Rude turned back to peeling with a sigh, leaving Marq to stand with an open mouth, who turned and quickly shut off the water. Lifting the two full containers, Marq staggered to the door, where he stopped briefly to speak over his shoulder before leaving. “Well, I'm getting a girl.”

Rude dropped his arms. He closed his eyes, searching for Heaven's face. Her mouth was close to his skin; he could almost feel her warm breath. All too quickly, the face was gone, lost in a mist. Rude took a breath, opened his eyes, and continued his job. The pain would never cease. The hole in his heart would never heal. Rude dropped a potato in the container, and Besh lowered his face, speaking softly.

“Somehow,” he said, “I'll find you. You know, I'm missing you really bad.”

Marq returned with empty containers and sat beside Rude to take up his peeler and a potato. He asked, “So, how are we getting to the Povre? I was thinking a Shock. We need a little class after this gig.”

Rude replied, “We don't have the creds. We'll probably take a Viper.”

“Man,” said Marq, “Those things make me queasy.”

It was Rude's turn to transport. He lifted full containers with ease and walked through the busy kitchen. In the walk-in was a large vat partially filled with potatoes and icy water. Rude emptied his load and returned for a refill. He made a second trip and returned to change the water in the sinks. He sat beside Marq and quietly took up his peeler and a potato.

Marq said, “I'm thinking meatloaf for lunch.”

Rude asked, “Do you even know what they put in that?”

Marq exhaled exasperation. “Don't say that,” said Marq. “Man. Well, how about the chicken? Again.”

Rude changed the topic. “You started cleaning your room yet?”

“Yeah,” said Marq. “I gave a lot of my stuff to the guys. Too much to carry. Don't tell me you're already done.”

Rude said between potatoes, “I've got nothing but dust.”

Marq stopped and looked up. He said, “I can imagine your new digs. Just as spartan. We can pool our creds, you know, and get a sweet place with two rooms. My room will have a private entrance, or, at least, a fire escape.”

“Why?” asked Rude.

“For all the babes,” said Marq. “Or, maybe, a revolving door. Yeah.”

Rude said, “I have nothing saved back.” He turned to spear Marq with a knowing glance.

“Yeah, I know,” said Marq, his tone guilty. “I guess we'll need jobs. Well at least, we'll be rid of Dingovan. That man. I don't know. He's like that character in the streams.”

“Which one?” asked Rude, caring not at all.

“Obsequious Maximus,” answered Marq. “Say. Look at us. We're nearly done.”

Marq stood and dumped peeled potatoes into the sinks, tossed burlap bags into the trash cans, and kicked his seat aside. He chased the errant peel with a broom and dustpan.

Rude said, “If we get a place, we can eat at home. We'll have to buy our own groceries. I wonder if they'll let us keep a peeler?”

Marq stopped sweeping and stabbed Rude with accusing eyes. “Man,” he said, holding up his hand for view. “It'll take a year for my fingers to straighten back out. No potatoes.”

Rude stood and dumped the last of the potatoes. He tossed the last burlap bag in the trash and began to move items for a final clean. He reached beneath the sinks to empty the water and lined up his containers when a voice from the door caused him to turn around.

“You fuck-ups think you're through?” asked Sergeant Dingovan. “You may be out tomorrow, but today, you're still mine.” He turned and whistled into the kitchen, stepping fully into the prep room.

Kitchen workers brought sacks of potatoes into the room and dumped them in front of Marq and Rude. Some sacks rode on burly shoulders, some were dragged. Dingovan leaned against the wall, arms folded, and smiled petulantly. Marq gasped in disbelief as sacks were piled high. Rude narrowed his eyes on the Sergeant, and touched the knuckles of his right hand; they itched to bend the Sergeant's nose a little further out of shape. When the workers stopped bringing in bags, there were another twenty-five twenty-two kilogram bags of russets on the floor.

Dingovan stepped forward and placed his hands on his hips. “Forget lunch. I want all these peeled and squared away by supper. Well?” He asked. “You need some time in the brig to think about it?”

“You're a real pain in the ass,” said Rude.

“That's pain in the ass, sir,” said Dingovan. “What? You feeling jumpy?”

Rude took a step forward, as did Leo, They faced one another over a small hill of burlap. Rude asked in a low grating voice, “You need some help with that bent nose?”

“Just try something, jackoff,” said Leo, daring Rude with measured contempt. “No, really. Come over here and say that.”

Rude took another step, pressing his right fist into his left palm, when Marq took him by the elbow and pulled him back. “That's not what Rude meant, Sergeant Derrière. He just wanted to bury the hatchet. To make amends. You know? Perhaps, we can all meet in town tomorrow afternoon for drinks. On us, of course.”

Dingovan squinted hatefully at Marq and said, “Losers don't make it very far in the real world.”

Marq snapped back, “Oh, yeah? Well, at least, we got friends.”

“Ha!” laughed the Sergeant. It was a blunt and derisive noise.

“And straight noses,” added Rude. Lifting two sacks, one in each hand, and tossing them to the side, he said, “So, close the door. We'll talk it out. Just you and me.” He tossed another two sacks with ease. “A two-day coma and a jaw wired shut; nobody hears problems that aren't theirs.”

Seeing Rude toss two more sacks, and take a step between two piles; seeing Dingovan take a step back, Marq gripped his friend's arm to pull him back. “No, Rude,” he pleaded. “I can't do the brig again. We should rethink this whole thing. Can you do another four years? I sure as hell can't.”

“Listen to your boyfriend, Yavle,” reasoned Leo, eyes a bit too wide. “Peel potatoes.” Dingovan's mouth remained open to form another barb, but suddenly, the emergency lights flashed, and a siren wailed.

Command Sergeant Major Ethan Windsor, stocky, five-five, square-jawed, with bushy black brows, stood in the door frame and began barking orders. “You three!” he shouted over the noise of the siren. “Armor up. Troop dispatch in forty-five. Move it. We've got a full-scale Enman incursion in Terras Galles. This ain't no drill, boys.” C.S.M. Windsor turned and sprang away.

There had not been a dust out since the Bloodlands. Chaos reigned as soldiers and officers ran helter-skelter to the underground walkways that connected all buildings on the Thael Drylands Base. Men ran quickly to secure work and residence areas, hoping to make it in time to their assigned supply-armory buildings. G plat was assigned to supply-armory Com-G, Div-nine.

As Rude and Marq ran through a chaotic kitchen, white work uniforms running in all directions, Rude pulled Marq close and shouted over the noise. “The walkways will be too slow. Let's go topside.”

As they turned and made a hurried line toward the topside exit, a chef slammed into them, shouting, “Out of the way, scrubs!”

Rude and Marq ran through the exit into the bright desert sunlight, and turned for the dorms. They ran past imported Joshua trees and Mesquites. Officer housing came next, with their neat rock gardens and cacti. The dorms were unadorned, but frantic soldiers ran in and out, adjusting their field clothing. Taking the stairs instead of the lift, Rude and Marq plowed through a confused traffic of flustered and anxious soldiers, each trying to find a way. The women seemed more direct, bullying and cursing a path through the press.

Rude left Marq, entering his room to quickly dress, and secure the door. A quick knock on Marq's hall door, brought Marq from his room hastily tucking in his shirt. His light brown face was screwed up into a panicked expression as he looked about the hallway to find he and Rude were the last.

“Take a breath,” said Rude. “Lock your door, and tie your boots.”

“Yeah. Right,” Marq replied in a breathless manner, crouching to tighten his boot lacing. He jumped to his feet and took a panicked step only to have Rude calmly pull him back by one arm.

“The door,” said Rude.

“Yeah. Right,” said Marq.

“Calm down,” said Rude, a hand on Marq's shoulder, and eyes locked. “We're good. All we have to do now is run really fast.”

Marq swallowed hard, and said, “I really don't want another fight. I almost bit it the last time. If it hadn't been for you,” Marq inhaled deeply, leaving the sentence unfinished.

Rude gave Marq's shoulder a squeeze. “Just stay close,” said Rude. “I've got your back.”

Rude led the way at a racer's sprint Marq had difficulty matching. They ran across a road that ended in the Calvary Training Grounds, beyond which could be seen the endless white sands. They merged with a river of men and women flowing into the business end of the base. Buildings were basic warehouses of red brick and paneled metal sliding doors. Com-G, Div-nine was a construct of joined warehouses near the dust-off fields. As Marq followed Rude into the press around the open doors, he strained to catch his breath. Rude pulled Marq into a line at the fourth door and gave his back a pat.

“You alright?” asked Rude.

Marq could not answer but held up a pleading hand in response.

Base sirens continued to sound as supply officers barked orders at passing troops. Rude looked ahead and saw the newbies in his infantry platoon. Private Glover was one of a handful that had survived the Bloodlands. Mixed in his line were the men and women of the support troops in F Plat. The fighting men and women of Thael Drylands Base numbered in the tens of thousands. Several hundred crowded through Com-G, Div-nine. Stations were arranged for basic camouflaged cryolite armor, donning areas, and weapons assignment.

G Plat and F Plat were in SupArm A, a narrow line due to minimal armament. The ranged assault specialists of E Plat occupied two full lines in the center of the warehouse, while the heavy weapons specialists of D Plat occupied a full three lines at the far end. A sandy wind blew through the warehouse from the landing tarmac beyond Com-G, Div-nine. Rude could see past the raised doors as gray transports flew in from hangars at the other end of the desert. The rumbling noise all but overpowered the shouted commands of the supply officers. The increased air pressure from the transport engines was ear-popping. At the farthest end of the tarmac sat the massive Tranks receiving heavy tanks into their side bays.

The lines moved forward in fits and starts. Progress seemed eternally stalled. Rude turned to look at Marq. Having caught his breath, he nodded his improved condition, but his face was still openly fearful. Rude turned and filled in behind Private Kessler of F Plat, a young woman of dark skin and short tight curls. She stepped into her cryolite overshoes and stamped her feet to lock them in place. As she moved forward, the supply officer called for Rude.

“Hurry up,” snapped the elder with a crew cut and eye cap.

Rude jammed his boots into the overshoes and stomped, taking a step forward. Two junior supply officers, crouching, fastened on his greaves and knee rotaries. “Next!” they called. Again, Rude took a step, and two junior officers attached the GAP and upper leg shielding. Attaching the ENV lines took a moment, whereupon, Rude got a slap on his leg, and stepped forward. Next came the chest, shoulders, arms, and hands. With each of those came the top-down attachments of the ENV lines to keep his body from overheating beneath the armor.

“Sit!” commanded an older and partially armored supply officer. Rude sat and glanced into the seasoned eyes of a lifetime Consortium veteran. “Chin up!” snapped the officer, and Rude lifted his chin.

The helmet came in layers, beginning with the collar and ENV rotatory. Next, came the chin guard, breathing filters, and mic. Over that was fitted the internal helmet, comm, navigation, and tracking enhancements. The ocular relays were snapped in, and the over-helm was placed overall. The final attachments were the retractable face shield and the personal ID tracker on the chest. A slap to his back signaled Rude that his fitting was complete. He stood and stepped into the donning area.

Rude gave the internal command, “Top back,” and his face shield and oculars slid back.

He milled with suited soldiers as arming specialists checked IDs and issued weapons. Turning, Rude spotted Marq approaching with his top back, and stretching to get a feel for the armor. His eyes seemed relaxed and alert; Rude gave an encouraging smile. The ranks thinned as soldiers filed past arming. Rude and Marq received the standard Sandman over their right gloves, an arm blade attached to their left forearms, and a 3CC-MGS charge pack attached to the back, giving them three charges for personal protection shields.