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[Not A Real RAbbi]

"NEXT CADET!"

It is said that one could set even an atomic clock by the regularity of that phrase. The War College of Goshen was not known as the most by-the-book, nor the most rigorous, of the Federated Suns military academies. Nor was it near as prestigious as many of the others. But among the few things that virtually every officer throughout the Inner Sphere knew about it, was that call.

Major Benedict Karlsson, long-time adjutant of the corps of cadets, was once timed on Assignment Day, lasting over eight hours straight with a variation of less than one tenth of a second in that call. He was, officially, the last officer at WCG who would ever call a cadet by that term. Once one walked out the other door to his office, he was either a Lieutenant or a washout, without exception.

He was also known as the most stern individual one would ever encounter at WCG. He wasn't mean, per se, but simply stern. Some cadets recognized this and respected it. Some mocked him, if only in hushed tones at a night club far away from the campus, on a weekend liberty.

Herbie admired Major Karlsson.

"NEXT CADET!"

Arlen entered the office sharply, and the door whooshed closed behind him. The line of cadets advanced, one at a time, like a human slinky, each occupying the vacant space ahead of him in turn. Three days ago, they marched four-abreast across a parade field, in front of friends and family, passing in review before the Commandant for the final time as cadets. Every last one held his head high with pride, that his family would see him symbolically transition from a boy to an officer.

Except for Herbie.

Herbie's real name wasn't Herbie. HE didn't know his real middle name, just the initial--an 'H'. A one-in-a-million computer error at the orphanage where he was raised had left him with no middle name, and had even lost the catalogued DNA and medical history data left with him there. He was, at the age of three years, a virtually clean slate of a human being, and one of only a handful of such people on all of New Avalon.

"NEXT CADET!"

Whoosh!

Step. Step. Step. Et cetera.

Unable to talk to one another in this hallway, as it was the main artery of WCG's administrative life blood, the cadets were each left to their own recollections and imaginations in the PRECISELY ten minutes between calls from the Adjutant's office. Some dreamt of the glory awaiting them in the Armed Forces of the Federated Suns. Some simply looked forward to their first visit to a home-planet bar with those fresh Lieutenant insignia on their shoulders.

Herbie recalled the path that brought him here.

Unlike all but one classmate (who died in a live-fire training mishap), Herbie had already served some time in the AFFS. He was an enlisted infantryman, serving in a motorized light missile platoon attached to the 10th Deneb Light Cavalry (Cheetahs). And it was to those hard years that his mind wandered, when for the first time in a few years he had no further exams to prepare for.

And they were hard times, indeed, for an infantryman in the Fourth Succession War. Herbie could not count the number of fellow infantrymen, just in his platoon, who had died in front of him. But their deaths weren't all he could remember.

For instance, SGT Thomas never stopped telling crazy stories about arguments with his first wife. If he had lived eighty more years, he'd still have had three new tales every day, and every last one was at once believable and insane. If not for that every infantryman had met his share of THAT woman, Thomas might never have been believed. But there was never an infantryman in the last thousand years who hadn't met a crazy stripper or two. And Thomas's delivery was on par with the best stand-up comedians in modern human civilization. He was burned alive inside an apartment building by a mishandled Inferno round.

Or there was Lieutenant Rickles, who claimed to be descended from a long line of comedians, but had a lesser funny bone than did the average brick. HE was perhaps the nicest infantry platoon leader ever born, and simply TOO nice for the job, but he was simply incapable of being funny. His niceness got him killed, when trying to help administer first aid to a civilian who was, unknown to him until it was too late, carrying a particularly deadly homemade bomb under her dress. He lost both legs, an arm, the other hand just above the wrist, and most of his face, but technically lived another 25 minutes, if you could call that life.

"NEXT CADET!"

Whoosh. Step. And so on.

Finally, no other cadet stood between Herbie and the door.

HE spent the next ten minutes merely preparing himself mentally to interact with, for perhaps the last time ever, his Adjutant.

"In twenty minutes", he thought, "I'll be LIEUTENANT Julius H. Adams."

...

[Not A Real RAbbi]

"How many times have I polished this floor?", Adams wondered silently. The past five years of cadet experience raced through his mind. The Thompson brothers talking about their agricultural childhood in the periphery. That time that the rest of the company broke and beat Gilead within an inch of his life, for that he refused to help clean anything--his privileged upbringing all but forbade it, until it cost him several broken bones and six weeks of drinking his meals through a straw.

"NEXT CADET!"

One step forward.

Left, face.

Forward through the door, six paces to the adjutant's desk.

Halt. Right, face.

Whoosh.

"At ease, Adams. Take a seat."

Without a word, Adams took a half-step back and seated himself. The idiocy of sitting at the position of attention, or any position other than 'seated', struck him again as it always had. He could barely suppress a grin at the thought.

"Today, you are no longer Cadet Adams. You are now, officially, Lieutenant Adams. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir!"

"You, along with your fellow cadets, swore your oath two days ago. You are still, and will remain until death or official order of the AFFS relieves you of it, bound to that oath. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Very well. I see that you have requested an assignment to your former unit, the 10th Deneb Light Cavalry. Is that correct?"

"Yes, sir!"

"LIEUTENANT, I regret to inform you that your requested assignment is simply not available to you at this time."

A pause. Adams had prepared himself mentally for that possibility. The Cheetahs were as close a thing to family as he cold remember, and wherever they were always felt like home.

"I can see that you are disappointed, and I understand. Nonetheless, the Federated Suns have need of your talents elsewhere. I shall explain."

Adams had never even heard rumor or a cadet getting an explanation for his assignment out of the WCG. He was caught unprepared, for perhaps the first time yet in this place. And by one of the cadre officers he most admired, no less. His curiosity outweighed his disappointment, and some scrap of that curiosity was evident in his posture as he leaned forward slightly in the chair.

"Your performance in your most recent live-fire evaluations indicates absolute mastery of weapons systems of all ranges, as well as that of formation and positioning of battlemech lances and companies. You have demonstrated a keen ability to work within a formation. Whereas no area of evaluation has found you less than fully capable, though, the overall consensus among your instructors has been that you are best suited to assault-class battlemechs. The Tenth simply has no need of an assault pilot at this time, and quite honestly, has few mechs of that class anyhow. Do you understand this, Lieutenant?"

"Yes, sir."

The sudden relative lack of enthusiasm served as a clear enough final protest of the decision, but Adams was already resigned to it.

"Very well then. You do not yet have an active assignment."

"Sir?"

"I spoke clearly. Did you not understand?"

"I understood, sir. But-"

"No 'buts', Lieutenant", the Major interrupted. "You WILL have an assignment tomorrow night. In the meantime, should your fellow graduates ask, you may tell them that you are tentatively assigned to the Fairfax DMM's battlemech regiment. That is all that you are authorized to disclose of your pending assignment. Do you understand?"

Intrigue. But more yet, curiosity. "Yes, sir!" There's that old Herbie enthusiasm!

"As you may be aware, Lieutenant, it is customary for each cadre officer at this institute to invite a graduating Lieutenant to his home for dinner after graduation. It is not every year that I choose to participate in this tradition, but I have elected to do so this year. And this year, I invite you to a dinner in your honor, as a newly commissioned officer in the AFFS, at my home. Do you accept this invitation?"

"Of course, sir! I am honor-"

"Very well, then, Lieutenant. Further discussion of your pending assignment will take place at that time. Tomorrow evening. I expect you at 1900. A message with directions has already been sent to your account. You are dismissed, with the congratulations of the WCG and the Federated Suns."

Adams stood and saluted.

Left, face. Six paces forward, through the open door. Right, face. And, for the first time ever on this campus, at ease.

Only, Adams could not possibly be at ease. What could this 'pending' assignment mean? Why would it be discussed over dinner at the Adjutant's home, and not in the formal setting of his office?

Just ahead, through the floor-to-ceiling glass, Adams could see some of his fellow Lieutenants in the small administrative complex courtyard, happily discussing their new assignments, and dreaming together of what wonders await them in the service of the AFFS.

He could not disclose anything more. Fairfax DMM. Boring assignment. Likelihood of seeing any real combat, or even commanding a competent lance again? Virtually none.

Adams prepared himself to play the poor-orphan card. "Not enough Davion blood in my veins for a real assignment, I guess." Good enough.

The disappointed Lieutenant stepped through the door into the courtyard.

...

Edited by Sister RAbbi, 08 May 2016 - 10:47 AM.

[Stingray Productions]

Very good!

[Not A Real RAbbi]

Stingray1234, on 15 May 2016 - 08:11 AM, said:

Very good!

Thank you! Sorry, but I get these long breaks waiting for some little clue as to what to do next. Kinda lost my way on another story I was doing. But, thanks to Crackle I've been watching the old US-version Robotech TV series, and the whole Rick-Lisa-Minmei thing got me all motivated again. I DO intend to move on with this story. After all, it's not good to stand-up the Adjutant for dinner...

[habu86]

Rabbi's back! Woot! No get back to writing and crank out some more! XD

[Not A Real RAbbi]

"Ah, Lieutenant, you're early!" Misses Karlsson was every second as early to the Major's door as was Herbie, only considerably more pleasant. And she was lovely; it was as though she were expecting a big night out with the Major, and she had spent every moment of the day preparing. Just the same, she seemed downright thrilled to see this Lieutenant at her door. "Do come in!"

"Thank you, ma'am!"

"And so polite, too! Please, you may call me Dierdre."

Herbie took her suddenly outstretched hand, as was only appropriate and polite. But immediately he wondered where he had heard the name, Dierdre Karlsson, in the years before Goshen. It struck him oddly, and his mind would not let it go without a fight.

"Of course, ma'am." He allowed himself to be led into the Major's impressive home, almost as if being guided on a tour. It was impressive in its size and relative comfort. Dierdre was probably saying something to him--he could almost hear whatever it was she was saying, and he felt badly that he was unable to give it the due attention--but his mind was fixed on the comfort of the home and the discomfort of that name. Dierdre Karlsson...

"Welcome, Lieutenant!" The Major awaited his guest in a study near the back of the home, with a fine view of Terran Poplar trees planted along a road leading straight out into a small vineyard behind the home. The vineyard itself wasn't clearly visible through the trees and the dimming evening light, but everyone knew it was there. "How do you like our little home?"

"Oh, it's a fine home sir. Misses Karlsson was just showing me some of th-"

"Please, Lieutenant, I beg you, call me Dierdre. Would you?"

"Of course, ma'am. I mean, Dierdre." That question. There could be no coincidence. It had to be the same person. But where and why had he heard of her?

"Now, dear, how is dinner coming?" The Major, as if sensing the need to distract the Lieutenant, quickly changed the subject away from his wife's name.

"I'll go check on it right away. Enjoy the brandy, gentlemen!"

Dierdre was out of the room in a flash, though not without a health dose of grace and a smile that belonged on a woman half her age. The Major motioned to a seat in front of his desk, and Lieutenant Adams wasted no time settling in.

"Cigar, Lieutenant?"

"No, thank you, sir." Then, after a brief pause, "I don't smoke."

"I didn't ask if you smoke, Lieutenant. Cigars are not for smoking. They are for the enjoyment of gentlemen. Please." The Major extended a cigar toward him, and Adams accepted without showing a trace of his discomfort with the idea. In fact, Julius H. Adams was averse to smoke for as long as he could remember, and had once nearly gotten himself thrown in jail for starting a fight over a man refusing to put out his cigar on a packed train. "That's better."

After several seconds lighting the cigar, rather clumsily, the new Lieutenant began. "So, sir, I hear there's some Brandy around here."

"Oh, right to it then, eh? That will be just as well." Karlsson motioned to the small table next to Adams's seat, where a glass had already been poured. "I suppose you are simply dying to know what this assignment is, then?"

"I wouldn't say that I'm dying, but it has been on my mind sir."

"Oh, for Heaven's... WHILE you are a guest in my home, you should feel free to disregard the military propriety of calling me 'sir', and simply refer to me by my given name, Benedict. Even 'Ben' will do. Is that alright with you?"

Feeling that he had already risked offending his host, Adams agreed. "I understand. Ben."

"See, isn't that better?"

"I must admit, it's a little strange to be referring to you by name."

"Anyhow, Julius--or is it 'Herbie'?--on to this assignment, that we may be done with it and enjoy our dinner. First, I want you to know that you do have the option to decline this assignment. If you do so, the assignment to the Draconis March attache will stand, and you will be assigned to pilot a Battlemaster BLR-1G. Do you understand that?"

"Yes, I do." He was careful to avoid saying 'sir', and it did not go without notice.

"Excellent. If that is an assignment you would like to pursue, and you are certain of it, then we have nothing else to discuss. You may stop me here, and we will speak no more of assignments. Whatever else I have to say, it is quite confidential. Do you wish to continue?"

"Yes, I'd like to hear about this other opportunity." 'Opportunity', he said. He had not meant to use that word specifically, but Karlsson's eyes lit up, and so Adams just rolled with it.

"Quite an appropriate choice of words. In fact, I believe you will find this to be quite a satisfying opportunity indeed." Karlsson took a slow sip of his brandy before continuing. "I was perfectly honest in telling you that your choice assignment, the Tenth Deneb Light Cavalry, has no room for an assault mech pilot. And I was further quite honest in telling you that you are very well suited for piloting assault class battlemechs. But that is not to say that I was completely forthcoming."

Adams placed the cigar in the ashtray (which he had not noticed, but had been there next to his glass all along), and leaned forward slightly in his chair.

"You see, Lieutenant, you have also been singled out among your peers as being quite well suited to armored reconnaissance. And the Cheetahs do have room for a medium reconnaissance battlemech pilot."

"I see, so why all the hush-hush?" The brandy had already started working its magic, and Adams was becoming comfortable in Karlsson's presence. Uncomfortably so.

"That was more for my own convenience, and as well due to the nature of a pending mission for that unit. The former, because there were many sons of prominent politicians among your classmates, and quite a few fancied themselves cavalrymen. I'd never hear the end of it if I assigned an orphan ahead of so-and-so's son. I'm sure you understand."

"I do. But what about this pending mission?"

As though on cue, Dierdre stepped in and announced, "Dinner is ready, gentlemen! Won't you come join us?"

"Ah, Lieutenant", Karlsson began with a knowing grin, "that is a matter for after dinner."

[Not A Real RAbbi]

"I haven't had a roast like that ... well, EVER", Adams said, as the two men sat looking out over the land behind Karlsson's home from his patio. "Meals in the orphanage weren't exactly lavish. Infantrymen don't often have the luxury of well prepared meals, of course, and well, the last four years have been better than that, but not by this much."

Karlsson grinned in satisfaction, both with the compliment and his own enjoyment of the evening's meal.

"So, you said we have something else to discuss after dinner."

"Yes, Lieutenant, I most certainly did. And you are correct, that time is now growing short."

Adams struggled to maintain his silence, and allow Karlsson to continue at his own pace.

"Do you know your Fourth Succession War history well, Lieutenant?"

"Yes, sir, I like to think that I do."

"Good. Then you know a thing or two about territory lost to the Draconis Combine in that war, don't you? In particular, the planet of Marduk?"

"I do. I might even know a thing or two about recent intelligence estimates of the garrison there."

"And that, I know, because I've paid close attention to your academic progress. The Cheetahs and your attention to DCMS intelligence estimates..." Karlsson drifted off for a moment, and Adams nearly choked on the suspense. "Well, I am not fully at liberty to discuss these matters in detail. You understand, of course."

"Of course." Adams was both intrigued and disappointed. He struggled to let the latter go, and had little trouble reoccupying that part of his mind with the question of 'Dierdre'. "In generality, though..."

"Oh yes, Lieutenant. Of course. In general, it is of great importance to the Federated Commonwealth to be have more flexibility and redundancy in its battlemech manufacturing capabilities. And Marduk was just such a planet, which once belonged to the Federated Suns and had significant manufacturing capabilities. And now it lies within the Draconis Combine. You see the problem, don't you?"

"I do indeed."

"Very well. Then here is all the more you will need to know for now."

Adams leaned in almost eagerly.

"In thirty-five minutes, a VTOL will arrive right out there on the lawn to pick you up."

"Sir?!"

Without missing a step, "You will be transported to the War College's drop site, where your belongings are already packed and waiting. You will travel by Leopard class dropship from there to orbital transfer, and be on your way to meet up with your unit on New Avalon aboard an Aegis class warship returning to the Spinward fleet from a nearby exercise."

"I ... Tonight, sir?"

"Yes, tonight Lieutenant. I might ask if that is a problem for you, but it does not matter. And I am confident that it is not a problem, besides."

"No, of course. Not a problem at all."

"Very well. Then let us finish our cigars and brandy, while you tell me how you liked dessert."

After some time discussing the cake, the absence of chocolate from most church-run orphanages, and childhood under the watchful eyes of the Church, Adams's ride arrived. Dierdre came out to help see him off, and insisted that he take an extra slice of the chocolate cake he had so enjoyed. And just like that, the Karlssons' vineyard and home faded from his mind as they did from view.

Julius H. Adams had more questions now than answers. Who commands the Cheetahs now? What sort of mech will I be driving? But mostly, he wondered...

"Dierdre Karlsson?"

[Tamagoci]

Really good read, got me wanting for more.

[Not A Real RAbbi]

"Welcome back, Doc!", Adams greeted his roommate. Since boarding the ship several weeks before, Adams had been bunked with the ship's junior doctor, Lieutenant Michael 'Doc' Dougherty.

"Yeah, another boring watch."

"You know, most doctors are alright with 'boring'. Some corollary to the 'Do No Harm' thing, is 'Wish No Harm'."

"Oh, c'mon. Just a little bit? All I saw today were more sniffles and headaches, and one more case of gonorrhea. Not even a bad one."

"What, there's good gonorrhea?"

"Spoken like a man who's been there and done that, eh Lieutenant?"

"I can neither confirm nor deny what might have happened once upon a time on St. Ives."

Both men had a short chuckle at that. They had not exactly grown close over the course of this cruise to New Avalon, but they got on well enough.

Further, Adams was essentially unemployed with pay for the duration, and Doc was the second least employed officer aboard behind that. Either man had free time aplenty, and little to do with it. Initially they had both agreed that some old fashioned Chess might help the cruise along, but after 21 games Adams led by 20, and so it was clear that simple Chess would not do.

It was a dry ship, so drinking away the cruise would be out of the question as well. Everyone knew one of three someones aboard who could get his hands on alcohol, but the price was steep--doubly so if one were caught--and the quality lacked rather seriously.

Next was their personal game of adopt-a-Marine. Each man would take aside one of the ship's Marines, and suggest a quick money-making opportunity. They would then arrange a hand-to-hand combat techniques 'demonstration' on the waste deck between the two, who they may have coached for a day or a week, and reap the benefit of the many bets placed on the fight. And since Doc was one of a few medical officers responsible for treating injuries aboard ship anyhow, the matches were arranged for immediately before his watch in the sick bay. In case one of the Marines would up significantly injured, the cause was always due to accident or athletic overexertion, and the injured Marine always enjoyed a few days of restricted duty for his trouble. But that, too, grew boring.

And in the end, Adams gave in to one of man's oldest vices, and took to regular trips to the waste deck with Doc for a tobacco cigarette and alcohol-free beer, in the one place where one could get away with smoking aboard a warship. This long into the cruise, it was not unusual at all to see the two men entering the waste deck, and so no one ever thought anything of it. Besides, a solid eleven percent of the ship's complement (disproportionately many from its enlisted crew) were habitual tobacco users, and it was well know as the one place where one may be able to do so without drawing too much attention. It was even rumored that the ship's Captain was well aware of this, but tolerated it in the belief that the crew needed to get away with something lest they be driven to far worse habits in secret.

So, Adams and Doc entered the waste deck, as usual, shortly after 0400, each with a few cigarettes and a beer.

"She's gettin' full again", Adams observed of the deck, before lighting his cigarette. He passed off the electric lighter to his companion.

"Yeah. Recyclers aren't working right."

"I thought they just got replaced in that refit the XO's always bragging about?"

"Yeah. Government contracts, right?"

"Heh. Seems so." He accepted the lighter back from Doc.

The two men took seats atop one of the empty waste bins to the back right corner of the deck. Despite its shortcomings at present, the waste deck and recycling/reclamation operations system (RRO) were fairly impressive. Every gram of waste on the ship passed through the system, from discarded candy wrappers to feces. Even the air was handled in the system, with a complex filter/scrubber system pulling carbon dioxide and methane out of the air, processing it all through a biochemical exchange pool, and returning oxygen and nitrogen to the ventilation system. The remaining carbon, what wasn't consumed by he microorganisms in the biochemical process, was removed from the pool as graphite powder and stored here as well. Any solid waste was squeezed for every drop of treatable water, rendered fire-inert, and encased in a virtually 100% recyclable foam within the waste bins, for simple transfer off-ship at jump point stations.

Adams pondered his cigarette for a long moment before breaking the silence. "Do you know that tobacco was once outlawed?"

"I did not. Care to share?"

"Planned on it. See, long ago on Terra, it was a wild plant. Early humans cultivated it as a crop, once they figured out that you could smoke dried tobacco leaves."

"Ever wonder who the Hell figured that out? I mean, what was that guy up to?"

"No idea. Anyhow, old Terran tobacco tended to greatly increase the risk of lung cancer for people. Not like this stuff we have today; it wasn't the engineered stuff back then."

"Oh. I might've heard something about that in med school."

"Likely. So, by the time humans started exploring space, tobacco use in all its forms was illegal in most industrialized nations of Terra, as a public health hazard. Since there wasn't much use for tobacco other than as a recreational thing anyway, the mere possession or growing of it was outlawed. And so, most tobacco production went underground, so to speak."

"As opposed to growing plants in subterranean hydroponic caverns?"

"Right. AT some point in the early days of colonization, though, tobacco plants started to trickle out onto other worlds. After all, the men and women who worked those colonies into the worlds we know today, were not all health nuts. Most were basically blue-collar workers, only just healthy enough for space travel. And a lot of the colonization work was long, hard, tough stuff. So eventually small tobacco gardens started sprouting up out in colonial space, and it started becoming a health problem again."

"Naturlich."

"I don't speak German."

"You should."

"I should bang Melissa Steiner, too, but it's not in the cards."

"Have you asked?"

"She doesn't do smokers, apparently."

"Neither do I."

"Noted. May I continue?"

"Only if you stop smoking. But not just yet. Deal?"

"Deal. Tomorrow. So anyway, here come some cool botanical geneticists taking an interest in the problem of tobacco's resurgence as a public health crisis. They isolated some of the more dangerous chemicals in tobacco, specifically in tobacco smoke, and developed a two-pronged approach to dealing with it. First, they altered some of the genetic aspects of the plant to reduce or eliminate the harmful chemicals in it. And then, they discovered a natural chemical on another planet that, when mixed in small quantities into dried tobacco, helped suppress the remaining bad chemicals. And eventually, enforcement of tobacco bans fell off to almost nothing."

"Where'd they find that chemical?"

"Ever heard of the Crimson Strait on Homestead?

"Oh God, not that plant junk!"

"Yep, the very same. You are essentially smoking the botanical equivalent of-"

"I get it! No need to spell it out."

"Thought you'd get a kick outta that."

The two men enjoyed a bit of a chuckle at Doc's discomfort. Silence took over, with the exception of the occasional bang-rattle-hum of more waste processing equipment attempting and failing to do its job properly. That was only interrupted by an announcement of the pending jump.

"All hands, be advised that jump operation will commence in one hour, at zero-five-thirty hours. I say again, jump operation will commence at zero-five-thirty hours. All hands are to secure for jump operations immediately. Arrival at New Avalon for departing personnel will be eight days. Secure for jump operations immediately. Out."

"Well, Doc, this is just about it."

"Yeah, I suppose we should go secure ourselves."

"I dunno, I feel pretty secure right here." Adams finished his beer and set the bottle down in the open waste bin next to them.

"Yeah. Sure is gonna be different being planetside in New Avalon, eh?"

Adams thought back briefly to his time at the orphanage. He hadn't seen this planet since he was seventeen years old, and not a day older. That was a decade ago. It felt like a whole lifetime. He wondered if the same sisters still ran the place, or if it was even there. Just as he had wondered for the last several weeks.

"Well, let's go Doc."

[Not A Real RAbbi]

Avalon City spread out before Adams. Even here, at the spaceport a couple dozen kilometers from the city's center, he could already see the tops of the major landmark buildings downtown. What's more, not only could he see his home town in the distance, but he could smell it too.

Ten years later, almost to the day, he felt oddly at home in a place that, for the first seventeen years of his life had never felt like home at all.

"Oh, Lieutenant?" A vaguely attractive young woman gently waved a hand before him to get his attention.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Sir, officers of the AFFS may use the expedited line there, to your left."

"Why, thank you ma'am."

"You're welcome sir, and welcome to Avalon City!"

He was already two paces past her before she finished. Five years ago, he'd have stayed and talked her up for a date. Ten years ago, he'd have offered to show her the best five minutes of his life in the nearest closet or EMPLOYEES ONLY room. But today, his mind was too occupied with other things.

"Sir? Right this way, please, sir." An older man this time, perhaps fifty years or so. "I'll be happy to assist you with claiming your belongings and passing through customs."

"That'd be nice of you."

"It's my pleasure, sir. Right this way..." The man, Marcus according to his name tag, let Adams past even the expedited line to a separate desk, which he alone apparently manned. "Would you please wave your identification, sir?", as he gestured to the passenger interface at the front of the desk.

Marcus worked for a few minutes at the usual interstellar customs declarations, and Adams resumed his musings.

He thought back to sending that message to Sister Magdalena. Why had he bothered? He did not want to go see the orphanage again, nor the sisters working there, but had felt compelled nonetheless to arrange to do exactly that. And he could not explain to himself why, no matter how he examined the matter.

"All done, sir. If you will follow me, I'll take you to your ground transport."

"Marcus, shouldn't we go ahead and grab my overnight bag at least?"

"Ah, yes, your belongings are all already transferred. The personal effects crate is being transferred to Wilder Barracks via cargo truck. Your clothing and other effects are on their way to your car as we speak, and will be loaded and ready by the time we arrive. I've just seen to all of it."

"Very well, Marcus. And to where have you arranged my car?"

"The car was arranged for you by a Sister Magdalena, of the Saint Theresa mission in Avalon City. It says here that the mission is your destination. Is that correct, sir?"

"Huh. Well, it would seem that it is."

"If there is another destination you would prefer, sir, I can alter your arrangements immediately."

"No, Marcus, the mission will be fine. I suppose I owe her at least that much."

"Very well, sir, right this way please."

Marcus led Adams across three of the spaceport's terminals, to the executive ground transportation departure area, where he handed Adams a sealed paper envelope and bid a safe voyage. Adams hardly noticed the envelope until he was in the car, door closed behind him, and accelerating smoothly away form the spaceport.

HE glanced briefly at the letter, and immediately recognized the seal. It was old Terran traditional wax-stamp, and it was unmistakably the family seal of the Karlssons. But how could such a letter arrive ahead of him, if Adams had been on the hottest ship smoking toward New Avalon? Was it sent aboard with him? Had someone on New Avalon been contacted to prepare this letter for him and have it waiting on his arrival? And what about the first-class treatment, for simply a junior officer in the AFFS? It did not quite add up.

But Julius H. Adams had to take his day one problem at a time. And the most immediate problem was about eight minutes ahead of him.

*******

"Hasn't changed a bit", Adams commented to aloud to himself as he stepped out of the car. A pleasant spring breeze carried all the odors of his youth; mostly, the smell of fresh bread baking in almost ancient tradition at several bakeries upwind along the street to the north, and a weak odor of cigar smoke from nextdoor. "Even Mister Paul's stinking cigars..."

"Sir, should I bring your bag inside for you?"

"No, thank you. I'll carry that myself." Adams flicked up a small sum on his ID and held it out, and the driver accepted the transaction without appearing eager beyond professionalism. "Thanks for the ride."

"It was my pleasure, sir."

With that, the driver returned to the car and set off, leaving Adams alone outside the Saint Theresa mission with his bag and his memories.

"Julius? Is that you, my boy?"

"Sister Magdalena."

"Well come inside", she urged from the top step of the mission's entry. "It should be raining any minute now."

"Yes, ma'am." Adams shouldered his bag and started up the steps.

Most of his classmates at the WCG would arrive "back home" to hugs, kisses, handshakes, and whatever other customary and personal greetings were exchanged between people who loved, or at least genuinely cared about, one another. And while Adams was sure in an academic sense that Sister Magdalena cared for him, it was in no way that warranted any more personal greeting than calling by only his first name.

That alone served as quite the acknowledgement of his independence and adulthood, being called by his given name. He had imagined such a day for fourteen years of his life, and having never realized it, had put this place and Sister Magdalena in his past. But he had always fancied that one day he would finally receive that respect and acknowledgement from her, and that his satisfaction in that moment would actually be joy bordering on elation.

It was not.

"I almost feel guilty, Sister."

"Oh, Julius, why would you say such a thing? No, wait, don't answer that. Just come inside."

"Thank you."

"We have a room cleaned up for you", she continued while leading the way to the kitchen, past classrooms full of sullen children and stern nuns. "Even if you don't intend to stay for a day or two, you can at least leave your bag in there while you visit. And you can feel free to freshen-up in there if you like. But first, I would greatly appreciate your company for tea."

"That sounds delightful, ma'am." He was happier about the idea than he sounded, and also happier than he had imagined he would be. The idea struck him as downright pleasant. "I will have to check in at Wilder Barracks some time before Monday morning next week, but we can talk about that after tea I suppose."

"Well then, just have a seat here and I will bring the tea out." Sister Magdalena gestured to small dinner table at the side of the kitchen, a bit away from the big dining tables where the nuns and children always ate, reserved for the few volunteers who used to come here to help with meals for the poor orphan children of the Federated Suns' capitol city. Adams had barely set down his bag and seated himself, before she returned with the tea.

"So that's what the dining hall looks like from here, is it?"

"Yes. Sugar, Julius?"

"No thank you, ma'am."

Sister Magdalena seated herself across from him, so that she could see him clearly in the light from the kitchen ceiling coming through the side door. "Now, I thought I remembered you taking sugar in your tea."

"It was one of the few ways we ever got to taste something sweet, ma'am." He sipped the hot tea. Nothing had changed. It was the same old brand, the same uniquely flavorful yet somehow affordable tea that they had always served here. The same that he had been drinking with as much sugar as the sisters would allow, for as long as he could remember, and somehow it was even better without the sugar.

"Yes. I know that the life of an orphan is difficult, Julius. You needn't remind me that our means to care for you were, and still are, quite limited."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-"

"No, Julius, it is quite alright. I have often regretted that we have never been able to do more to care for the children here. If not for the charity of the citizens of this city, we may well have closed the doors before you ever came to us."

"I wasn't aware that it was so dire." He honestly had never considered it.

"Well, it is the work we're here to do. It is as He would have us do. And somehow, He has always brought providence for the children here."

Adams was silent. In part, he wanted to simply allow Sister Magdalena to continue. But also, in part, he was boiling inside at the mention of 'He', the Almighty, the One True God, and so on. And the old rage of an abandoned child, unwanted, unloved by the world, left to the care of women who simply could not be properly maternal in his opinion, it all returned to him, and it was all that Julius H. Adams could do to bite his tongue.

"Yes, Julius, I know that you don't care for this talk of divine providence. But it is, and I am convinced of this, what gave you a place to sleep, food to eat, an education, and a chance at life off of the streets. And I will not apologize for invoking His name as the provider. But let's change the subject, shall we?"

"Yes, please, ma'am." Adams's anger was subsiding, but it was still plenty apparent to Magdalena.

"So, there has been some excitement among the children here."

"Oh?"

"Well, of course. I've let them know that you would be coming here to visit. After all, an officer of the AFFS, himself an orphan and a former student here? That's quite exciting for the children. They're very curious about where you've been and what wonders you've experienced."

"Wonders..."

"Yes, Julius, wonders. All of the unique life you've seen on other planets. Great machines. The stars, as seen from elsewhere among them. So many other cultures, languages, experienced firsthand. The wonders that you have experienced."

A great pressure was building within Adams, threatening to burst out in some yet-unclear way at any moment. "Sister, did I ever mention to you what I've been doing in the military?"

"No, Julius, you haven't. And I haven't asked. Should I have?"

"No, ma'am. You shouldn't." The volume and tone of his voice fell noticeably. "Because I would have told you."

"Told me what, Julius? That you were a soldier?"

"That I'm a killer. That I should be dead myself. That I've shot a man dead, burned another alive inside a forty-ton machine, snapped a man's neck clean with my bare hands more than once. That I was no pushbutton warrior, but a cold-blooded killer when the time came. That I did it as well as I could."

Magdalena was not surprised to hear this--she was well aware of what war was, and what men do to one another in the name of their nations--but she was saddened to hear it from Julius, and in that sad and solemn tone.

"And one more thing, ma'am, about all that killing. And it was a lot. I never got it out of my head, hard as I tried, just how angry I was at everything. At Avalon. At the Church. At the parents who abandoned me here. At you."

"I understand, Julius."

The dam burst. And for the next fifteen minutes or more, Julius H. Adams sobbed over his tea, once again in the company of a woman he once thought he hated, and who was the closet he had ever had to a mother.

And for the first time he could ever remember, even though he did not realize it until days later, she treated him exactly as he felt a mother should.

Edited by Sister RAbbi, 16 June 2016 - 09:01 PM.

[Tamagoci]

Great stuff.

[Virlutris]

Well done, Sister

Edit to note: RAbbi has had several names. When this comment was posted, he was going by "Sister RAbbi," and I was complementing him accordingly. I'm not commenting on the character in the story, well-written though she may have been. What's next? "Greasemonkey RAbbi?" "Air Assault RAbbi?" "Attack Helicopter RAbbi?" (Yes, I'm recalling his prior work experience)

Edited by Virlutris, 21 October 2016 - 09:00 AM.

[Romperland]

Moooorrreeeee!!!!!!

[Not A Real RAbbi]

Virlutris, on 17 June 2016 - 06:02 AM, said:

Well done, Sister

Edit to note: RAbbi has had several names. When this comment was posted, he was going by "Sister RAbbi," and I was complementing him accordingly. I'm not commenting on the character in the story, well-written though she may have been. What's next? "Greasemonkey RAbbi?" "Air Assault RAbbi?" "Attack Helicopter RAbbi?" (Yes, I'm recalling his prior work experience)

I love that you remember these things! <3

MIGHT yet resurrect this. Interest in MWO is suddenly waxing again for me. Got hung up on mech selection for ... well, you'll see.

[Virlutris]

Not A Real RAbbi, on 23 January 2017 - 05:38 PM, said:

I love that you remember these things! &lt;3

MIGHT yet resurrect this. Interest in MWO is suddenly waxing again for me. Got hung up on mech selection for ... well, you'll see.

Teaser RAbbi confirmed!

Also: neat!

[Not A Real RAbbi]

Virlutris, on 24 January 2017 - 12:48 PM, said:

Teaser RAbbi confirmed!

Also: neat!

Well, it's really about a 3030-ish appropriate Davion mech, or really a handful, just to get through the next few/several chapters. And then a more Davion-appropriate regiment's composition. Did a good
bit of reading up on Sarna about variants appropriate to certain roles historically common to Davion. I got the core idea of it down, and then other things came up.

But we're not even CLOSE to done with the mission and Sister Magdalena. Hell, we're just gettin' started...

[Virlutris]

Not A Real RAbbi, on 24 January 2017 - 01:19 PM, said:

Well, it's really about a 3030-ish appropriate Davion mech, or really a handful, just to get through the next few/several chapters. And then a more Davion-appropriate regiment's composition. Did a good
bit of reading up on Sarna about variants appropriate to certain roles historically common to Davion. I got the core idea of it down, and then other things came up.

But we're not even CLOSE to done with the mission and Sister Magdalena. Hell, we're just gettin' started...

I like the "sound" of this

[Not A Real RAbbi]

"All right, sir. All done here."

"Thanks, Corporal. Now what?" came Adams' reply.

"Uh, let's see..." The Corporal ran down the checklist on his terminal. "Looks like Major Weston wants to see you."

"Major Weston? Huh. That wouldn't be Charlie Weston, would it?"

"Not sure, sir. Someone you know, maybe?"

"Well, there was a Lieutenant Charlie Weston here before. He commanded a tank platoon."

"Yes, sir. I think that's him then. His office is just down the hall, first one past the men's latrine."

"Thanks." Adams pocketed his ID and stepped out into the hallway. "So Weston's on the ups, is he?" he chuckled to himself. It had been just over six years. Adams had relived that week of pure Hell more than a few times since, and Weston's tank crew were the part that was not all horrible. A good lieutenant, in a very bad situation.

Adams knocked on the door.

"Come in, Lieutenant!"

"Sir." Adams' salute was quickly waved off.

"Julius H. F***ing Adams, you marvelous young grunt you! How are you?!"

Adams relaxed and saw himself to a chair. "Pretty well, all things considered. How about you, sir?"

"Oh come on now. You're an officer. I'm an officer. In here, it's Charlie. And, uh, Julius. Do you go by something else?"

"Well, I don't go by Corporal any more, though I suppose I could make you an exception for old times' sake."

"Jules. Got it. Care for a drink?"

"Second day on the job, not quite lunch time... Is THIS what officers do?" Adams quipped.

"Special occasion. The Operations Officer gets a little leeway, when there are no real operations to speak of at the moment."

"Fair enough, as long as the new A Company recon lance commander can say 'when.'"

"You're welcome for that, by the way."

"I have you to thank?" Adams was genuinely surprised, though he was also immediately somewhat embarrassed that he had never considered it. He had made friends, of a sort, most everywhere within the 10th. Good soldier, good guy. He had pulled more than a few not-yet-corpses out of Cheetahs' tanks, transports, battlemechs, and once even a crashed fighter.

"Oh, a little bit of me, a little bit of someone else who thinks highly of you. No idea who that would be, so please don't ask." Weston pushed a glass of whiskey across the desk.

"As long as someone gives a hoot, I suppose. Cheers!" Adams raised the glass, took a drink, and relaxed into the surprisingly comfortable chair. He took a moment to study the office. A career's worth of awards, farewell gifts, unit photos, and even a few texts on armored warfare, adorned the walls.

"Have you seen your mech yet?" asked Weston.

"No. Not even sure what rustbucket they're gonna plop me into."

"Oh, yeah. It's sweet. Didn't come cheap, either, but with ... well, with the operation hanging out there that we're tagged for, we managed to steal some pretty swell gear. Tankers are still gettin' screwed, of course."

"Of course, that never changes." agreed Adams.

"Screw it. Let's go have a look at her."

Before Adams could protest, Weston was already past him and halfway to the door. Adams took the opportunity to finish his glass of whiskey--opting to drink now and taste later, as the saying goes--and was abreast of the Major by the time he got to the door.

"I've got a driver and a truck waiting. Told him you'd buy his lunch; Lieutenant's privilege and all."

"Naturally." agreed Adams, who was more excited than he had expected about meeting his new mech. "I know a great bakery in the old town."

"That the one next to where you grew up?"

The comment struck Adams as odd. They had never, that he could recall, discussed their upbringings. They never had that sort of time. Two thirds of all the talking they had ever done before, they had done under fire from a Liao militia. The other third was mostly in after-action review.

"Yes sir, that's the one. Might I ask how you know about that?"

"Last part of your security clearance investigation, I got called in. You know, having some past interactions with you in uniform. Anyhow, the interviewer, by wild cosmic coincidence, used to work in our intel section here. We got to chatting. She mentioned having looked into your old neighborhood, the mission, and all that. Nothing mysterious, if that's what you're after."

"Huh. Anderson?"

"Yup. Staff Sergeant Anderson moved on. Had enough. Does background investigation interviews now. Also, she says 'hi.'"

"Neat."

"So here we are", Weston indicated the truck. It was a non-tactical vehicle, only on loan to the 10th as long as they were still occupying space at Wilder Barracks. New, though. And fairly nice on both the inside and outside. The two officers settled into the truck, as the Private at the wheel was already starting it up. "Let's get to the A Company mech hangar, son. Today, too. Your lunch is getting cold."

"Yes sir!"

The ride took only a few minutes; the vehicle maintenance facilities were adjacent to the headquarters and living quarters, but the mech hangars were on the back side of the airfield more than a kilometer away. The aerospace assets for the 10th were actually kept primarily in orbit, but they still operated into and out of the Wilder Barracks airfield; it simply was not a sufficient airfield to maintain dropships and fighters for any real length of time.

The two officers dismounted the truck a few meters from the walk-in gate to the mech hangars.

"Stay here with the truck, son. We won't be long." Weston didn't bother to watch or listen to the young Private for his acknowledgement of the order, but had already turned to Adams. "If you don't love this, then you're dead to me."

"If it's one of those stinking Ravens, I'll never speak to you again, sir." Adams joked.

Weston's smile grew wider.

The two men were greeted at the door to A Company's temporary mech hangar by another soldier, this time a member of the 10th. Another ID check, and the two men were waved into the hangar.

The facility was impressive, even if it was one of the older mech hangars still in use on New Avalon. The twelve mech bays were not all filled yet, but the second lance's bays were all occupied at least. That was Adams' lance. Those were his mechs. He was nearly overwhelmed with both wonder and pride, all at once. "My mechs", he muttered.

"Yup. YOUR mechs, Lieutenant. Big one's all you."

Adams took it all in. He was like a child on Christmas morning, but one who had overlooked the really big gift right in front of the tree for the wonder of all the smaller ones. He started at the far end, identifying in his mind each mech's targeting identifier, its weapons, its movement capabilities, and everything else he had memorized about hundreds of different battlemechs over the last few years.

"Last one's a Firestarter. Hotel, at that. Four flamers, two medium-class lasers, and some machineguns. Infantry's worst enemy ever. Hauls *** at about 97 kilometers an hour."

"Right. There's a story to that one. Anyhow, next?"

"Javelin. Fire Javelin, actually. Ten foxtrot. No missiles, just medium lasers. Speed's about the same as the Firestarter. Jumper, too. Good mobility."

"Next..."

"Wasp. Delta model, Federated Suns special. Drops the missiles for a couple small-class lasers and a flamer. Same speed, give or take, as the others."

"You're three-for-four, Lieutenant."

"FOUR?"

"Yeah. FULL recon lance. That's you right there", Weston said as he pointed to Adams' new mech. Both men stood in awe of it for a moment. "She's a special. Not a whole lot of 'em made. Mean *****, too. Extended range large laser, extended range particle cannon. Couple machineguns for your old infantry pals. Keeps the old medium lasers. Every bit as fast as the lights, and can jump with the best of 'em. Just refitted here on New Avalon, snatched up by the Cav before someone less deserving could get his hands on it. Yours to not scratch the paint on."

Adams gazed, speechless. The words simply would not come to him for several seconds. He knew exactly what he was looking at, and had a pretty solid idea how and why it was more expensive than many front-line heavy mechs. "Phoenix Hawk one-bee. Special. All of the above, plus Guardian countermeasures suite. Costs about half a planet."

"I'll let you name her some other time. For now, you owe the Private some lunch."

"I might need to hit the latrine on the way out, change my shorts."

"Like I said, just don't scratch the paint."

Edited by Not A Real RAbbi, 29 January 2017 - 10:36 PM.