Chapter 886: End of Days

Chapter 886: End of Days

Let war fall on the shoulders of men like them. - Unknown, Rigellian Saying

Enlisted. Enlisted never change. - Common officer wisdom

The Conex Yard was busy. Loaders moving, some the big all terrain vehicles, others being moved via oversized loading frames, and still others moved by crane. The Conex Yard was huge, three sets of train tracks moving through it. Huge mass tanks and massive creation engines that dwarfed even main battle tanks. Lights moved around, being with flashlights, or their armor lights, or loading frame lights. Beeping could be heard everywhere as cranes and lifters shifted positions.

At the far end of the Conex Yard, where the oldest conex containers sat, it was busy, but busy in a different way. The stacks of Conexes looked like anywhere else, but many of them were welded together, had doors and windows cut into them, and they were guarded by off-duty MP's who knew which side of the coin their juice flowed from.

Sitting on an old drum marked "POL Mass" was a Telkan Marine PV2 in standard adaptive camouflage uniform, drinking beer and kicking his feet against the side of the drum as he smoked a Treana'ad smoke stick. His ACU top was unbutton, showing he was wearing a brown T-shirt with "BORN TO DIE!" dyed into it with bleach so that the brown was now a bright orange. His boots were scuffed and dull instead of highly polished.

Beside him sat TralMirk, a Puntimat female Jagermek pilot, swilling out of a bottle of "Old Smokey No", a cloudy low end harsh whiskey ran off of a cracked nanoforge and filtered through a Davion class warmek's secondary heat exchanger to get 'just the right taste'. Her top was open, revealing that she wasn't wearing her brown shirt and her brassiere was pulled down around her midriff. A pull of brown cloth showed that her brown shirt was tucked in a thigh pocket.

On the other side was Shek'lan, a Kobold power armor pilot, who was hitting up a narco stick and blowing the bluish smoke into the air. His ACUs were in better condition, his pilot's scarf was tied around his waist, and his boots looked like they'd been shined with a chocolate bar.

The three of them were obviously waiting for someone, all of them covered with joyboy/coingirl dust and chalk as well as shimmering slightly from the stripper shimmerglitter that had rubbed off onto them.

"How long is Big Mike gonna take?" Mirk asked, belching at the end.

"You know Big Mike. Gotta sample all the trim in the Conex," PV2 Bit.nek said, tossing the empty nacrobrew bottle into the tilted 50 gallon drum marked "NO GLASS!" and hearing it shatter on the other bottles. He grabbed another one. "Might as well get our ashes hauled, gonna be a long trip back to Mud Pit," he said, referring to TLK-38732, home of the 7th Army and 12th Fleet. He grimaced, twisting off the top, as his guts rumbled from too much cheap booze and cheaper food.

"Cathy's still running up your Major's credit line," Shek snickered. "He's gonna shit when he sees how much he owes the Conex entertainment."

Bit.nek snicked with Shek. "She'd be shocked to know the Major and I came down here last week to do a trim and edging check on the coingirls and joyboys. Major said he didn't want anyone to get the black syph or some other disease that makes their junk fall off and their brain turn to pus."

"Really?" Mirk said. "The Major. That Major. The Warfather came down here to do cootchie and butthole patrol on the Conexes?" his voice was full of disbelief.

"Brought along a couple of medics probably as twisty as ol' Big Mike to do the check, but yeah," Bit.nek nodded. "He was one of us before he got his lobotomy and put on the brass. I mean, he's married and all, so he don't grab no free samples, but back in the day he wasn't much different than we are."

"How do you know?" Shek asked, scratching the middle of his tail.

"822 told me that 471, you know, Inertia, talks about it when they're having a turkey roast. Said that The Major wasn't a fighting fuck machine, but he was part of the E4 Mafia back in the day. Learned from ol' Tik-Tak hisself," Bit.nek said.

The door to the Conex cracked open and Almret, a Hesstlan tanker, slipped out. He bumped noses with a Hesstlan female, then another, then the door closed. He turned around, holding his arms up.

"BOOYAH!" Almret said. He held out his hand. "Gimme a taste of Ol' Smokey 'No!"

Mirk tossed him the bottle and Almret took a long pull off of it before tossing it back. "Daxin's balls, that shit's only fit for dumbass Jagerheads and fuckin' ground pounders."

"Pfft, says the C-DAT," Almret said, referring to the pseudo-slur of "Computerized Dumb Ass Tanker" usually tossed around.

"See dats my nuts," Almret grinned, sitting down. He dug in his unbuttoned pocket and pulled out a pack of stimsticks, lighting one and stuffing both back into the pocket.

Mirk and Bit.nek both grinned.

"What time's formation?" Almret asked.

"Beats the fuck out of me," Mirk shrugged.

"Maybe they'll leave us here," Shek suggested. "You heard what's waiting for us at the Mud Pit?"

All four troopers groaned.

"Too many dirt balls with Flickering Fionas on them. They're redoing the HUDS and the comp parts," Mirk said. "Between the damaged molycircs and all the other shit we're moving to a different tech."

The door opened and another Hesstlan moved out, taking the time to bump noses and rub whiskers with three different Hesstlan females, leaving streaks of pretty-chalk on the sides of his nose. Egradely, the commander of the tank Almret rode around in turned around and did a quick set of katas, laughing at the end and almost falling down. He staggered up to Bit.nek and held out his hand.

"Gimme some liquid bread, baby," the Staff Sergeant said.

Bit.nek slapped a cold beer in the big Hesstlan's hand. Egad twisted off the top, flicked the cap over the Conexes with a thumb and forefinger, and took a long pull that sucked down half of it. Almret moved over and Egad hopped up to sit on the drum.

"Love them Conex girls," Egad burped.

"And they love you," Mirk started.

"Long as you got the juice," they all finished together, laughing at the end.

"Ugh, formation's gonna suck," Egad grumbled, glancing at his watch and realizing it wasn't there. He pulled it out of his pocket and put it on, then checked the time again. "Lessee, it's zero one, formation at eleven hundred at the loading dock... that's... um... uh..."

"Ten hours," Mirk offered, flicking her ears.

"Yeah, what she said," Shek laughed.

The door opened again and a Hikken staggered out, pulling on her shirt, her ACU top in one hand, wadded up with a bra strap hanging out of the cloth. Her pants were on but unbuttoned and her belt was unclasped, her boots unlaced and a dull black.

"Menhit's screaming orgasm, I needed that tonight," the Hikken, onc PFC Kathreelee AKA Cathy, said. She finishing pulling the shirt over her head and moved up and leaned against the barrel. She held out a hand. "Gimme a money shot of Ol' Smokey 'No," she slurred.

She belched loudly when she finished handing the bottle back.

"Warfather gonna shit when his LES (Leave and Earning Statement) shows him how much pole riding I been doing," Cathy slurred. She grabbed the waist of her trousers with one hand, waved her other hand over her head, and thrust her pelvis back and forth. "Gonna ride them one horned steers like a T-Bug rodeo champ, YEE-HAW!"

"All right, boys, lettum go. Big Mike's a good one," the Lieutenant said. He waved. "Don't do anything we used to do back when I was enlisted scum."

"No prob, sir," Big Mike said. He waved. "Let's go, the NCO Club awaits."

They staggered on for a while, stopping in the parking lot next to a beat up and battered lifter with dented grav-pods.

"Thought we were shit out of luck," Cathy said, bursting out in laughter. "Standing there with a bottle of Smokey, a never-ending six-pack, and enough narco-sticks to get a Matron high."

"Covered in dust, chalk, and glitter," Bit.nek snorted.

"Naw, the LT, he's a good guy. Was E4 Mafia before he went Boot to Brass. He remembers who he was," Big Mike said. He pulled open the door of the lifter as the others climbed in the back.

The grav lifter shuddered and howled as it lifted off and drifted off into the night.

Cathy's laughter echoed off the Conexes.

-----

Captain Tut'el looked up from the dataslate he was studying, rubbing one eye for a moment. The red lines and text gave him a slight headache after a little bit. He looked around, realized that Major Vuxten was asleep in the back seat but the private was nowhere to be found in the vehicle. He checked his chron and saw it was ten-thirty.

Thirty minutes to formation.

He looked around and saw the disheveled private standing only about ten paces away, his uniform rumpled, his boots unshined, his hat crumpled. His back straight and arms at his sides, heels together, looking up and over the other person's head.

Someone else was standing in front of the private, tapping the Private on the chest with one finger.

Sighing, Captain Tut'el got out of the vehicle and walked toward the private and his accoster.

"...uniform is a disgrace, Marine. Your sleeves aren't rolled, and honestly, it looks like you slept in your uniform," the other Telkan was saying.

Captain Tut'el stepped up and saw that the other Telkan was another Captain.

"Problem, Captain?" Tut'el asked.

The Captain looked at Tut'el. "This your Marine?"

Captain Tut'el nodded. "Yes, he is."

"His uniform is a disgrace, he reeks of alcohol, narco-sticks, and worse," the Captain said. He pointed down at the private's boots. "Those boots look like they've never been shined," the Captain pointed at the battered, dented, and scratched up M3A7 heavy mag-ac SMG hanging from a stained strap from the Private's shoulder. "That weapon looks like he found it in a garbage can."

"Did you, private?" Captain Tut'el asked, his voice remote and only slightly curious.

"No, sir," the private said. "It was like this when I found it."

His breath could have stopped a charging Ohm Class Dwellerspawn.

The Captain waved his hand in front of his face, making an expression of disgust.

Captain Tut'el waved at the vehicle. "Go start the vehicle, I already PMCS'd it."

Bit.nek nodded, slouching off.

"I wasn't done with him," the other Captain said.

"Yes. You were," Tut'el said coldly. He stepped up into the other Captain's personal space. "Unless you want to explain to Major Vuxten himself why we're late for PIMM (Preperation for Interstellar Mobilization and Movement) and boarding."

The Captain looked at the vehicle, then back at Tut'el.

"The Private is the Major's personal driver," Captain Tut'el said.

"He could at least make sure his uniform appearance reflects the standards of the Corps," the Captain protested. "Major Vuxten's driver should be held to a higher standard."

"He is," Captain Tut'el said.

"His uniform is a disgrace to the Corps. He should be dressed appropriately," the Captain complained.

"For men like him, he is," Captain Tut'el said. He started to turn around. "You're excused, Captain."

Captain Tut'el walked back to the vehicle, climbing in next to Bit.nek, who had it started up.

As the vehicle pulled out, heading for the loading dock, Tut'el saw the Captain still standing in the parking lot looking outraged.

"Fucking slick sleeves," the Captain swore.

"Here, sir, this'll take the edge off," Bit.nek said. He hit the top of the dash in front of Captain Tut'el and the glove box fell open, revealing a short flask of cloudy looking alcohol. "Let Ol' Smokey 'No handle your problems for a bit."

"Good idea, private," Tut'el said, grabbing the bottle.

He hefted it once he'd twisted it open.

"Mud Pit awaits," Tut'el said.