The next morning started early, as the sound of the intercom’s buzz awakened the pair. The sergeant groaned, reaching over and hitting the “Accept” button. “This is Kai,” he grumbled.

“Morning sunshine,” the First Sergeant said on the other end. “We had a shuttle dock overnight, loaded with supplies and a fresh batch of Newbies straight out of Boot. I’m slotting one of them over to you.”

“Copy that, Top,” he said, sitting up, “I’ll send someone right up.”

“You do that,” she agreed, “Berger out.” With that, the receiver went dead.

Rúna rubbed her face and sat up as well. “Your team’s shorthanded,” he informed her, “so I’m giving him to you. Throw on some clothes and grab him.”

“A fucking cherry. Yay,” she sighed, pulling on a pair of pants. “And after I retrieve our lost puppy, what then?”

Kai thought about that for a moment. “Becca will be recuperating for a while yet, and after that goat-screw on Dzan, I don’t want to push them. Introduce him to the squad and put them all on weapons maintenance. You can get a feel for him and see how he’ll fit in. And... we still need to have that chat with them about Dzan. Now seems like a good time.”

“Roger that,” she agreed. “You gonna be around?”

“I’ve got a stack of paperwork the Gunny wants me to catch up on,” he said unhappily, “so don’t expect to see me til after chow.”

“Lucky you,” she chuckled, pulling on her boots and then slipping on a shirt. She paused for a moment, before starting, “Look... about yesterday…”

He held up his hand. “Forget about it,” he shrugged. “You just said what needed to be said. We’re good.”

She gnawed on her lip for a moment and then nodded. “Glad to hear it. I’ll go grab our Newbie then.” She ran her fingers through the strip of red hair running down her scalp, fluffing out her mohawk, as Kai spoke up.

“If you don’t see me before, grab me at chow. I’ll want your impressions on the new guy.”

“You got it,” she smiled, exiting the compartment and making her way through the corridors and passageways of the old transport. Fiddlers’ Green belonged to the 2/2; the Second Battalion, Second Regiment of the Valkyries, home to over eight hundred men and women. It was cramped quarters even at the best of times, as much of the space was given over to storage bays for the Havocs, Centurions, plus all the other equipment and weapons they needed to fight with. Most of the companies were just turning out, the rotation for the docking bay just starting for daily PT. It was the only space big enough for calisthenics; life aboard ship made it all too easy to grow sedentary, a dangerous habit to fall into when your life was on the line.

Making way for one of Fox’s platoons to jog by, she finally arrived at the HQ section, pausing just long enough to check her look before rapping lightly on the First Sergeant’s hatch.

“Enter!” she heard from inside. Pressing the button, she stepped inside as it slid open. Berger looked up at her from over a stack of reports.

“Aukes,” she grunted. “Here for your Newbie, I take it?”

“Roger that, Top,” she confirmed. The First Sergeant wasn’t much for chitchat before breakfast.

“Right,” she nodded, digging through the stack of folders on her desk until she found what she was looking for. “Here we go…” she said, pulling it from the pile and giving it a quick scan, before leaning over in her chair and bellowing out the open hatch, “Arthur! Front and Center!”

The sound of pounding feet had Rúna covering her mouth to hide her grin, as a skinny kid came skidding to a halt in front of the hatch before snapping to attention. “Private Arthur reporting as ordered, First Sergeant!” he screamed at them.

“Oy vey,” she muttered, rolling her eyes, as Berger shot her a look.

“At ease, private,” she continued, as the Newbie adopted a slightly more relaxed posture. “This here is Corporal Aukes,” she told him, handing over his file to Rúna. “You belong to her now. She’ll get you squared away, so do what she says. You got that private?”

“Yes, First Sergeant!” he screamed again.

“Right. Get out of my sight,” she told them, dismissing the pair.

“Copy that Top,” Rúna replied, before locking eyes with the Newbie. “Grab your gear and follow me,” she ordered, as he hurried to comply while she began retracing her steps. “What do they call you?” she asked him.

The kid blinked. “Corporal?” he asked nervously.

She shook her head. “I’m pretty sure they don’t call you ‘Corporal’,” she sighed. “I mean, what’s your name, kid?”

“Oh... Cipriano, Corporal,” he blushed furiously. “Cip for short.”

“Cip,” she repeated before shrugging. “You might keep that, unless you get tagged with something else,” she answered. “Let’s get the basics out of the way. We’re First Squad, First Platoon, Golf Company,” she informed him, “in case Top forgot to mention it. Our squad leader is Sergeant Kai, who you’ll meet later. I’m the Bravo team leader, and they’ve assigned you to me. We’ve been short for a while.”

Arthur looked like he wanted to say something, but kept his mouth shut. She came to a halt and faced him. “Kid, you’re not in Boot anymore,” she informed him, “and you don’t need to ask permission when you want to take a dump. You got questions, ask them. You won’t learn otherwise.”

He bobbed his head. “Yes, Corporal, my apologies, Corporal,” he struggled to get out. “I mean, I was just going to ask... if it’s okay, I mean…”

“Just spit it out,” she sighed.

“... oh... right... sorry Corporal... I mean... I was just curious... why are you shorthanded?” he finally got out.

She winced and pinched her nose. “... why do you think, genius?” she grumbled. “I know I just told you to ask questions, but a little common sense goes a long way. But if you want the complete answer... we’re a combat unit, Arthur. We took casualties. That’s why we’re short people.” She reached out and jabbed her finger into his chest. “And unless you want to be one yourself, you’ll pay attention to what we’re telling you. You get me?”

“Yes, Corporal!” he shouted again, snapping back to attention.

“Will you knock that off already?” she groaned. “Jesus, that’s annoying.” She shook her head again. “Try it again, at normal volume.”

His eyes went wide as he awaited an official reprimand. When he realized none was forthcoming, he swallowed and tried again. “Yes... Corporal?” he said in more conversational tones.

“Are you asking me or telling me?” she snapped, before waving him off. “Never mind, we’ll work on it.” They took a right, and then a left, before coming to a halt in front of a hatch, painted with a mural of the Grim Reaper, carrying a rifle and wearing the Valkyrie patch. “And we’re here,” she informed him, thumbing it open and shouting “Rise and shine, shitbirds! You got company.”

“God damn it, I was just getting comfortable,” Becca complained, her leg jutting out at an odd angle, still wrapped in its cast.

“Can the chatter,” she told them, “you got yourselves a new bunkie. This here's Arthur, and he’s slotted for Bravo Team. I want you all to show him the ropes.”

Groans all around greeted the announcement, and a thrown pillow tumbled past them and out of sight while she blithely ignored the culprit, as they started crawling out of their racks. “Right then, introductions. Starting with Alpha Team, that there is Doc Svoboda,” she told him, pointing out a lanky male with straw blond hair who had padded over to examine Becca’s cast. “He’s our squad medic, so be nice to him.” The medic gave a diffident wave, ignoring them.

“Next we’ve got Tawfiq Bosch, our Heavy Weapons Specialist,” she continued, nodding at a massive dark-skinned man, his upper body and face covered in burn scars, leaving him deeply disfigured. He nodded in acknowledgment, though he kept his face turned away. Arthur looked like he was about to say something, but a quick headshake from Rúna shut him down.

“Rivka Zupan, there, is Tawfiq’s Assistant Gunner,” she explained, indicating an attractive woman with dark flashing eyes. “They come as a set,” she grinned.

“Hey, not true!” Rivka protested, holding out her fist to Tawfiq, who promptly bumped knuckles with her. “Don’t listen to her,” she continued, giving Arthur an aside. “Now, if you want the real lowdown…”

Another thrown pillow slammed into her face, interrupting her. “As I was saying,” Rúna continued, “moving onto Bravo Team, we’ve got Becca Sultan there in the cast. She took some shrapnel on our last mission, so she’s on the injured reserve list for now.”

“I think it was part of the turbofan,” she said curiously, holding up a piece of twisted metal. “Think I'll turn it into jewelry or something.”

“And finally, last but not least, we have Dave Yendrick,” she informed him, nodding at a pale-skinned man with a shaved head. “He’s our scrounger, so if you need something from outside official channels, he’s the one to talk to. But I better not hear about anyone looking for contraband. You read me?” she demanded, glaring around the room.

“Yes, Corporal!” he responded, somewhat quieter this time, though his response still earned him a round of laughter from the others.

Rúna’s scowl didn’t waver. “I asked you shitbirds a question,” she snarled.

“Yes, Corporal,” they said more or less in unison, though it sounded like a sigh, and she spotted more than a couple of eye rolls.

“Outstanding.” She pulled out a chair and plopped down on it, using its back as an armrest. “Yendrick, show him his bunk and where he can stow his gear.”

The man groaned but stood up. “Over here,” he told him, waving him forward.

“Meanwhile, in deference to Becca, Sarge has decided on a light day for us,” she informed them as they cheered his decision, “so we’ll draw weapons and focus on getting those cleaned up. Now, let’s see,” she murmured, opening up the file she’d been carrying and perusing its contents, “what weapon should we assign you?” Rúna flipped to the qualifications section, scrolling the lines of data with her finger, when a few moments later her head snapped up in surprise.

“... It says here you set the Camp record on the Grenade Launcher,” she said suspiciously, as the others suddenly looked at him much more closely.

“Yes, Corporal,” he mumbled, blushing once again.

“Uh-huh...you mind telling me how?”

He shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know, Corporal... I just... know where to aim.” he grimaced at the way he was stammering. “I couldn’t explain it to my DI, either.”

“I see…” she mused. “Tawfiq? When you draw weapons today, make sure he gets an M404. If the Armorer gives you any crap, buzz me.”

“Yes, Corporal,” he nodded.

“First opportunity we get on the range, I’m putting you through your paces with the Launcher,” she told him, “but until then, I’m willing to take a chance.”

“Thank you, Corporal,” he said shyly.

“Don’t thank me yet, Newbie,” she warned, standing up, “you’ve still got a long way to go.” She closed his file and set it aside, before leaning up against the bulkhead. “So, you may have noticed all of us NCOs and officers disappearing for a bit yesterday,” she began. “I know you’re probably curious about that…”

“... the brass is worried we’ll flip out over what happened at Dzan,” Doc Svoboda spoke up, before glancing around at the sudden stares. “What? Of course they are,” he said in his defense.

“He’s right,” Rúna confirmed, “they are worried.”

Arthur looked around in confusion. “What’s Dzan?”

“Our last mission, where Becca got wounded,” she quickly explained, before the others could step in. “Things took a turn at the end.”

It was obvious it still confused him. Thankfully, Rivka leaned in to clear things up. “The faction we were supporting gunned down the other side... after they’d surrendered.”

He blanched at her explanation. “You’re kidding,” he said in dismay.

“Believe me, we all wish she was,” Yendrick told him, her words bitter on the tongue. “And to make it even worse, they didn’t warn us.”

“Yeah, this is exactly the thing they’re worried about,” Rúna interjected. “What happened was fucked up, I think we’re all agreed about that, but we’ve got to put it behind us. The odds of us ever going back are slim, we left orbit two days ago... and maybe most important, what happened wasn’t our fault.” She looked around the compartment, gauging their reaction. They were listening for the moment, but that could change in a heartbeat.

“They want us to forget about it,” Rivka said sourly. “Easier said than done.”

“I know,” she said gently, “and if you need to talk about it, I’m here, day or night. If you need to sweat it out down in the Loading Dock, just let me know and I’ll get you the time. But please, whatever you do, don’t let this become a thing. We’re few enough as it is.”

Mumbled assents of “Yeah, sure,” and “Uh-huh” did little to persuade her. Finally, Becca spoke up once more.

“We’re lucky they didn’t turn those guns on us as well, I guess,” she said at last. “Could have been a lot worse.”

“It could have been,” Rúna agreed. “Try to focus on that. Oh and make sure you’re wearing something clean for the memorial service tomorrow. Don’t embarrass us.”

“Sometimes, I really wished they’d named the ship something else,” Tawfiq said quietly.

“Fiddlers’ Green?” Arthur asked. “What does that even mean?”

Everyone looked away as he said that, suddenly having a hard time meeting anyone’s gaze. Rúna instead pointed at some writing on the wall, done in beautiful calligraphy.

Still confused, he stepped forward, peering at the words.

Halfway down the trail to Hell,

In a shady meadow green

Are the souls of all dead Warriors camped,

Near a good old-time canteen.

And this eternal resting place

Is known as Fiddlers’ Green.

Marching past, straight through to Hell

The Infantry are seen.

Accompanied by the Engineers,

Artillery and Marines,

For none but the shades of Le Mercenaire

Take rest at Fiddlers’ Green.

So when a Soldier of Fortune falls ,

Beneath a saber keen,

Or in a roaring charge of fierce melee ,

You stop a bullet clean,

So when the monsters come to claim your soul,

Just empty your canteen,

And put your pistol to your head,

And go to Fiddlers’ Green.

The Newbie slowly turned back around, his face as white as a sheet.

“... Now you get it,” Rúna told him.