Across the Atrekna Contested Zone the guns stopped firing.
A terrible silence descended.
We had won.
The guns, and the dead, were silent.- Former Grand Most High Sma'akamo'o, from I Have Ridden the Hasslehoff
The field was immaculately cared for, the groundskeepers tending to every blade of grass, every flower, every bush, every shrub, every tree. Not with nanite systems, but the old fashioned way. With mowers ridden by dedicated employees who wore stark uniforms. By groundskeepers that worked with clippers and cutters.
The field was surrounded by a rock wall that was exactly nine feet tall around the entire field, each stone exactly the same size. Iron spikes, the ends shaped like leaf-bladed spearheads, topped the wall. The wrought iron gates were guarded by uniformed soldiers who moved with precise, almost clockwork, movements and never reacted to gawkers and passerby. Their weapons were loaded, their dress uniforms perfectly. Their movements scheduled and choreographed.
In the middle of the field was a decorative pond, only a meter deep. The bottom glimmered, polished warsteel with inscriptions in bright chrome endosteel. There were no fish or plants in the pond, but many came to look at anyway.
The field was full of white stone slabs, perfectly lined up, dress right dress. Each had different inscriptions, but they were basically the same.
Who it was. Their rank. Birthday and deathday. Religious symbol. Two lines of text chosen by the family or friends.
Some days more people showed up than other days.
All too often there were gatherings around a single headstone as a coffin was lowered down.
The majority of the time the coffin contained only dirt. Sometimes there were fragments of armor or a handful of scorched biological material.
For the dead, decades had passed since they had last set foot on their homeworld.
For the people of the homeworld, only a handful of years had passed.
Those who were left behind knew when those who had left were engaged in the terrible war that wracked the galactic arm spur. The coffins did not come in one at a time.
An entire year, two years, five years, ten years worth the dead would arrive aboard black ships that had grim lines full of solemn purpose.
Sometimes the dead would only number in the dozens.
A few times they numbered in the thousands.
It did not deter the people of the planet. More and more citizens joined the Telkan Marine Corps or the Terran Confederacy of Aligned Systems Military Services.
They had fought for their planet, tooth and nail, matching roar with a scream of defiance.
They knew, those who signed away their lives, that other planets were suffering what they had suffered. They refused to be the one who did not help those peoples as they had needed help.
They adopted a saying. A few words, but powerful.
"Do you need assistance?"
So they signed up. They learned to fight. They boarded the transports. They left.
Some came home in a box, or at least a box full of dirt represented them.
Others came home, their bodies and minds too damaged to continue.
The people of the planet, a small people in the grand scheme of things, accepted that someone had to pay the price and they had volunteered to pay the butcher's bill.
After all, if not them, then who?
Then came the news.
The Atrekna were defeated. The shades were stopped.
People began returning home. Some too damaged for continued military service. Others choosing to no longer reenlist. Still others to teach at the military academies or be part of the military forces in the system.
The dead no longer came home a decade at a time.
Still, people came to the field.
One in particular came to the field. A Telkani, a male Telkan, in a Telkan Marine Corps dress uniform. He moved from gravestone to gravestone, stopping to talk to the Telkan laid to rest for a few minutes before moving on.
The Telkani had a cyberarm, his eyes and ears replaced by cybernetics. The right side of his face replaced by a warsteel implant, the scar tissue around it red and angry despite the years that had gone by. He was wearing Senior Gunnery Sergeant rank on his sleeves and his service hashmarks were thick on both sleeves.
"Where are you going to live?" his mother asked.
"On post housing. I'm too high ranking to live in the barracks so the Corps puts single senior NCO's like me in dedicated housing," Ralvex said.
There was more questions.
Finally, when the broodmommies had taken the littles to bed and his father had gone to tuck everyone in, his mother gave him a direct stare.
"You took rejuvenation?" she asked. It wasn't an accusation, just a question.
Ralvex nodded. "It wasn't an issue, just a standard rejuv. It rolled me back to about nineteen, but on the way in we caught an emergency flare and I ended up doing another year in a month."
"Are they really gone?" his mother asked.
Ralvex nodded. "As far as anyone can tell. I know they're putting up sensor systems now to sweep for any chronotron bursts large enough to sink a stellar system. Plus, it looks like The Flashbang made it so they can't reach back past that, so that puts a serious dent in their ability to wage war."
His mother nodded. "You should get married," she said.
Ralvex smiled. "I know. I'm not in any hurry right now," he leaned forward and took her hand. "Right now isn't a good time, mom."
"Why not?" she asked.
Ralvex closed his eyes for a moment. "This is the first depressurization I've had in almost seventy-five years. Like everyone else fighting the Slorpies, I had it rough. I've been going to Mental Health, just like the Corps demands, but there are symptoms, there are difficulties that won't show up until I start to decompress."
She frowned.
"I made the trip in cryo. Since Shade Night and through the Shade Wars, ever transport I did was in cryo. No chance to process what had happened there. We were running from disaster to disaster," he rubbed the fur on the top of his head. "Everyone needed assistance. We were overstretched. I'd get out of cryo, thaw out, armor up, drop onto the planet, spend a few years helping put down the shades, get back on the ship, get out of armor, go back in cryo. Rinse and repeat."
He paused.
"I've been gone almost seventy-five years, mom. The longest I've had outside of a war zone was six months, and that was at Dust Pit, which was just training and gearing up for the next fight," he said.
"Ralvee," she said, squeezing his hand.
"I haven't actually depressurized in seventy-five years," he said. He lifted up the matte black warsteel hand at the end of the prosthetic arm. "I got this my first drop and have done nothing but fight since."
"Oh," his mother said. She squeezed his flesh and blood hand again. "You know I still love you, right?"
Ralvex smiled and nodded. "I know, momma. I just wanted to let you know why it is that right now I'm not exactly going to log onto Pop Top and look for a mate."
"Because you haven't depressurized?" she said.
Ralvex nodded. "Once I start to depressurize, that's when stuff that was buried, or I've been holding off because I was constantly in danger, will start to surface. If I'm lucky," he made a face, "If I'm very lucky, it'll all be minor, easily treatable stuff."
He looked at his cyberarm.
"If I'm unlucky, it'll rip holes in my psyche that will take years to heal," he said.
"Is there anything I can do to help?" his mom asked.
Ralvex nodded. "Just love me. Be there for me. Just... be you, momma," he leaned forward and hugged her. "Just be you."
His mother held him for a long moment, silently wishing that her son would be all right.
"How long are you back for?" she asked when the hug ended.
"I've got a lot of leave coming. We accrue about a month every year, I've never taken leave, so I have like seventy-five months of leave. Like six years. I have to decide how much I want to take, then cash in or have it applied toward retirement for the rest," he laughed. "I figure I'll take some leave, save two months, cash in a year, then put the rest toward my retirement."
His mother nodded.
"Beyond that, I'm back for a few years," he said. He leaned forward and hugged her again.
"We kept a room for you," his mother said. She yawned. "I'll go up and turn down the bed. It's the third on the left."
"Thank you," Ralvex said. He stood up when she did, hugging her again, then sat down and watched her withdraw from the front room.
He picked up the beer he'd been nursing, staring at it.
And I have miles to go before I sleep, he mused.