Part II: Insurgency
1. Ice Box
Camp Tiber
Occupied Illyria, fmr. Illyrian Palatinate
May 3011Cerys drew in a lungful of biting, frigid air the moment the hatch clanged open. It slithered across her exposed cheeks and stole the breath from her lips, so alien and raw compared to the dry heat she'd grown used to on Addhara. She blinked as her eyes watered in the cold, forcing herself to hold her composure.
Behind her, the ramp of the Mule-class dropship lowered with a teeth-rattling groan. The deck beneath her boots vibrated as a hollow clang resonated up the metal plates. Far down below, the sun reflected off wide, rolling tundra dotted with low vegetation and pockets of forest. This was Illyria, its sun pale in the sky, the horizon washed out with muted colors that seemed drained of life. A breath of wind lashed across the open bay, swirling up the smell of engine oil, industrial lubricants, and the tang of burnt atmosphere from reentry. Somewhere deeper in the hold, the thrumming engines of the Mule settled into idle.
It was far colder than the scorching landscapes of Addhara. A wave of gooseflesh rippled up her arms, her thin Legion tunic offering almost no protection. Her breath emerged as a faint fog, swirling away in the midmorning Illyrian sun.
She glanced around, blinking the dryness of space travel from her eyes. Camp Tiber sprawled across a natural plateau, its perimeter ringed by hastily-erected walls of pre-fab concrete, barbed wire, and watch towers. Nearby, squat gray barracks sprouted like mushrooms after a rainfall. On the far side of the encampment, tall prefab hangars and motor pools bristled with activity. Trucks rumbled across wide gravel lanes, loaded down with crates and gear. A flight of low-slung atmospheric craft soared overhead, rattling the air with a dull roar.
Felix - Pork Chops - stood at her side, puffing out little clouds of vapor with each breath. His broad shoulders and heavily muscled arms tested the seams of his uniform. He gave a noticeable shiver. "Gods, that's cold," he muttered. "Might as well not wear a tunic at all. This does nothing." He hefted his kit bag on one shoulder, the broad strap digging into his well-worn uniform, then folded his arms, stepping gingerly onto the ramp as if expecting it to give way beneath him.
"Understatement of the year," Cerys muttered, crossing her arms for warmth. She tried to appear nonchalant, ignoring the swirl of her own breath in the frigid morning. Her mind echoed with a half-amused, half-wary thought: We're wearing sandals and breezy tunics. We might actually freeze if the nights are worse.
A line of recruits —no, legionaries now, she corrected herself – waited behind them, gear piled high on their backs. As Contubernalis, she and Felix were meant to lead them out, keep their unity. Cerys swallowed against the dryness in her throat.
"Quartex, on me," she shouted over the hiss of hydraulics. Around them, the bustle of deckhands and departing cohorts was barely controlled chaos. Other ramps lowered from the Mule's side, letting vehicles and more soldiers exit in a roar of engines and shouted orders. "Eyes forward, watch your step," she added. "There's bound to be ice."
Granny followed a short distance behind, scanning for hazards. A practical woman, Elara still carried the stocky build of a miner. Her wide shoulders gave her a steadiness to match the ground beneath her feet. Each step she took landed with methodical weight, as if she were gauging whether the deck was real stone or metal.
Cerys caught Felix's eye and gave a curt nod. Together, they descended the ramp onto the tarmac. Cold hammered at every exposed piece of skin; she stifled a gasp. The planet's thin sunlight didn't do a thing to warm them. Waves of shouts and engine noise assaulted her ears. The Legion's boots hammered the landing area in a steady drumbeat.
Camp Tiber. Their new home. For how long, no one had told them. It was a place as gray and harsh as the wind around them.
"Lovely," Pork Chops growled, the wind tugging at his legionary cloak. "Never thought there'd be a place where I miss Camp Avernus, but what do you know!? Here I am, already."
A voice came echoing over loudspeaker: "All newcomers, form up by unit and await further instructions!"
Cerys recognized the lines on the ground, a wide clearing with battered rectangles of white paint. "All right, folks," she said, voice pitched to be heard over the engines and the flapping canvas tents. "You heard the man. Form up on the chalk lines. Let's keep it crisp, like Mad Dog always drilled us."
A ripple of murmured acknowledgments answered her. They sorted themselves into five columns, each led by a contubernalis. Cerys headed up the front row with her gladius at her belt and her iron bracelet on her left wrist, the name of her former master etched into the metal.
A slender man in a plumed officer helmet and a thicker, light blue cloak strode across the tarmac, holding nothing but a swagger stick. He had the proud bearing of a patrician: shoulders squared, chin lifted, eyes scanning the lines with a brisk severity that reminded Cerys of a less violent, less overtly unhinged version of Hollywood. For a heartbeat, Cerys's scarred side twinged at the memory of 'pretty patrician boys', but she forced herself to exhale the tension. Focus. This one wasn't brandishing a blade.
The newcomer stood at a lean six feet. His build suggested agility more than sheer brawn, his complexion was pale, with high cheekbones that lent him a distinctly patrician bearing. Straight black hair was cropped close to frame a narrow brow and a firm jawline.
"Attention!" he barked as he approached, and soon half the recruits on the tarmac snapped into formation, or tried to. The roar of vehicles and the swirl of chilled wind made everything frenetic.
Felix and Cerys hurriedly steered their quartex to line up. Mudflat, Noodles, Gnome, and the others followed, packs jostling, breath visible in front of their faces. By the time they reached an orderly row, the slender patrician had closed the distance.
He came to a precise stop and performed a crisp salute. With quite some jealousy Cerys noticed the high boots, and pants.
"Welcome to Illyria," he said in a clear, refined voice that carried over the wind. "I am Optio Flavius Jolan. You are part of Tenth Cohort, from Camp Avernus, yes? Good. I will be your…shall we say, immediate commanding officer. It's my privilege to lead this unit. The Legate expects much from us. For that reason, we'll skip any elaborate welcoming ceremony. You can see your breath. I'm sure that's all the fanfare you need."
His attempt at humor fell mostly flat. Many of the legionaries seemed too stiff with cold or exhaustion to respond. But Cerys found a grudging sort of warmth in his expression. He was trying, anyway. An awkward hush settled, replaced quickly by a swirl of commentary behind Cerys. She coughed lightly and gave a subtle shake of her head, hoping no one broke discipline.
Jolan exhaled, then straightened. "Well, if you haven't guessed, I'm new. But I have my orders, and so do you. We'll keep this short. You'll find your unit's posted near the southwestern block of Camp Tiber, in Barracks G16. My best advice is to…uh…get settled in. You'll get local bedding, some warmer fatigues if supply is up to date, and hopefully some of the climate-control units actually function." That last line drew a subdued chuckle from the ranks. "The local time is fourteen hundred hours. Be in your designated barracks, squared away, gear stowed, by sixteen hundred. I'll brief all NCOs at eighteen hundred, in Admin Building L2. Understood?"
A chorus of "Yes, sir!" and "Sir, understood!" rose in uneven volume.
Cerys saluted, as did Felix and the other contubernales. It might have been an echo of old training discipline, or maybe a reflex hammered in by Mad Dog Mitchell.
Without further ado, Optio Jolan snapped around. "Excellent. Let's get you out of this wind." He turned to stride away, cloak flaring behind him.
As the lines broke, Cerys exhaled a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. He seemed…well, green. But not malicious or incompetent—merely anxious. She recognized that look: the same look she had felt in her own reflection more than once.
Camp Tiber sprawled out in a half-oval shape along the base of a low mountain range. Prefab hangars, rows of squat administration blocks, motor pools, and barracks ringed an inner courtyard. Dustings of snow lay in corners or melted to slush near building vents. Soldiers bustled everywhere, forging footpaths in the half-frozen mud. The wind never ceased: always a cold, insistent push on the body, reminding them they were no longer in Addhara's scorching climate.
It took some time to maneuver through the throng. Cerys and Felix marched with measured steps, leading Quartex A. They followed a local NCO with a rugged noteputer who guided them to their corner: three single-story prefab structures with narrow metal doors, each building apparently able to hold about a quartex or two.
Noodles let out a soft groan when the NCO pointed them to a building whose roof was crowned with a fringe of icicles at the eaves. "We're going to freeze," she muttered.
"We've survived worse," Cerys said, though in truth, the biting wind was a shock to her system. She'd come from vineyards baked under a hot sun most of her life. She remembered the punishing dryness of Addhara's desert. This was the opposite extreme - wet, chilling, insidious cold. "We'll manage," she repeated.
Inside, the barracks were… functional. Bunk beds lined each side of a central aisle, footlockers at the end of each. A single ancient heating unit rumbled in the far corner, pulsing a meager warmth that didn't reach the door. The overhead lights buzzed with a faint flicker. The smell of stale air and disinfectant greeted her, reminiscent of the spartan bunkhouses on Addhara when they had first entered them, but with an added tang of chemical dryness. Metal bunks lined the walls, each with a single thin mattress and a scratchy blanket folded at the foot.
A jarring sense of deja vu hit her. She remembered first stepping onto Addhara's bus—frightened and uncertain. That was nine months ago. She wasn't that same slave girl, cowering and shy. She was a soldier now, an NCO with real responsibilities.
"All right," Cerys said, raising her voice. "Find a bunk, stow your gear. We'll sort out who sleeps where in a minute. Let's keep things civil, folks."
Mudflat sank onto a bunk near the center, shaking out his heavy coat. "At least no one's yelling at us for the time being," he muttered.
"Give them an hour," Gnome teased, dropping his pack with a thud.
Felix cleared his throat. "All right, folks, we've got until sixteen hundred to stow our gear and get acquainted with these bunks. Let's do it in half that time, so we can scrounge up a sense of…order. Or maybe hot water if we're lucky." He tried a grin, but tension lingered in his eyes.
Cerys said nothing at first, simply moving to a bunk near the exit—somewhere she could watch the corridor, keep track of comings and goings. Old reflexes, maybe, from her time at Camp Avernus. She set down her kit bag, feeling twinges in her side where a faint scar beneath her tunic served as a reminder of how quickly things could turn violent.
A swirl of cold air preceded the arrival of Hollywood into the barracks. The hush that fell was almost tangible, as if someone had turned a dial. He stepped in with a closed-off expression, giving no greetings. Patches of pinkish, healed skin marred what had once been the perfect lines of his face. He was thinner. His eyes, once mocking or blazing with condescension, were unreadable. One hand clutched a folded blanket that, curiously, looked half a size too short. Without meeting anyone's gaze, he claimed a bunk in the far corner, turned his back, and began methodically sorting his gear. No words. No challenge. Just a silent acceptance of the tension.
Pork Chops snorted. "Go figure, he shows up at the last second at Camp Avernus, then trails us here. Next time, maybe he'll just fall from the sky."
Cerys shot Felix a pointed look, but the big man merely shrugged in a What'd I say? manner. It didn't take a mind reader to sense the emotions of the rest of the unit's soldiers. Some were curious, others openly scornful. Yet nobody approached Hollywood.
She caught a flicker of anger in Matteo's eyes, the hostility in Felix's stance, but no one said anything. Hollywood's presence remained an unavoidable wedge, unspoken but heavy.
Cerys inhaled slowly, releasing the breath in a silent exhalation. Right now, she had far more pressing concerns to worry about than trying to mediate. They all had a job to do. Though she vowed to never turn her back on Hollywood.
"All right!" she said, turning back to the group. "I need a volunteer or two to see if we can find the heater controls. Noodles, see if those lumps in the corner are actually space heaters or just lumps. Matteo, check if there's some kind of closet with extra blankets. And for Jupiter's sake, check if the doors and windows are decently sealed, 'kay?"
The chatter resumed. As assigned, the legionaries explored the corners of the building. Meanwhile, Elara wandered near the battered windows, checking that each sealed properly. Whoever had assembled these prefabs had done the shoddiest job one could imagine. A light flickered overhead. The floor squeaked with each step, half-frozen from the cold.
By the time everybody had stored their gear and taken an inventory – three times, just to be sure – and explored their new temporary home sixteen hundred was fast approaching. Someone had even found the time to put a sign on the barracks: Quartex A, 2nd Centuria, 10th Cohort, Marian Expeditionary Corps.
Cerys caught Felix's eye. "Ready to meet our new best friend, the Optio?"
He sighed, half-smiling. "If we're lucky, maybe he'll be incompetent but nice, like a puppy."
Cerys arched a brow. "How about competent and nice? I'd prefer that."
"That'd be a dream," he replied sardonically. "Given he's a Patrician, I'll prepare myself for incompetent and ******."
They left the barracks in the hands of Noodles, who would keep the rest occupied with bunk assignments and housekeeping. Mudflap and Gnome moaned about collecting rations, but she told them to do so anyway. If only to keep busy and warm. Elara and the two remaining contubs of the units accompanied them to the meeting.
Outside, the wind had picked up. Cerys braced herself against a frigid gust that whipped her short braid against her neck. Overhead, the sky was a dull gray, threatening snow. The path to Admin Building L2, an unremarkable metal structure sporting the Hegemony's crest, was marked by scuffed footprints and slush.
Half a dozen other contubernales marched with them, forming a ragged line. Cerys recognized a few from the 10th Cohort's other quartexes: men and women who had shared the punishing obstacle courses back on Addhara. Some offered small nods of greeting. Others stared ahead, faces set.
"Seems we're not the only ones getting their introductory '101 course for shitty ice box planets'," Felix remarked quietly.
Its interior smelled of thick coffee, worn metal, and the faint tang of new paint. An orderly led her upstairs to a briefing room. Inside, a battered rectangular table dominated the space. The walls were covered by large topographical maps pinned to boards. Harsh overhead lights cast stark shadows. A battered electric heater in the corner hummed, barely fending off the cold seeping through the walls.
They tapped mud or slush from their sandals, then followed a corridor to a cramped briefing room where chairs had been arranged in neat rows.
Optio Flavius Jolan waited at the front, a steaming cup of coffee tightly gripped in one hand, a stylus loosely in the other. He'd switched the uniform tunic with an olive-green winter. It didn't look as if it was standard issue, or army property to begin with. The perks of being a Patrician, Cerys thought, managing to hide her scowl.
A war table projected a faintly glowing topographical map of Illyria's southern continent in front of him. His expression, while still serious, flickered with relief when they filed in.
"Ah, good," he murmured, clearing his throat. "All right. Please, everyone, have a seat. We'll keep this short, as I'm sure you want to rest – though hopefully you can manage your own time."
Cerys chose a seat in the middle, where she could see him clearly. Felix sat at her right, a silent pillar of support. Three others from Quartex A's leadership flanked them.
Optio Jolan drew in a breath. "We have…some complicated tasks ahead of us. The majority of 7th, 8th, and 10th Cohort – our unit, effectively – will be posted to the planet's southern continent, Galas."
A snippet of reaction flickered through the group. Cerys exchanged a quick glance with Felix. Galas, she thought, storing that.
"If you haven't heard, the local situation is tense. There's a large civilian population spread across farmland, small towns, logging outposts. Small mining pits. Until recently, it was under the thumb of one Leo Mercer, who commanded the 'Bonecutters.' Lovely folks, as you can probably take from the name." He paused, letting the name hang in the air, as if expecting them to gasp or show recognition. Some, like Felix, frowned in distaste. Pirates hadn't exactly the highest reputation with the Hegemony's common man, regardless of their romanticization in popular media. "Leo Mercer," Jolan cleared his throat and continued, "was apparently… a particularly vicious specimen. A murderer, rapist, slaver, you name it. He terrorized the local populace, extorting and raiding them, presumably with the blessing of Jackson Fletcher, who until recently was his direct patron among the pirate lords of the Crimson Chalice. But it seems Mercer grew too blatant, too…inefficient for Fletcher's agenda." The Optio tapped a control on the table with his stylus, pulling up a cluster of red markers on the displayed map. "Fletcher disposed of him, seized command of the Bonecutters, and pledged his loyalty to the Marian Hegemony." A faint edge crept into his voice on that last sentence.
Cerys exchanged a look with Felix. The mention of 'pledged loyalty' rang hollow. She remembered that the Hegemony's official line was 'we're stepping in to help', but everyone guessed there were deeper, uglier deals in the shadows.
Jolan's eyes fell to the table. "Unfortunately for us, Fletcher taking out Mercer and ending his reign of terror has proven to be too little too late. Now, the people of Galas have had enough. Some of them joined the local resistance. Most probably simply want all outsiders gone. That includes us, sadly. Still, the Emperor sees an opportunity to present the Hegemony as the civilized power that can restore order. So, we will be patrolling the countryside, distributing humanitarian aid in coordination with ComStar organizations – medicine, food, blankets, that sort of thing – and, if necessary, eliminating armed groups that threaten stability. Obviously, these groups see us as just another occupying force. The difference is, we want to maintain discipline, minimize atrocities, and secure the region for Marian benefit."
A murmur stirred through the contubernales. The words 'minimize atrocities' struck a chord, as if they knew that what the Bonecutters had done was beyond vile.
"Which leads me to support," Jolan said, lifting his gaze to meet them. "From Fletcher's side? Don't expect much. Possibly the bare minimum. The man's embroiled in a war with other pirates, with resistance cells, and, last but not least, the Illyrian rump. There's an… agreement that the Emperor is using to wedge Fletcher into line. He fights the war the Hegemony'd rather not fight. But that means we get to fight the war he doesn't want to fight because he's a pirate, and pacifying a planet is tedious work. And pirates and work ethic go together like fire and water." He smiled thinly. "Meanwhile, we get to do the real work to keep this planet stable, keeping his back safe. Some might call it a test of our mettle. Some might call it a political theater. The truth's probably somewhere right in between, ladies and gentlemen." He paused, took a sip from his mug, and let his eyes wander across the five soldiers that from now on would be his link to the the maniples under his command. "Whatever your personal opinions, the chain of command is clear: We're here to keep peace, to do real good for these people, and to protect Marian interests. Are we clear?"
A small chorus of "Yes, sir," rose in the cramped room.
Cerys found her thoughts racing. Great, they'd be getting dropped right in the middle of chaos then. Juggling humanitarian aid and fighting what sounded an enraged insurgency, all at the same time. With the local population hating them? That she had no illusions about.
"That's the gist of what we'll be wading into," Optio Jolan nodded. "Command wants us to move quickly, so the plan is that within twenty-four hours each Quartex gets an APC from the motor pool, plus light escorts. They'll be holding back support elements to be distributed as needed. We'll patrol designated sectors, coordinate with the rest of 10th Cohort, and try to keep each other alive." He set mug aside. "Questions?"
Felix tapped the table softly. "We'll be relying on local knowledge, then? Possible lines of supply from Camp Tiber?"
Jolan ran a hand through his hair. "Correct. For now, all supplies will come through Tiber. The official word is something about efficiency, but in truth it's about keeping the current chaos in check. The Legion's moved almost ten thousand people, plus gear, plus vehicles, and the quartermasters are already running solely on caffeine, drugs, and pure hatred for their fellow men," he chuckled mirthlessly. "As you've probably already realized, appropriate equipment seems to have gone into hiding, too. They'll be adding forward supply bases to coordinate operations soon, or so Command says, but for now everything runs through here. On the plus side, we've deployed a few forward bases scattered across Galas already. Makeshift outposts, really. Each assigned to a company and its support elements, so expect enough space for a small cluster of APCs, ATVs and a hundred and something legionaries." He fiddled with the projector's controls. "Ah, there, right." A blue chevron appeared in the middle of some wooded highlands. "This is ours. Outpost Gemina. We'll garrison there, run patrols, deliver supplies, and hopefully keep the peace. But do note that 'peacekeeping' might turn to open firefights if you meet insurgents."
A wave of uneasy acceptance rippled around the table. The concept was simpler than the reality would be.
He paused, letting that sink in. Then he exhaled. "I'll do my best to share updates as new intel arrives. For now, the official orders are clear: protect civilians, distribute aid, and neutralize any threat to Marian interests. Try not to infuriate the local population. If it can be solved diplomatically, we'll do so." He rubbed his eyes. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is the first hot deployment for each and every one of us, so we'll be in this volatile icicle together. Do your best, and I'll try to shield you from as much shit flowing downhill as I can. Can I count on you?"
The five NCOs exchanged quick glances, then answered "Yes, sir!" as one. A few uneasy chuckles followed.
Felix leaned over and muttered in Cerys's ear, "So he's basically in the same boat we are. Less experience, more rank."
She gave a tiny shrug. "I'll give him the benefit of the doubt. We're basically working for a patrician kid who's never set foot in a real war zone. He's a rung higher on the ladder. He's honest enough about it, though."
"Very well," the Optio concluded. "If there are no more urgent questions, we're done here. Meeting over. Dismissed."
They all rose, saluting, chairs scraping the floor. Cerys noticed the tension in Jolan's posture as he watched them file out, as though he was bracing for the next trial. She spared him a small, respectful dip of her head on her way past. He returned a tight-lipped nod.
Once outside, Cerys stuck with Felix, who huddled deeper into his cloak. They turned a corner where a small generator coughed out a cloud of exhaust, warming the area ever so slightly. Three or four passing legionaries were sipping from steaming cups, their voices subdued.
After a while, Felix spoke up. "You know, about Jolan? Honesty might be a good start. I just hope the man doesn't fold if we see real fighting."
Cerys's gaze dropped, and an echo of pain flickered in her side. "If he does, it might cost lives - ours included." She inhaled, and steadied herself. "We have to hold it together. We can't rely on Fletcher's men, and the local population pretty certainly hates us. And we're woefully new at this. But if we watch each other's backs and keep discipline, maybe we can do some genuine good."
Felix grunted in agreement. "We'll make do. We always have."
Cerys looped around the building, forcibly exhaling a warm breath into her cupped hands. "The key is we adapt, keep ourselves alive. The rest is noise."
"Spoken like a true leader, SG," Felix chuckled, and she rolled her eyes.
"Just regurgitating the phrases Mad Dog drilled into us," she waved him off, but couldn't hide her smile. It felt good to be recognized.
