left one just a fraction slower than the right.

Hart

Morning, Xerxes.

Xerxes Maleewka‘s craggy features soften in recognition and his brown face splits into a friendly grin. Hart‘s smiles back in good spirits. He liked Xerxes, a former Imperial Marine who‘d taken a maintenance job with Technical Services after being invalidated out on psychomedical grounds. Rock-solid, sensible, and for someone who looked so daunting, he was surprisingly warm towards his friends and acquaintances.

Xerxes

Mornin’; Colonel. Not even going to sleep in on your day off?

Hart (with stern mock piety)

If His Imperial Majesty Mikhail Eichberger had, in His infinite benevolence, meant for His loyal and obedient servants to get plenty of rest; He would undoubtedly have arranged to make us responsible for a smaller and more peaceful galaxy.

Xerxes (snorting)

That’s for certain sure, sir. You have a good one now.

While divesting himself of his robe, Hart ruefully reflected that there wasn’t technically any need for Xerxes to call him ‘sir’. Until the graduation Hart didn’t have any sort of authority and even after it he wasn’t likely to rate more than Cornet in South Oceania terms, the most junior of officers that he had previously had under his command as a chief of department in a military intelligence service. Xerxes’ use of the honorific was a friendly gesture, nothing more. They did say that Imperial Marines, former or current, would salute an antenna if someone ran a flag up it, just to be on the safe side, though, and Xerxes had sounded very impressed when he heard that Hart had used to be a bona fide Colonel. Of course, Imperial Marines looked down their noses on most colonial forces, and not without justification, but all the same, a Colonel was a Colonel.

After a short high-intensity workout, Hart goes into the shower facilities. He luxuriates for a full five minutes instead of his customary two and then returns to his quarters, this time without meeting anyone at all. On a normal day, he’d have to prepare for classes, but he doesn’t have any items on his agenda today until his early lunch meeting with Horus at 1130. He briefly considers going to the canteen and having breakfast, but decides against it. He keeps a store of Marine LRPR nutrition bars in his quarters precisely so he can avoid having to spend unnecessary time on meals. While he dresses in his service uniform, Hart sets his drink machine to producing a large cup of SOFR ADF mil-spec double-caffeine Eden Red Tea, fragrant with cinnamon and the slightly bitter tang of zsa berries.

[Icelander]

Hart turns to his work on the Pegasus sector strategic threat analysis, which is shaping up toward some interesting and counter-intuitive indications about the correlation between the established PNB-MC index and eventual Intervention Acts. Sipping his tea while he works, he nibbles on a ration bar. It’s flavoured in the dreaded cherry, but Hart doesn’t notice the sickly sweet faux-fruit taste as anything other than an extraneous sensation irrelevant to his current work. Nor does he notice any difference when he reaches for a hydration drink and takes a pull of the mix he used to water his orchids.

After a rewarding three hours of work, Hart suddenly gives a sigh and pushes back his chair. Without knowing where he’ll be posted, most of the work he does will be wasted. His time might be better spent on trying to form good working relationships with his fellow Imperial servants and he was at disadvantage enough when it came to that without them believing him eccentric as well. Everyone was out enjoying their first free day in a long time and Hart had better take their example if he wanted to fit in.

Vacillating between taking along a briefing for Imperial servants stationed on Metheglín or trying to continue work on his threat analysis from his readscreen and pocketcomp, Hart finally decides on taking only his readscreen and an interesting book he’d been reading on and off during his theoretical spare time during the training course, Jhaelnrya Pewlet-Chen’s ‘The Kobayashi Maru Fantasy’. It was a psychological analysis of historic moments, specifically the decision to use weapons of mass destruction against other humans.

After having made the decision to become an Imperial servant, Hart had read enough of such works to recognise that her analysis was not revolutionary and she dissented from the accepted consensus only on minor issues of timeline regarding President Harry S. Truman and in postulating less clear motives for Prime Minister Andrew Moturu in 2136. Indeed, much of her work relied on Ephraim Orloff’s seminal reference, ‘The Hardest Choice’, for factual background. But the writing; the writing was something else. Crisp and informative, lyrical and poignant when appropriate, she melded the analysis into a beautiful narrative that allows the reader almost share the pain and determination felt by everyone on the bridge as Commodore Thomas Kobayashi made his choice in orbit of Orinoco.

As Hart is about to walk out the door, he remembers that Imperial norms do not include service uniforms for a casual day off. Not wishing to offend Horus or appear gauche, he stops to change his clothes. His supply of non-uniform clothing is not rich, but Hart manages somehow, ending up looking much like a middle-aged vacationer from some a very conservative colony.

Hart then makes his way out to find a quiet café where he can read his book over a leisurely cup of something warm and wait for it to be time to make his rendezvous with Horus Vomact.

...

Hart manages to find a quite comfortable spot modelled after a French sidewalk café, where they serve decent coffee and provide an interesting view of passerby. He whiles away the time reading, becoming engrossed in the dilemma faced by Prince Theseus Suzuki at Ashnan. The book is equipped with multimedia data display and occasional sound bytes and flashing images serve to break up the text. So engrossed is Hart that he just barely notices the soft mezzo-soprano voice addressing him from not two feet away.

Young woman

Terrible subject, isn’t it? But such a poetic style she has.

(Hart looks confused and doesn’t answer immediately)

What you’re reading on your screen. It’s the Kobayashi Maru Fantasy, isn’t it? I used to teach it.

The woman is black-haired and quite young, probably in her thirties, dressed in casual athletic clothes that suit her graceful frame well. With her doll-like eyes the colour of deep mountain lakes and a pair of delightfully sensuous ruby lips, she was, frankly, stunning. A shade too full-figured for the fashion runway, she might be a swimsuit or lingerie model. Might be, but Hart fancied that the faint suggestion of education and sophistication that her voice carried meant Imperial service and not entertainment media.

Ginny (with a twinkle of amusement in her eyes)

Ginifae, Colonial Office, Political Division on Bonanza. But you can call me Ginny. I’m here seconded to ICfJ, doing some sort of feasibility study on a Political Liason Office. Can I sit down?

Hart rapidly recovers from his surprise and with his best old-fashioned New Eden courtly manners, he motions for the empty chair on the other side of the table.

Hart

Of course.

You say you used to teach this? (holding up his readscreen)

How much would you say that Kennedy knew in early April?

Hart and Ginny quickly become engrossed in a stimulating discussion of the book that leads to more than an hour's conversation about more general things. They're both fond of literature and Hart is amazed to find that she has a better grounding than him in both recent Empire literature, which could perhaps be expected, but also Pre-Destruction of Earth literature.

Hart prefers listening to talking and learns that Ginny used to be a Home Office Second School teacher on Todos Santos, but transferred to the Political Division of the Colonial Office out of a desire to take a more active part in Imperial work. He also learns that she has just recently gotten to Pireaus, her fiancé is still on Bonanza and she has not yet found someone to take her to the New Year’s Eve ball. Upon learning this information, he ventures that as a prospective ICfJ investigator graduand, he has been too busy to finalise his plans to go with anyone either.

Ginny (smiling)

This ball will be a terrible bore, of course, stuffed to the gills with swaggering colonial tyrants and their slimy toadies. Dress uniforms only and the works. Not to mention the heavy concentration of those loathsome creatures, the so-called colonial right lobbyists. Ready as usual to coat every imaginable trick of oppression and atrocity in a glossy sheen of colonial self-determination and independence.

But maybe the ball will be more tolerable for some sparkling literary conversation. Failing that, you could teach me how to use handcuffs and we could arrest a few of the more egrerious criminals in diplomat's clothing there.

Should I call you tomorrow to arrange who picks up whom? What did you say your name was again?

Hart

I’m Hart. Probationary Investigator Specter Hart.

Ginny (eyes suddenly narrowing)

Where are you from, Specter?

Her entire demeanor has altered to an astonishing degree in no more than seconds. She replaced her playful smile and the warm and mischievous twinkle in her eyes with a coldly professional look, suspicious and guarded.

Hart (hesitates slightly)

I’m from New Eden; the South Oceania Federal Republic. And before you ask, yes, I was until recently the Deputy Director (Internal Security) of the Homeland Aegis Directorate in my country and held the rank of Colonel.

Is that going to cause a problem?

Without answering, Ginny picks up her cup of coffee and stands up. Her pretty blue eyes now filled with pure loathing, she looks Hart directly in the eyes and clenches her dainty fist around her cup. She appears to briefly contemplate throwing the warm contents of the cup into his face, but with a visible effort of will, she restrains the impulse.

Ginny (spitting out the words in a low, icy voice)

Good day to you, sir.

As she stalks off, Hart reaches for his readscreen and returns to his book. He still has some good twenty minutes before meeting Horus at the Mongolian Grill and wants to finish the section on Prince Suzuki.

Hart leaves the café with when he judges he will make his rendervouz with time to spare. He finds himself wondering what a Mongolian barbecque could be.

---

At the Jingisukan Mongolian Grill

Lieutenant-Major Horus Vomact (Ret.) walks into the rowdy bar and grill of the ‘Jingisukan Mongolian Grill’. The place is filling up nicely with cheerful off-duty Imperial servants in colourful clothing as well as their teenaged get, some of whom are acting as waiters. Everyone among the ‘staff’ is wearing some form of outlandish costume, purportedly that of a Mongolian warrior. Vomact has a shrewd idea that there is probably little correlation between the sartorial extravagance and method of food preparation here at the Grill and that of the historical Mongols. But since the place is fun, the fare is tasty and the drink list is extensive, he doesn’t see any need to criticise them for that.

Vomact looks around for his friend. He knows full well that if this was a professional meeting, Hart would be already there and waiting with that patient air he adopts in the face of inefficiency. But since this is a pleasure excursion, Vomact half expects to have to call Hart to remind him to show up at all. But no, wonder of wonders, that pudgy boffin had managed to resist the lure of work and overwork and was sitting at a corner table with a somewhat pained expression amidst the noisy crowd.

[Icelander]

Looking at Specter Hart, Vomact couldn’t resist an incredulous smile. It was true that Hart had avoided the solecism of showing up for a recreational activity in Imperial uniform, but instead, he’d managed to wear something only marginally more attractive. A white t-shirt that was obviously from a spare workout kit, khaki shorts that were probably never in style and issue sneakers from the Academy. Topped off by those ridiculous glasses that made him look like a pre-space extinct animal, the Ailuropoda melanoleuca. Both hair and clothes looked like they’d been slept on. How Hart could get a crease-free and self-cleaning fabric to look rumpled was an enduring mystery for Vomact; who privately suspected that he kept his spare clothing buried under so much extra briefing material that the fabric just gave up in disgust.

It was certainly a marked contrast with Vomact’s own white-and-blue sporting sprayshirt, tastefully tailored jeans and a daring crimson sash for added flair. But then, to an outside observer, the two friends were a study in contrasts. The handsome young off-duty Marine with his easy smile and healthy glow sitting at a table with a stiff-necked and uncomfortable octogenarian who looks even older than that. Fortunately, Vomact had expected the former colonial to make a mess of dressing for a pleasure excursion, so he’d packed a few necessary items into his satchel.

Vomact

You know, if you planned on being this miserable about having to go out in public, you should have just let me know. I’d have arranged a table somewhere with worse food, so at least you’d have something to complain about.

Hart (with a welcoming smile)

Never fear, Horus. I’ll manage to find something to object to in here.

You look very fit and rested this early in the morning, at least for someone whose avowed intention yesterday was to make up for six months of lost social life.

Vomact

I took a quicksober before I went to bed. A good workout this morning helped, too. With a good meal in my system, I’ll be fit enough to wreak havoc among the fish. They’ll never know what hit them.

Vomact sits down and puts his satchel down beside him. He waves for a handy teen to come help them. She’s a pretty red-haired girl in her late teens with a gap-toothed smile and the kind of hard-won physique that suggests she plans to volunteer for something rigorous. Vomact gives her a friendly smile in return as he reflects that in a year she could be learning how to exit an orbital lander under fire.

Vomact (to Hart)

Did you order yet?

As Hart gives a shrug meant to convey denial, Vomact proceeds to instruct the young lady to pile most of the meat and vegetables in the house on a grill.

Vomact (to waitress)

And I’ll take a Pisco sour before the food gets here. Just beer with the meal, if you’ll please. Ciao Bao, if you’ve got it.

Hart gives Vomact a questioning glance when he hears his order. Noticing the glance, but unsure what it portents, Vomact shoots him an inquisitive look in return.

Hart (in response)

Alcohol? At lunch?

At which comment Vomact snorts sarcastically and then leans back in his chair with a lecturing air.

Vomact

Panda, do you know what I don’t get with you? How can you be so fascinatingly brilliant and obnoxiously dense at the same time?

If I asked you to define ‘day off’, I’m sure you could provide me with a perfectly adequate synopsis of the usage of the phrase and even trace its etymology down to whatever Saxon or Californian coined it back on Earth. You could probably even tell me the importance of free time to people under great stress and explain to me exactly why it is that I enjoy unburdening my soul with occasional days where I’m no more responsible than a typical demimonde heiress.

Yet, despite your undoubted ability to comprehend the term and its importance to our work, you still contrive to sit here as it you’ve absolutely never heard it mentioned and wouldn’t recognise it if it jumped you in broad daylight and perpetrated ICA Section IIa, Article 14 on you.

At the beginning of this speech, Hart looks startled. In the middle he’s grinning and at the end, both men laugh.

Hart (grimacing)

I guess you’re right.

Vomact

You know I’m right. And now you’ll reward the patience of this young lady here by ordering a cocktail before our food arrives. We’re off-duty and we’ll relax and enjoy it.

Selection of a suitable concoction is left to the staff and the two men are quickly provided with drinks, with the meal following not much later. They talk of the people in their graduand class while they eat, with an easy camaraderie that’s made considerably easier by Hart loosening up enough to laugh at stories of the enthusiastic debaucheries of last night and even contribute a few mites of gossip on his own. He has a good memory and a gift for comic delivery, transforming a mundane anecdote into an enjoyable story by dramatic timing and an ear for witticism.

When the time comes to make for the trout stream, both men are well-fed and content and the exercise of walking does them good. Before they present themselves to the fishing instructor, Vomact stops Hart and then opens his satchel. From it, he removes two elaborate fisherman’s vests and floppy hats. His own white and silver to match his outfit and the set he hands to Hart in green, on the theory that any possible colour clash was better than what Hart would choose on his own. Eyeing the garments with some doubt, Hart nevertheless obediently puts them on.

Hart

What else have you got in that satchel? Fake noses and wigs to prevent people from recognising us in these terrible vests?

Vomact

I’ve got, my inexperienced friend, what my prior research leads me to conclude is the only item of fishing kit that’s more important than the proper attire.

Hart

Rods?

Vomact (with a smile)

Chilled beer, Panda. Icy cold like your small and black colonial heart; with delicious condensation forming on the cans.

The two men apply themselves to the lessons given by the attending gillie with rapt attention. Both men are good students and after having everything explained to them once, they’re able to try it out for themselves. Hart finds the first beer much less offensive than he expected and after several he has to admit that cold beer and fishing is not such a bad combination. Their conversation ranges from possible postings and they share what they know about the conditions on likely planets. Both men would like to be posted as Marshals, but declare themselves well satisfied with whatever should come.

With more beers, their conversation turns to tall tales and reminiscences. They tell funny stories from barracks life and the idiosyncrasies of men they’ve served with. Neither one mentions the reality of battle or killing, nor do they dwell on the dead and the broken. It isn’t necessary. They remember the pleasanter things, the days of leave and events that made them laugh. Vomact tries to teach Hart the popular words to a traditional marching song from the 13th Rgt, ‘He’ll Wear a Yellow Ribbon on His Rod (The Wild Colonial Boy)’ and Hart retaliates with a story about an officer who took his dog into battle. The unit armourers designed an RPV chassis as combat armour for the canine camp follower, but were unable to get the waste disposal unit fitted right, resulting in the poor animal being hospitalised for constipation.

Vomact catches a small silver fish, causing both men massive satisfaction and excitement, as well as occasioning a great deal of debate about the proper way to handle a caught fish, before they manage to throw it back. Hart does not manage to snare anything more interesting than his own upper arm, caught on a clumsy throw. Fortunately, even former Imperial Marines are imperturbable when confronted by wounds and Vomact is able to get the head of the fly out with a minimum of bleeding, albeit with considerable laughter.

After a rewarding afternoon, Vomact insists that they visit Administrative County for educational purposes. Since the New Year’s Eve ball will be a stuffy gathering including a good portion of staid colonials, tonight will be the last chance for Vomact to instruct Hart in proper Imperial etiquette during rest and recreation. He explains that it will be necessary to outfit Hart with a less embarrassing wardrobe. Since the considerable contents of Vomact’s satchel are by now thoroughly devoured, the only demur Hart is able to make is to suggest that they double back for some quicksober first. This timid suggestion is vetoed with the exceptionally lucid argument that if an outfit that’s meant for partying does not look attractive when one is slightly drunk, it cannot possibly be any good for its intended purpose.

With the noble goal of not letting the light schedule of tomorrow interfere with tonight, the two men start out for the shopping district. Vomact is in high-spirits, having knocked back the cold beer with gusto, and being somewhat less used to imbibing more than one drink in a sitting, Hart is visibly intoxicated in a highly enjoyable way. To the occasional observer, the pair might have been any two young Imperials out for a fun night.

[Agemegos]

Breakfast in the the Refectory is tense with suppressed excitement. Graduation Day is so fraught with significance that it is impossible for nonchalance not to be studied: the intense pressure of the course, the sudden complete release, suspense concerning class standing and (more significant, postings) has made even jaded nonagenarians feel as giddy as schoolgirls, and more than half are not afraid to show it. A lot of the graduands go for long work-outs. One party sets out in athletic kit to run the circumference of the habitat to blow off steam. (Of these, half have bought brilliant coloured shorts and running shirts in yesterday's shopping spree, the rest figure that Monday is a Work Day, and are in the navy shorts and grey singlets of their issue P. T. kit.) About twenty graduands lounge in the refectory with the vile confected coffees of their homeworlds, chatting. The freshers of the undergraduate course (who have tomorrow off and who become sophs on Wednesday) pass though in less leisurely fashion: their last day of exams starts at 08:30.

At 09:00 ZULU the scenescape clears from the west wall, and is replaced by the semblance of a row of polished wooden notice-boards with carved surrounds in Ionic order. The achievement of the Independent Commission for Justice is in the pediment (Argent, a figure of Justice proper, blindfolded sable, robed purpure, bearing a sword gules point down in token of Mercy and a scales of Justice or; the shield encircled by a wreath of oak leaves vert and acorns or, surmounted by an Imperial crown), and those with an eye for such things notice that two lions gules have been added as supporters, collared chequey of three argent and azure, crowned and chained or.

On the holographic boards, written in holographic gold paint with black borders, is a list of the student's names in four columns of 25, with their place in class, assigned badge numbers, and postings. Five such boards are spaced along the fifty-metre wall, and the jostling is only moderate.

At the same moment, electronic notifications of individual results arrive in one hundred individual electronic mailboxes.

Among the results we find:

NAME KARAPYETCHENKO PLACE kerning BADGE No. . POSTING

Amini ARAPYETCHENKO 39th. kerning 106039 .... Wakashu, Deputy Marshal

. . .

Drake ARAPYETCHENKO 11th. kerning 106011 .... Rohan, Deputy Marshal

. . .

Goldek RAPYETCHENKO 1st. kerning. 106001 .... Metheglin, Acting Marshal

. . .

Hart KARAPYETCHENKO 16th. kerning 106016 .... Rohan, Acting Marshal

. . .

Karapyetchenko HART 65th. kerning 106065 .... Rohan, Deputy Marshal

. . .

Lakke karapyetchenko100th. kernin 106100 .... Nahal, Deputy Marshal

. . .

Queldrona YETCHENKO 56th. kerning 106056 .... Rohan, Deputy Marshal

. . .

Vomact RAPYETCHENKO 47th. kerning 106047 .... Nahal, Acting Marshal

. . .

Wauchope PYETCHENKO 91st. kerning 106091 .... Dante, Deputy Marshal

[Adina]

Bear rolls out of bed 10 minutes before Reveille and after a meticulous clean up dons his P.T.'s, makes a brief stop in the mess hall and joins the crew running the circumference. He is surprised at the excitement and the nagging worry that he might fail he feels this morning. After his run he changes, touches up his hair, and picks up his datastick and reader figuring this may be a working morning. He arrives in the Refectory by 08:45 where he chats idly with his classmates until 09:00.

When he sees his posting on the reader his first reaction is relief that he made it. Then he moves into action. He starts a query running for the others posted to Rohan then stands up and raises one hand.

Bear In a stentorian voice that booms through the Refectory

ROHAN

The room goes momentarily silent as he continues at a less exuberant volume.

Sorry. Anyone else here posted to Rohan?

The conversations pick up again as other people resume moving towards the boards or checking out their friends results and some others start finding their fellow postees.

Meanwhile Bear waits on his query and if it finds any names he pulls up what info can on them while looking around the room and checking the boards.

[ladyarcana55]

Kiloni's excitement and nervousness is evident as she scans the boards. When she sees her name, she starts to jump and scream with excitement. It is a brief scream, but a scream that belies her joy. She cannot help but stare at her name on the posting.

Originally Posted by jmurrell

]Sorry. Anyone else here posted to Rohan?

The question snaps her out of her revelry and she quickly turns to see who asked.

Kiloni

I am!

She rushes towards the general direction the question came from. She looks around eagerly.

[Icelander]

Hart had enjoyed last night far more than he thought he would. He enjoyed it, in fact, so much that when he and Vomact finally stumbled back on base after a night of dancing, laughing and far too much drinking, he’d quite forgot to take a quicksober.

As a result, Hart did not awaken at his accustomed 0500 ZULU. He found himself jerked awake at reveille, feeling wretched and dehydrated. A layman’s diagnosis was that he might live, but never again be the same man. The urge to linger in bed until he had to show up for breakfast was very strong, but Hart knew that skipping a workout for a good reason would make it easier to skip a future one for a bad reason. So he forced himself to go through his morning routine, albeit accelerated for having started an hour late. He achieved miserable results in his simulated hand-to-hand and his morning workout was abbreviated to push-ups, pull-ups and crunches before a short shower and a race to the breakfast table. Needless to say, he wore a uniform to breakfast, its usual state of slight rumpling suffering somewhat from his lack of coordination on putting it on.

After suffering through a quick meal consisting mostly of hydration drinks, Hart was able to escape to an hour of leisure before the test results. He considered staying and monitoring the screens, but reasoned that this would not influence the standing in any way and would only serve to heighten his anxiety. Or, horror of horrors, serve to make it obvious to all and sundry. He therefore went to his chambers and finished what part of his morning routine had been neglected, the care of his orchids. After a long and careful watering, he set up his workstation and applied himself to polishing the chi-square model of his threat analysis.

When he heard the tell-tale stifled whoops and groans of graduands, he carefully did not react. Once his readscreen flashed to indicate the receipt of a message from ICfJ Academy, he forced himself to finish manually balancing a problematic equation before checking it. Once he’d read it, he paused for a moment. Just a tiny moment. After that moment, he saved his work and looked up Rohan, Pegasus Sector in his database.

Having refreshed his memory sufficiently, Hart put his screen on maximum size display and dragged up a sign saying ‘Rohan’ in big letters. He then spent a minute making sure he had all his issue equipment with him before walking to the Refectory. Once there, he studiously ignored the excited chatter around him and found a clear area of wall. He then used a pair of adhesive buttons to attach his readscreen in a visible location and took up position below it.