[Eden Prime] Point of Injury

It was said by some that only Lady Luck was the queen of combat-Victory, you don't have shit over her. You could just pop your head up and get a bit of shrapnel between your eyes. You could go for a piss at the exact moment a air strike hit. Or you could make fifteen years and three wars and still come home at the end.

Natalie King had been lucky a long time. Crazy Johnny, who'd never had much beyond swear words for her but had taught her more about her MVC than AIT had, had gotten his bottom half blown off in the middle of Illyria and she hadn't got a scratch, standing only a metre and a half to his right. When the shuttle had gone down on Feros, some of the guys had slipped right out the door and she'd come out with a medal and a promotion.

Yeah, she'd been lucky, walked away from a lot of things she probably shouldn't have. So it made sense, really. For her her luck to run dry in downtown, smoke in her throat and metal against the ballistics weave of her gloves. No available reinforcements, negative on that airstrike, the artillery has been destroyed, sorry but you're on your own, Predator.

It made sense. But she'd woken up, missing a few bits but still breathing. That's her luck again, right? Come home and have a kid, get a couple of medals just for being there and a unit citation she'll never be able to wear, kiss the wife for the first time in months. There. Done. Happy ending.

But Natalie King has been living in London for two years.

And Lady Luck can go fuck herself.

+++

First Lieutenant Bai's office overlooked the base below-stretches of austere military design, women and men fading to blue smudges with distance, the odd vehicle or drone. There was no itch between Nat's shoulder-blades with her back to that window, eyes focused on the laptop in front of her, holographic words scrolling past her face.

The only sound was the tick of the clock beside the picture of the LT's family and the steady sound of Bai's breathing. Nat didn't have to look up to know the other Marine was there. Bai's sidearm rested next to her terminal, nearly touching the back of her hand, the barrel pointed toward the window, the heatsink beside it. Nat let her eyes touch on it every so often, like an anchor. Bai had said that it was uncomfortable to sit with it in the holster and neither of them had mentioned it again.

The Acting CO made a noise of amusement while looking through her emails and King looked up from her inventory report (must request more double-sights, since we're stuck with the Valkyries and their ironsights are utter shit...).

Bai shook her head, observing, “Command must have an extremely high opinion of us, Top. We can apparently 'facilitate close and amiable relationships' with the populace while never leaving the base.”

Nat snorted, “I'll tell the guys to desist throwing the rocks back, ma'am.”

“You're a life-saver,” The LT said dryly.

Things had been uneasily quiet, except for the odd incident and Private Ingrid Andrews continuing woes (note to self: speak with Andrews. It's not easy being both Eden Primean and a Marine). Part of this had been Command's decision to practically lock up the battalion on-base and leave the Constant Police Department to do its thing.

Maybe they ought to do an exercise or something. Give the company something to do-there wasn't much beyond busy work for infantry on garrison duty.

The weird thing was that either the company's personnel had jackshit to do or they were like Bai and herself-scurrying around like ants trying to keep everything moving nicely, taking paperwork home on the weekends and drinking a little too much. It was alright though. Her head was nice and full.

“Chief of police is apparently a little ticked off,” Nat said mildly, opening her emails.

“That’s not our problem,” Bai said matter-of-factly.

“No, I guess it’s not.”

Urban fighting was a special type of hell. An ambush down every street, a sniper in every window. A thousand ways the average neighbourhood could become a deathtrap for her Marines.

It hadn’t been too long into the assault. Whole buildings had toppled, spilling across streets and leaving behind skeletal remnants. The rubble grated when she stepped forward, soot settling on the dull grey-blue of her armour-soon she’s fade into the landscape as well as the goddamned husks did.

They came out of nowhere. Contact nine-o’clock. Swing right, bring up the rifle in her hands, fire. Thump-thump-thump of a three round burst splitting a husk’s chest. The whistle of shot overhead.

“They’re in that window, third story. First, clear ‘em out!” The LT.

Beside Eric Honner, barging in the door. Five husks. Bang-bang. Honner put one down. Her shots ripped through its legs and it toppled to the floor. She switched targets, hit centre of mass and it made a hissing sound as it fell, just as McAulay’s burst stitched his target’s chest. The last one lunged at Sergeant Honner and ran right into his omniblade, tubes tearing, dead blue skin ripping.

The one she’d shot was still trying to crawl toward them so she pointed her rifle at it and blew the back of its head off.

Up through the building, running into clumps of husks the whole way up. They came out of the shadows, making that awful noise. The gunshots were deafening. The sound of Ghaemi’s neck snapping was louder as one of them wrapped its clawed hands around his helmet and twisted with unnatural strength.

Private Saropa shot it five times and then picked up the Typhoon Ghaemi had dropped as he fell.

“You’re with me,” She told him when they were facing that door, orange holo flickering. She’d though generators were down. Had to be running on auxuliary power. She reached for a grenade-

-”You’re with me, King. Get that fucking door open.”

She’d done this a million times before, just this time she was actually putting D8 breaching explosives on someone’s door. Probably the door of that poor woman who was slumped against the wall with a hole between her eyes.

“Done Corporal,” She said when she’d finished connecting the detonator.

Johnny looked at her, and his words were missing the usual level of profanity, “When you set that off, I want a frag through there. Just stick with me, alright Private?”

“Uh, yeah okay. I’m with you, Corporal.”

She reached for a grenade.

The D8 went off and the door fell inwards with a bone-rattling crash. She threw the grenade in after it. The second explosion was in time with the thud of her heart as they rushed in. She remembered HEAT and AIT. Don’t give them time to recover. She heard only the rush of blood.

The corporal and the private came face to face with three of them. Blank helmets, just the four eyes glittering at them, rifles rising. They moved weirdly backward, not even backpeddling right, heads tilted.

What are the two types of people in this world?

The quick and the dead!

What are you?

The quick!

Her rifle was already up. She pulled the trigger.

What are they?

The dead!

The Ghost AR put out 100 rounds a minute. Really, it was overkill. The first burst put about ten rounds into the slaver closest to her. The second climbed higher, some finding the second guy’s neck and face, others patterning the wall behind him. The last guy went down with two of Johnny’s rounds in his stomach.

Her mouth was dry and her hands shook as she lowered her rifle as they stood in someone’s living room, smoke drifting up through the window from the fires lit by the fighting. And she felt nothing but sheer relief she was alive as she looked at the two blinks she’d killed-

-”Natalie?”

Only the thing was, she was standing in a dark room where her daughter slept and the smoke sticking in her throat was from the neighbour’s wood fire.

“Natalie.”

Her heart was rattling her ribs, her fingers curled, looking for a gun. She went to the window and closed it. Kaseka stood in the doorway, “I’m coming.” Her hands were shaking but her voice was steady.

“What’s wrong?” She sounded tired.

“Nothing. Everything’s fine, love.” She walked past her wife and went to lock all the doors and windows.

On the Benjamin Davis she hadn’t had an office so she’d at first just done it in her cabin,
while Sergeant Honner lay on his bunk, staring at holos of his wife and children, who’d been in Munich when the Reapers came. After Romoli had arrived, she’d moved into the mess hall to do her paperwork, joined more often than not by Lieutenant Matthias.

Here though, she spent more time in offices than she cared for. So it was good, to get out for a bit, even if it was just to unpack boxes and catalogue whatever she’d actually wrangled out of logistics.

It was a crisp morning and her back’s ache was about a 3 instead of a 5, so all in all, she was feeling alright.

“What is all this stuff?”

Nat looked up from checking the shiny metallic boxes the logistics guys had put down outside the armoury. There was a steady flow of people not making eye contact. They reminded her of her kids not wanting to do chores.

“Private Andrews,” She said dryly, looking at the young woman, “These are gifts,” She drew that word out sarcastically, because she’d had to bow and scrape to get this stuff, “From the Corps. And you’ve just volunteered to help me put it all away."

She’d been wanting to talk to her for a bit without the formality of an official meeting. Those tended to put Marines on edge. Understandable, she’d always been a bit freaked out as a junior enlisted whenever the First Sergeant singled her out.

“Some gifts,” the private muttered.

Nat shrugged, “You’re welcome to try firing your gun without heatsinks.” She pointed at a box, “Grab that one, would you?” Andrews nodded, picking up the box wordlessly.

She’d always believed you should never ask a Marine to do something you weren’t willing to do yourself, but her trying to carry those boxes would end…

Badly. Yeah.

There weren’t too many boxes, just a few cases of heatsinks to top up the company and bits and pieces she’d wanted, so it didn’t take long for Andrews to carry it all into the company’s section of the armoury.

“Thanks,” She said to her, “We’ll start with that one.” She pointed to the first of the heatsink boxes. All of them were stamped with the Alliance symbol. “Know where they go?”

“Not a clue.”

She pointed, “Just stack the cartons over there on that shelf.” She grabbed a couple and did as she’d said, Andrews following suit. The blonde private was never much of a talker, always giving off an air of smugness, but she knew her job well, and had already started organizing the crates and cartons as they should go.

That was all you could ask, really. They worked in silence for several minutes, finishing with the heatsinks and moving on to some of the Valkyrie optics she’d talked a loggie sergeant she knew out of.

“How’re things, Andrews?” She asked, handing her a box she’d checked. Always had to check them to make sure no one had fucked up and given you SMG sinks or some rubbish instead.

“Fine, Gunny,” she said. It was the type of ‘fine’ that most people used to brush off the question.

Nat had used that same word plenty.

“Mhm,” Nat said, raising an eyebrow, even as she put a box away, “And that’s why I got a report on what happened at the gate, right?”

“It was nothing to be bothered about, Gunny.”

It was, Nat mused, rather like trying to get blood from a stone. It was pretty clear Andrews just didn’t want to talk to about it, and she couldn’t really blame her.

“It’s been a rough few months,” Nat said calmly, gesturing for her to move some of the spare KB generators. The whole thing with Benelli and Tritt had put the whole unit into a tailspin they still hadn’t gotten out of.

“Yes, it has.” Andrews sighed. “Gunny, I’m fine. What happened...it doesn’t bother me.”

“Alright,” Nat conceded, “Grab that one there, please.”

“Okay.”