Chapter 4 - Orion

Caught between past and the ever changing present, one soldier must decide if he's ready to accept the actions that will usher him into a dark future.

 

Chapter 4 - Orion

 

He would only be lying to himself to deny that his methods weren’t motivated by unfiltered rage. That rage both justified and fueled the fear instilled in his recruits. The Recruits, who were only indirectly responsible for their Sergeant’s fury, nevertheless felt its full force. It was the responsible ventilation for his emotion. To let such unbridled anger be directed at the responsible parties was asking for a court marshal. Orion would hold to his faith that true vengeance came at the hands of the Vox.

Above his own hopes and dreams, Orion craved vengeance. There was no greater insult than what fell upon the line of Azaroth. Seven generations of officers, generals, and admirals commanding the Royal Fleet of Brighton[1] undone in the name of peace[2]. It was all a cruel joke. Orion remembered what he had learned as a boy, from the mouth of his father and the eyes of his forefathers. From flesh-covered battlegrounds, to blood soaked seas and ash filled skies; man was not civil. They’re committees could rename their military to whatever they wished, but his recruits would be prepared for war.

Orion knew that his obligation to the administration had been reduced to that of a community lifeguard. He didn’t owe any of them the courtesy of producing real soldiers. All they wanted were men and women who could be used as decorations. They wanted manikins in pristine uniforms as window dressing for their new regime. Rebranding is what they called it: semantics over substance. They were the pencil pushers that claimed that the illusion of safety would be enough to ensure security. So it went that Orion Travis Azaroth’s dreams of following in his father’s footsteps were dashed. No, not dashed. They had excavated the road his forefathers had paved with blood and honor.

What position was Orion to demand justice for this dishonor? Apparently none. They had thanked him for his family's service. They promised him to be the face of a new era: a soft era. He would be the figurehead of a vulnerable generation and figurehead to blame once things all fell to s**t. The politician’s peace was nothing more than a band-aid over a mortar wound. Racial tensions, economic depression, and long memories were gangrenous to any hope of healing a broken world. Orion was no field surgeon, but he knew the encroaching specter of death. He felt it in his soul. A Civil Defense Force would not be enough for an uncivilized world.

 

So it was that Orion’s recruits climbed over obstacles, dove under barbed wire, and vaulted over fences. Ropes. Tires. Trees. Orion demanded greater strength, speed, and dexterity from each and every recruit. Every breath had to last. Every shot had to count. He wouldn’t let their brand dictate the quality of his recruits. His platoon would outperform, outlast, and outclass all the rest. It went beyond duty for Vox and country, his namesake on the line.

Sergeant Azaroth’s Mustang Troop[3] would save the whole damned country if came down to it. That was the weight he hefted upon his two squads of twenty-four boys and twenty-four girls. His stolen legacy would be their yolk to bear as they plowed through the morning obstacle course under the blistering sun.

Orion naturally bore the heaviest burden: leadership. He was the target of his platoon’s grief and agony. If his recruit’s arrows of grief and cries of anguish wished to reach their target however, they’d always have to aim at a target perpetually ahead of the group. For Orion didn’t command from behind or watch from the sidelines: like his Troops’ namesake, the young sergeant was always ahead of the company. He ran through every drill, every training exercise: Orion set the pace.

On the opposite side of the leadership spectrum, his counterpart, Sergeant Briggs was mostly bark with a controlled bite. She was an adequate instructor, but her heart wasn’t in it. She was the new blood. At the end of the day, Briggs could take off the uniform and be someone else: a mother, a wife, someone who had a job to do.

Orion had no second skin. At the end of the day, there was nothing else to hang up or persona to stuff in a coat closet to be worn during business hours. There was but one flesh, and it was that of soldier.

 

As the sun reached its peak above the diamond rings above Prism, Forty-Eight recruits ran across the finish line and collapsed upon the grass. They gasped at the thin air to fill their lungs. Orion looked down at his troops. He wasn’t merciless. He knew exactly how much rest a body needed before it could continue. That was the whole point. It was his duty to mold these children to run on a razor wire longer, faster, and harder than their adversaries.

With his recruits already hugging the ground, Orion blew an extended note on his Boson Whistle, “Fifty push-ups. Count ‘em out.” He dropped to the ground and held his body up; ready, waiting, staring down his recruits to fall in.

Sergeant Briggs, observing from the sidelines, stepped up beside Orion, “Starting positions, now, or we double that count, ladies!”

Their groans were shy of music to Orion’s ears. He knew they’d cease when they saw him waiting. They saw someone endure the same Hel[4] and ready for more. There was no excuse. His strength was theirs. As the recruits raised and lowered themselves just above the grass, rose and fell, he heard their breath return. Their heart rates reset. At the last count, a different group of muscles had become distracted by exhaustion. Their untempered bodies were again ready for the five miles back to their barracks.

Springing to his feet, Orion growled out, “Mustang Troop, fall in rank.” A single line of men instantly formed beside a single line of women. Turning on his heels, Orion commanded, “Mark Time.” He heard the boots of his recruits rhythmically pound the browning grass. Orion let them step in place until he was confident that their bodies could be pushed back to their limits upon the razor’s edge. Matching his commands to the rhythm of their footfalls, Orion ordered, “Mustang Troop, back to the racks, double time.”

Briggs mounted their field horse, “You heard the Sergeant, let’s move it! First of you to fall behind will receive a swift kick to the genitals off the cliff and into the Orange Ocean by our company stallion, understood?”

All the recruits shouted in unison, “Yes, Drill Sergeant!”

It didn’t go unnoticed that a particular recruit screamed her response with a smile. Orion could hear the smile. Seven girls back from the front: recruit Muirson. She was an adequate recruit for another civilian wearing a soldier costume. It wasn’t her fault. A recruit like Muirson, straight out of KS-5[5] would have been born after the world pretended they’d rid themselves of war. Soldiering was just another job available after completion of Sixth Form Education. It was an adventure, not an identity.

Orion dealt with this mockery the only way he knew how; “Company, Halt!” Immediately, the troop came to a dead stop. The Sergeant took measured steps from the lead of his Troop along the side of the woman’s line. Seven soldiers back, he stood beside Muirson staring a hole into her temple. “Company, about face.” As one, the recruits turned to face Orion. Muirson was nearly nose-to-nose with Orion. She focused on his forehead as they were trained to. In a low and steady tone, Orion asked, “Are you enjoying yourself, recruit?”

Dawn didn’t hesitate, replying at full volume, “Yes, Drill Sergeant!”

Orion continued, lowering his voice nearly to a whisper, “Are these drills fun for you, recruit Muirson?”

Caught off guard, Dawn’s voice cracked midway through her answered, “This recruit is enjoying their training, Drill Sergeant!”

Sergeant Briggs, still mounted on the Troop’s Horse, barked back; “The Sergeant already asked if you were enjoying yourself, recruit. Since Sergeant Azaroth does not repeat himself, I’ll ask you one last time; are you having FUN, recruit?”

Orion half turned his head to make eye contact with Briggs. His glare was enough to emphasize who was in charge of this particular interrogation. Turning back to the recruit, Orion waited for a reply with all the patience of a pressure cooker.

Dawn took a breath, responding without the assuredness she had before, “This recruit finds their training fun, Drill Sergeant, Sir.”

Orion nodded and took four heavy steps back from the line. He kept laser like focus on Dawn. Raising his voice to a roar, the Sergeant asked, “Mustang Troop, what is your purpose?”

A resounding cry came from the Troop, “We serve in defense of our nation's citizens, our Core, and Core Mates. We serve with honor and integrity. Ready to lead, ready to follow, never yielding. We take responsibility for our own actions, and the actions of our Core Mates. We excel as defenders of the peace through discipline and innovation. We train for war--”[6]

Orion held his fist up, “Stop! Repeat the last refrain.”

The company began again, “We train for war--”

Again, the soldiers in training were silenced by Orion, “Stop.” He gazed over the recruits. All of them were waiting for the hammer to fall: except Dawn. There was still a smile being held back at the edges of her lips. It was a smile Orion would not tolerate. He took deliberate, weighted steps forward: one for each word, “We. Train. For. War.” Once again able to taste the exhausted breath of his recruit, Orion asked Dawn, “Does war sound like fun to you, recruit?”

Dawn swallowed hard before she squeaked out, “No sir, Drill Sergeant.”

---

            With a forceful knock on the doorframe, Orion stood at attention outside the lead administrator’s office, “Sir, Sergeant Azaroth reporting and requesting permission to enter.”

            From within the office a marshmallow voice responded, “Oh yes, do come in, Orion.”

            Stepping through the frame, Orion quickly scanned the room; everything had been repainted and rearranged since his father once occupied the space. Gone were the shadow boxes of past medals and shelves of vinyl records. Gone were the gentle melodies that emanated from a decades long jazz collection. This space was just an office now. Seated at the head of a polished mahogany desk was a civilian coordinator.

            Administrator Browning paused long enough from typing his reports to properly address the soldier standing across from him; “Please, be seated.”

            Orion took the chair across from Browning. Long ago he had sat in that chair watching his father work. Clearing his throat, Orion pushed the memory of his father aside to address a man who had also pushed aside the memory of the Azaroth legacy; “What can I do for you, Administrator Browning?”

            With a polite laugh, the administrator replied, “Please, Kristopher is fine.”

            Orion nodded, studying the clean-shaven face and smooth hands of the Administrator. He watched as the man shuffled papers. He watched as he smiled; a ploy to establish an unearned familiarity. It was the worst type of smile.

            Kristopher leaned in, “We need to talk about the values we’re teaching our cadets.” Leaning back, the administrator tried to read Orion’s expression. His lack of understanding immediately lead towards more talking, “You do understand the values the Brighton CivDef has, correct, Orion?”

            As rhetorical questions go, asking if Orion understood the values first penned by his ancestors radiated an infantile amount of ignorance at best. It was easy to assess this question as the first in a maze of leading questions Orion didn’t posses the patience to solve. In a steady tone, Orion cut to the core, “Is my ability to train my recruits in question, Administrator?”

            More smiles and an apologetic tone: more lies. Kristopher waved his hands dismissing the comments, “Oh no, nothing of the sort. You must understand, our values at CivDef"“

            Orion raised his hand, “Sir, with all do respect; I’d like to know what the problem is and your suggested course of action.” Finally, the Administrator’s smile dropped. An irritated look replaced his jovial façade. Orion was pleased to see the truth of a man, but didn’t let it show.

            Kristopher spoke plainly, “Sergeant Briggs has brought to my attention your recent actions. You’re commanding your recruits to recite the Templar’s Creed.”

            A moment passed with Orion half expecting the Administrator to complete his accusation. Silence. No further comments were made. Orion filled in the gaps with only a hint of irritation behind his voice, “Am I being reprimanded for teaching basic military history?”

            Matching Orion’s veiled vexation, Kristopher leaned forward, “You’re being reprimanded for not separating past from present. If we reinforce the idea that our organization is a military outfit, we risk stoking violent tendencies among our ranks. That, Orion, is unacceptable in the eyes of this administration.”

            Orion rose to his feet, “Training recruits on the presumption that war has been abolished is to invite violence among our selves,” Lowering his voice, the Sergeant continued, “We may be at a time of peace, but the truth is, administrator, humanity is violent. It is our reasonability to be at the ready with the sharpest swords at our disposal when violence descends upon our nation again.” The administration remained slack jawed. Without any rebuttal, Orion made his leave.

            Before opening the door to what was once his father’s office, Kristopher spoke up in exasperation, “Orion, you are officially notified as under review for administrative discharge under the grounds of misconduct and insubordination.”[7]

            Orion sighed. His conscious accepted men of weakness and cowardice had long destroyed the road built by the legacy of Azaroth. This was not the Royal Military of his father, and fathers before him. This was no longer his place, and Orion was done with it; “Then I’ll see you in court, administrator. Until then, you may refer to me as Sergeant Azaroth.” Snapping to attention, the sergeant gave salute, turned his back on the marshmallow man in the chair, and stormed out of the mockery that had became of his world.

 

---

[1] Established in 1546, Brighton’s Royal Navy was credited as the most powerful fleet of sea vessels at the time, and first to circumnavigate Prism without docking at a foreign port before returning home. This advancement in steam technology allowed for the nation of Brighton to retain military supremacy for nearly two millennia.

[2] See Articles of Prismatic Alignment.

[3] Mustang Troop, part the 107^th Calvary Unit under the former Brighton Royal Marines, was the equivalent of Army Rangers of Earth’s United States. Formed to combat the guerilla tactics of the revolutionaries upon the isle of Chroma, the 107^th adaptability and marksmanship lead to a decisive victory in the first revolutionary war of 1776. Reformed under the Brighton Civil Defense Force, the 107^th had transitioned into the CivDef Honor Guard.

[4] Mentioned in the text of The Polaroid, Hel is depicted as a place of eternal separation from the Vox. Different translations depict Hel varying from a place of perpetual damnation to that of a void of complete silence.

[5] KS-5 or Sixth Form Education is part of the final season of state mandated education for those under eighteen years of age. Those who pass their Sixth Form exams are qualified to volunteer for Brighton’s armed services.

[6] Established in 1604 CE, The Templar’s of Brighton were the first Special Forces unit created in the Brighton Royal Military. The Templar’s developed sea to land stealth infiltration tactics as a direct result of the Battle of Obsidian Isle between Brighton and the Degas. The unit’s efficiency and success eventually lead to its expansion as standard training, and the formation of what is considered the modern BRM. Specific tactical teams (ie the 107^th Calvary) would later be introduced for specified military detail. The Templar’s Creed was adopted as the official oath of the Brighton Marines as of 1703 CE.

[7] Both during and after the formation of the Brighton CivDef Force, it was exceptionally common for officers previously associated with the BRM to be dismissed by military tribunal on the grounds of insubordination and often misconduct. Ninety-nine percent of the cases resulted in an Administrative Discharge: neither counting as an honorable, or dishonorable discharge. Thus, former BRM officers’ records and memorials for their service would be eligible to remain in public and private spaces across the nation of Brighton.

Author's Note

For recommended Musical Accompaniment, copy and paste the link below.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JZMGXUk23CY "Terran Theme from Star Craft"