Denma Province
Dates lapse until 132.738.M41
Verity and Tara had been able to sleep during the flight, but not me or Gwen. We had all started to doze. The engine noise was too great for talking, and the interior of the troop compartment was dark except for a red safety light. But the first little bump of turbulence yanked me up, eyes wide, heart pounding.
For that moment I was in space, not atmosphere, and the jolt was enemy fire ripping through the hull. Sisters would be hanging dead in their restraints, blood splashing, body parts tumbling, air rushing out into the void, and no safety ahead—the opposite, only confusion and fear and sudden desperate violence against the nightmare things the Eldar used in place of war machines…
I forced my mind back to the present. I saw Gwen awake, too, looking across at me. Verity and Tara were a year younger than us. They had still been novices in that part of the war. They hadn't been there. They didn't know. They could sleep. I reached across the cramped space and held Gwen’s hand. We didn't go back to sleep. I was glad when the shuttle descended and flared to a lurching landing.
It was sunset in Denma. We were on a wooded hilltop, and birdsong slowly filled the silence that the Aquila Shuttle’s departing engines left behind. The air was hot and smelled of pine and earth and recent rain. The sun sent rays of gold through the dark green canopy.
We ignored Tara’s protests that she could walk. The soldiers at the observation post knew to expect us, but they didn’t expect what approached them: Gwen and Verity carrying a stretcher, me with one hand in a splint. It took some explaining.
There was an immediate and obvious tension. The problem was so obvious in retrospect that I berated myself for not thinking of it before we arrived. Four young women were invading a post occupied by a dozen young men who had not seen a woman for weeks or months. It could turn into a bad situation quickly, even if no sex actually happened.
I meant to bring it up first thing in my meeting with their Sergeant Gustav, a man about my age. But he blindsided me with something else I should have anticipated.
“What’s your rank, Sister? Do I salute?”
Of course. Obvious. A soldier is his rank, specialization, and qualifications. The reality of personality and relationship is held at bay by the military ideal that a soldier can be lifted neatly from his context, dropped into another, and seamlessly integrated into the whole, like moving a screw from one part of a machine to another.
Here he was, ordered on short notice to integrate with my unit, and I couldn’t even tell him who was in command.
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“No,” I said, buying time. “Don’t salute. I’m not an officer.”
Of course I wasn’t enlisted, either. Or a civilian. But no—I was wrong. I could tell him who was in command, because there was only one way it could possibly work.
“You are in command. Assume I am a sergeant junior to you. Please allow us to decide for ourselves as much as duty permits. But any orders you give will be obeyed.”
He visibly relaxed. “That works for me. Good.” A pause. “Are you a sergeant junior to me?”
I smiled. “Not really. We don’t have ranks the way you do.”
“Pay grades?”
“No pay at all. The Church provides what we need.”
“No pay at all? Tough gig.”
“Maybe, but the food is better.”
He laughed. Maybe it was forced, but it felt good.
We went on discussing the integration. The observation post was under strength by eight men, so there was space for us in the barracks, but that would be a disaster. We would bunk and bathe in a tent along the far wall of the half-recessed and heavily camouflaged building, and only come inside for meals. And he and I would inform our men and women there would be no romance.
What did I want to do about other ranks and the chain of command? I suggested that we pretend all of us were sergeants but none of his men were under our authority.
He wanted to know what we could do. I told him, “Everything.”
He raised his eyebrows at that answer, the corners of his mouth quirking in a little smile. He had a dimple that only showed up on the right side of his face.
“Everything?”
“Everything any infantryman or junior officer should be able to do.”
I could see skepticism in his eyes. I shrugged. “May I ask how old you are, Sergeant Gustav?”
“Twenty-two. And… you can call me Gustav. Since we’re pretending we’re the same rank.”
“Ah—yes. So am I. How long since your first day of training?”
“That would be… I was eighteen… spring… four years and a few months.”
“We started when the Schola Progenium took us in. Sixteen years ago for me. My Sisters are about the same. There was enough time to teach us the basics of everything the Church might want of us.”
“Hm. Well, I don’t have any need for everything yet.” He made that little half-smile again. “I’d like you to take whatever time you need to recover from your injuries, then supplement my patrols if you’re sticking around.”
“That is good.”
Another thing that I had missed. I had only worried about our effect on the men, but I thought about Sergeant Gustav all evening, and even prayer did nothing to distract from it. The shape of his shoulders under his uniform jacket as he leaned forward across the table towards me. The total directness of his gaze. That cursed little half-smile, and his one little cheek dimple. It was the first time in over a year that I’d spent time alone with any man other than a priest. I wondered if he was thinking the same sorts of things about me.