Chapter 2: Captain James Skichild

One more day. He only had one more day left before he would be sent on his last mission. There was a lot to take in at that moment.

When everyone was handed the orders detailing that survival was impossible. They all tried to find solace, some sort of peace that could make them accepting of their eventual deaths. Many would have their last drinks, party, play games, or find comfort among their comrades.

James didn’t care for the sort. To him, it was like any other day on the job. While others would swear and eat like it was their last day, James would be in his office looking over administration records. But as it would be his last day, the Order relieved him of his duties to rest and say his final goodbyes. A mandatory grace period.

So, being a person of habit. Besides fighting back against the orders of high command, he figured it would be best to spend most of the day in his squad’s tent. He never had anyone to say goodbye to, and he never really cared about wasting his time on frivolous things like booze and casual sex. Instead, he leaned forward, his arms resting on the top rail while a random soldier tattooed his back.

Personal body modifications were permitted within the Order Militant. Tattoos, piercings, body markings. All of it was accepted as long as it didn’t impact the soldier’s performance.

But no one was allowed to own anything that wasn’t standard-issued. However, restrictions couldn’t stop the boredom or ingenuity of the common soldier. With a broken pen, an electric razor, tape, and a needle. Making a homemade tattoo gun wasn’t a difficult task. Even if people were more prone to infections or their skin would be torn apart because the rotor in the electric razor was too powerful. People still wanted to show their personality. The real problem was finding someone competent enough to draw a straight line properly.

It was James’ third session. His back was bright red as the needle dug into his flesh to insert the ink into his layer of skin. The artist tried to be careful, making sure to avoid the pilot ports that were placed along his spine and on the back of his head. Using his thumb as a physical barrier to not accidentally inserting the needle into the ports. Routinely, he would wipe the blood oozing from James’ back as he mistakenly pressed the needle down to cut his skin.

But James didn’t care. The pain was just minor compared to what he usually endured. All he wanted was the depiction of an LV311 mech slaying a dragon on his back. A memorial for the time he fought and successfully butchered the flying monstrosity, once presumed extinct by the Order at large. Only a third of the tattoo was complete. To anyone, it would look like any ordinary prison tattoo. To James, it was his personal trophy.

While he never showed it or said it openly to anyone, he was prideful when he slew that beast and hoped he would do it again.

“Captain Skichild,” a 12-year-old boy called out to him. Immediately, the artist moved away to give room for James to turn to face him. He was a frail kid whose hair was as white as ash and skin as equally pale. His eyes were a dark violet.

“The mechs are ready for inspection.” The kid said, almost hiding behind his clipboard as if he had made a fatal error.

James inspected the child. A cadet, his uniform worn with pride and well taken care of. His shoulder patch revealed multiple chevrons overlapping one another to form a diamond. “Cadet Under Officer Venth.” James read his tag. “First posting?”

Venth shook his head. “No, sir, second one. I was allocated to shadow you for the duration of the war.”

Satisfied, James rose from his chair and stretched his arms. Revealing multiple scars all along his chest to the young cadet. Some accumulated through battle, others from medical modifications. James was tall and skinny, with barely any muscle showing. From where Venth stood, James could easily be mistaken for a woman.

“What happened to the previous officer you shadowed?” James asked.

“Died, sir. Yesterday as well.”

He understood the young cadet had much to learn. Cadet officers shadowing an official military officer is a privilege that would only be granted to those who had proven themselves to go beyond the standards of the Order Militant’s cadet program. Cadets, or Shadow Officers, as it was commonly called. Were given to talented leaders to learn from them while assisting them in any activity. The only exception was that the cadet could not come along for combat missions.

But with the state of Venth’s uniform and the death of the officer, it seemed that the cadet had only been in the realm for a few days at the least. Venth was unfortunate to be paired with James. It would mean he had to give the young kid lessons quicker than either could expect. He just hoped the kid could keep up.

“The clipboard,” James clicked his fingers.

Snapping out of it, Venth handed it over. “All 30 mechs are ready for the mission. All of them should have close-quarters capabilities and a ranged weapon. No equipment other than the pre-installed magic crystals should be magically modified by any means. Just as requested, sir.”

“Models?”

“Ivell’s-”

“I ask for the model, not the colloquial term, cadet.” James harshly interrupted. “I’ll ask again, model?”

“Sorry, sir.” Venth cleared his throat before responding. “IV311-H. All of them with the drop modification attachment. Model number G5-311-12.”

James raised a brow, slightly surprised that a cadet would know the model number of a modification by heart with confidence. That showed promise, someone who had read the necessary manuals and understood what those numbers meant.

“CUO Venth, follow me,” James ordered as he walked out of the tent. Instinctively, Venth followed behind without question. His anxiety vanished as he felt accepted by the officer he would be shadowing.

As they made their way outside, Venth covered his eyes for a brief moment to not be blinded by The Gash. A temporal wound which gushed out air and light as bright as the artificial sun. Making the area cold due to the wind, and always exposed to ethereal light. Telltale signs of tethering, the eve of total realm collapse.

It was how the Order found the realm. The early symptoms of realm decay are the doors to the realm opening up randomly throughout Earth. These doors, also known as tethers, are the first stage of realm decay. Realms are artificial realities created with an incomputable amount of magic. Once the weave to the material world weakened over time, the bonds began to loosen and snap under the pressure. Sending the realm deeper into the Realm of the Dead.

Once the chain reaction of decay began, it was impossible to prevent the eventual tearing apart and collapse of an entire realm.

The Gash was just the biggest tether found by the Order. Evacuation from the realm would be impossible and costly, not that the Order had an interest in saving the residents of the realm. All the Order cared about was the raw resources that could be extracted before detonating a Matter and Magic Compressor bomb to prematurely collapse the realm themselves.

There were resources ready for harvest, and the Order would not let that opportunity go to waste. Extraction was the goal.

When the Order Militant came through the tether and entered the realm. War was expected and encouraged. For humanity’s defenders to be competent to battle against external threats. They needed to practice and test their machines of war on those unexpected.

While the residents of the realm were not as technologically advanced as the Order hoped, they were magically capable enough to provide the Order Militant a challenge. It was all they ever wanted, as it provided their soldiers with experience and skills which could not be replicated with fire drills and shooting blanks.

“What is the difference between the IV units?” James caught Venth off guard with that question. This caused him to stutter before providing a coherent answer.

“It is all based on height, sir.” He paused to remember the chart he had memorised a week prior. “IV0s are the tallest, being over 25 feet tall. Below them are the IV8s, which are between 20-25 feet in height. IV311s are unique as they can only be 15 feet tall. While the SK3T units are between 10-15 feet tall.”

“What about their purpose?”

“Purpose?” Venth raised a brow. “All mechs must be flexible for the task at hand, sir. While larger units will have access to heavier weapons and thicker armour, they sacrifice mobility compared to the smaller units. The modifications installed on the mech and whether it is a Manus or a Non-Manus can determine what sort of equipment they would have and how capable that mech is in a given environment.”

While they walked to the mech docking area. James smiled at Venth’s response, expecting Venth to say something generic or memorise what was written in the infantry handbook. Instead, Venth provided a nuanced thought that understood the adaptable nature of mechs and how to best utilise them during times of war.

The mechs in the docking area were painted all black. To an outside observer, the mech just seemed like a headless mechanical human. The arms and legs were bulky, while the cockpit was the pronounced part of the unit’s silhouette. The back of the mech housed a nuclear generator, which powered the bipedal machine. Its body had multiple layers of nanofiber-steel plates, which provided the internal components and the pilot protection while also giving the mech ample mobility.

Every mech had at least a long-range weapon and a melee weapon of some kind. Most pilots stuck with one arm of a mech, having a hand of some sort. However, there were a few pilots who had an entire sword, power-hammer, or a retractable spear as their preferred weapon for close engagements. They were heading deep into enemy territory. No pilot would have the luxury of the Order’s supply lines to provide fresh munitions.

As James inspected the mechs and looked over all of their armaments, the cockpit compartment, and fuel capacity. Placing red tape on any violations he noticed during his inspection.

Venth frowned at one of the mechs. It had two powerful hands with a short Icarus thermite flamethrower under each hand. Moreover, under James’ strict guidelines, it didn’t meet the requirements of having any sort of long-range capabilities as it only had an effective range of 40 metres. Most confusing of all, the pilot took the time to paint an anarchist symbol on the back of the mech’s right hand and the words “king maker” painted on the left.

Upon further inspection, he also noticed the mech had additional thrusters along the back of the legs, elbows, and back. Which, unlike the standard thrusters on the IV311 which would help the pilot guide the mech as it descended. The thrusters on that mech theoretically gave it the ability to leap over buildings. Something that shouldn’t be necessary for the mission at hand.

Instead of batting an eye, James just took notes and moved on to the next mech for inspection. Allowing it to be sent on the most daring operation.

“Sir,” Venth called out. “I don’t understand. Why are you allowing this mech to be sent for the operation? It doesn’t fit the criteria, and being painted violates multiple Order Militant articles.”

“What makes you think I am?”

Venth gestured to the red tape latched onto James’ belt. “You would tag it. But you just ignored it. I want to know why.”

Besides providing an answer, James gestured for Venth to follow him to his personal mech. He then handed the clipboard and a roll of red tape over to Venth. “Inspect it,” he bluntly said to him. Without delay, Venth looked over James’ mech.

The standard IV311 mech stood proudly on its launch pad. Its right arm had an S-7 Avenger Minigun fitted with 7.76mm rounds with depleted uranium tips. The belt-fed gun was linked to an ammo box located at the hip of the mech, which would hold over 8 thousand rounds of ammunition.

The left arm had a heavy-duty industrial hand. Usually only given to mech pilots who were going on sapping or engineering missions, its three flat fingers should give the mech some grip strength while its bulky knuckles could provide some close combat advantage.

Attached to the left leg were four massive mech-sized grenades. Two high explosives, one napalm, and one smoke.

Venth grabbed a ladder and pulled it next to the mech. Once he climbed up, he pulled the crank to open up the chassis so he could look inside. Besides the scruff marks and evidence of wear and tear, there was nothing out of the ordinary. The magic crystals along the mech sleeves the pilot slides, which act as a psychic link between the pilot and their mechanical body, seemed fine. The connection ports along the back seat were not clogged up to prevent manual piloting from being hazardous to the pilot. Venth noticed the survival kit was absent in the cockpit, but that was acceptable as the mission wouldn’t require it. Instead, James seemed to replace the kit with his personal revolver and knife.

Satisfied with the interior. Venth closed the chassis and hopped down to examine the mech one last time. Then he found it. Under the right spotlight was a sticker of a trans flag. A blatant infraction if there ever was one. As it was prohibited for the members of the Order Militant to paint or modify their equipment without permission or just cause, it is even more so to put flags. Regardless of nations, ideologies, identification, or even if the flag carried no meaning at all.

To the Order Militant, the only flag allowed was the Order's. Any other flag could flag one a traitor at best, or an enemy at worst.

Before Venth could grab his red tape, James spoke. “Report, cadet.”

“Weapon systems are following the established guidelines. The automatic and manual piloting systems seem operational. However, the flag under the right spotlight goes against Order Militant regulations.”

“Will that modification impact the mission in any way?”

Venth raised a brow, unsure what James was getting at. “No, sir, it will not. But there are still standards that we must follow.”

“That is true. There are standards that all soldiers of the Order Militant must abide by. However, you are missing an important aspect. As you are already aware, I and the soldiers under my command will be sent on a mission with the fatality rate being deemed absolute. This is our last mission, and we are not going to go home. I allow personal aesthetic modifications, for it will give my soldiers something more to fight for.”

“I suppose that makes sense. Giving your soldiers some freedom might improve their combat capabilities. It could improve morale.” Venth mumbled before handing the clipboard and tape back over. “What about the mech before? It still didn’t have long-range capabilities, and it had additional modifications.”

“That is because the pilot of that mech would be far more effective with his personal loadout than if he followed my requirements.”

“Sounds like preferential treatment, sir.” Venth boldly announced.

James shook his head, disappointed that the young cadet didn’t get the point. “No, what it means is that his effectiveness in this operation would diminish if I took away the tools that made him lethal in the first place. When you are planning out an operation and what your team should take, you need to consider the strengths and weaknesses of every member.”

“Even if it goes against the rules, sir?”

“Rules are not scripture, cadet. There are times when you have to determine what is better. The established doctrines and rules of the Order Militant or utilising unorthodox strategies to overcome any foe.” James turned to face his mech to demonstrate a point. “Tell me, cadet. If you are sent on a mission that will be your last. What is preferable, established doctrine or your own strategies?”

Venth folded his arms and took a step back. “Both.”

“Both?”

“Neither option is better than the other,” Venth explained further, speaking out loud as he tried to find an answer. “It would depend on the circumstances of the mission, the enemy, and the goals of the operation. It isn’t so much about whether one is better or the other. Sometimes, military doctrine is what we need to properly engage an enemy and even an unknown adversary. However, when it is proven that our ideas of war aren't working. We also have to be willing to deviate and think on our feet. To learn, adapt, and win.”

James smiled, the only time he showed genuine pride to anyone else. “Tell me, have you ever been challenged?”

“Challenged? If you mean challenged over drinks… only once and as a joke. Other than that, I am not sure what you meant.”

“The first one.” James pulled out a coin from his pocket and flicked it to Venth. A 1st Mech Battalion Challenge coin. A gift only handed out to enlisted officers who passed the officers’ course of 2008. “If anyone challenges you again, slam that down. They’ll get you a drink.”

Venth chuckled as he inspected the coin. “I am a bit too young to drink, sir. Besides, only officers can use them.”

“You’re a CUO, an officer in the cadets.” James correctly pointed out. “Either way, you have potential. When you come of age, you will become a proper officer. With how you conduct yourself, maybe even gain the rank of General. But if you want to become one, always doubt and ask questions. Not many appreciate that you question their decisions and reasoning, but doing so will help you learn and keep you alive for far longer.”

The cadet looked at the ground and smiled. It was his first compliment he had ever been given, ever since being on deployment. “Thank you, Captain. If you want, I would like to head to my office area to make sure the Drop Squadron is ready for you and your soldiers.”

“Good. Let them know that we are ready to suit up in three hours and make our way to the runway. Come to me if anything changes. Other than that, you are dismissed.” Before they went about their separate duties. They saluted each other.

To Venth, it wasn’t done out of formality. Instead, he could tell that James was saluting him out of respect. If only he could continue to shadow the captain for more than just a few hours.