The ScoutEagle MA-17 Reconnaissance Drone persisted at its set altitude of twelve thousand meters, the unmanned craft's systems retransmitting the acquired data along a string of relay drones that stretched to the north-west like pearls on a necklace. Five such pearl-strings advanced parallel along a south-easterly course, the edges of their twenty kilometer-wide target-terrain overlapping so mission analysts could later compile a detailed map of the Mining Quadrant.

The drone constituted the lead element of the center-most pearl-string, its directional tail-antennae pointing back towards the nearest data-relay drone more than a hundred kilometers away. The trailing element's only answer to the torrent of raw data came in the form of an occasional ping, allowing the lead know its antenna's aim was true.

Operation Widescan 3 differed from its predecessors in two important ways. The previous operation's drones had merely made use of passive detection equipment, while the current leading drones were freshly equipped with active ground-mapping radar. It was also the first mission tasked to cross the 45º radial line, beyond which several million hectares of exclusively plantation land was to be found.

The Ground-Mapping Radar system possessed one significant advantage and one compromising handicap over earlier sensors. Unlike its predecessors, which could only passively detect the UVB and long infra-red components of the electromagnetic spectrum, the GMR produced a high-gain radar beam in the microwave frequency that not only detected all surface structures, including those hidden beneath the more sophisticated camouflage nets, but also most subsurface excavations of military value. The beam streaked across the terrain over fifty times per second in ten meter-wide swaths, the raw return signal being immediately redirected to Lograin Air Base's operational headquarters for analysis.

The system's weak point, however, was that a sufficiently advanced passive radar system could possibly detect operating GMRs, the diffracting effect as its beam passed through certain airborne obstacles acting as a possible source of detection, not to mention the signal-scattering effect that occurred whenever the beam came into contact with rockier soils.

So far, the center lead drone had advanced unmolested, and apparently undetected, over the course of more than seven thousand kilometers, and was nearing the end of its outward leg, where it would, along with its flanking companions, execute a carefully choreographed about-face and head for home.

Shortly after it passed the seventy one hundred mark, however, the autonomous aircraft's fate was abruptly sealed. The drone's forward ocular, existing only for flight navigation and obstacle avoidance, barely had time to register an abrupt change in the incident luminosity before the entire front portion of the craft disintegrated.

As the leading craft's flaming remains initiated their plummeting journey back to earth, its two nearest brothers placidly maintained their heading. Had they been piloted aircraft, their pilots would have experienced an "oh shit!" moment and bugged out in time to give warning of the attack, with the additional bonus of preserving their lives and equipment. Instead both continued on their courses until, as if on cue, both were obliterated.

Moments later, someone at Lograin Air Base suddenly stopped drinking his coffee and experienced his own personal "oh shit!" moment, and then he ordered the five pearl-string's trailing elements to update their status and bug out.

The most advanced trailing elements' CPUs reclassified themselves as the new leading elements, transmitted the video data of their former leaders' abrupt demise, and initiated a lazy turn for home.

Three of them abruptly burst into flames.

*****

The wall-clock indicated that it was already quite late in the morning. Or at least late for the army, or for the farm, or for any other place where people might be expected to put in solid working hours.

But it happened to be a Sunday, and it also happened to be the first day the SIC's sole platoon had gotten off in over a month, and all were currently dedicating themselves to lying on their beds in slumber. The violent femmes were nowhere to be seen, and were probably dedicating their morning to similar pursuits in their own casern.

The blackout boards had already been rudely pulled out of their fixtures from the high windows; yet another of Mason's many fervent contributions to the platoon's general mood. The bastard was a consummate morning person, and had apparently objected to his charges' intention to remain indoors until lunchtime. No one had found the nerve to protest as he yanked the boards out, flooding the darkened compartment with painfully bright sunlight, everyone knowing all too well that the less they argued, the faster he would leave, and the faster some brave cadet might rise to the occasion and blanket the windows.

Toni wasn't going to play the part. It wasn't that he was afraid of Mason. His body simply ached too much for the effort it required.

They had gotten a brutal working over in the sims yesterday, their Lieutenant having tweaked the feedback interface so that all quicker movements required an unusual amount of physical exertion to induce the simulator to respond. The exercise objective had been to discover how to moderate one's movements so as to reduce compressed air consumption. Smooth motion, extended range. That had been the maxim of the day. It had taken a while for them to get used to the change, but in the end it had been unavoidable, since it had been only a matter of time before their sapped limbs finally gave up fighting, slowing down to economize all by themselves.

At the exercise's terminus, they had each received a final report displaying the rate of compressed air consumption over elapsed mission time. Toni had performed terribly; he'd been fighting his simul-Suit like a maniac, and by the end of the affair his legs had been shaking like saplings in the great winds.

That was nothing, however, compared to how he felt today.

He had it worst in his abdominal muscles, which seemed to have contracted painfully in the aftermath of yesterday's training. He was following Gordie's example, who had decided to lie on his back with a pillowcase underneath his thighs to reduce the muscular tension. At first it hadn't appeared to help at all, until he had tried removing and felt the pain sharpen as his abdominals tautened. Finally giving up, Toni contented himself instead with simply lying there, allowing his troubled mind to wander freely, as it was prone to do.

The days following the April 21st attack on Leiben had been pregnant with barely-suppressed panic in the Armed Forces, a state that MEWAC itself had managed to shy away from only due to the professionalism it still managed to retain. On the other hand, there was no euphoria, the primary reason being that, overshadowing their outrage due to the assault on their capital, was the stark realization that they were the ones who were supposed to do something about it.

Baylen had aptly managed to put the mood into words. He reasoned that, had he been a civilian, he would have been outraged enough to join the forces and "get even" but, since he was already there and knew the full extent of what they might be in for, all that remained was to brood over their unknown enemy, and over what lay ahead.

Toni discovered that he was completely unafraid, and wondered whether that said something very good about his mental state, or something very bad. He suspected that he probably had yet to fully understand the scope of the crisis before them. Adding to that, his mind had recently begun to feel warped out of shape, and he had since found himself overreacting to the ever-more-frequent frictions between the cadets. Perhaps it was the excessive doses of nootropic medication, or perhaps the suffocating pressure, or perhaps there was something fundamentally wrong with him, but Toni was no longer able to get through a day without entertaining thoughts of killing someone. Sometimes a person in particular would be a target of the notion, but mostly a dark part of him had begun to feel that killing every single biped in his immediate vicinity would somehow make the pressure go away. He kept the fantasies to himself, despite having briefly toyed with the possibility of telling Ray about it.

The attack on Leiben had led Toni to make the first significant purchase of his life, his miserable current salary having been just enough to acquire a DigiSlab personal computer. Its performance was nothing to write home about, but at least he no longer needed to wait his turn at the Cadets' Messe, as they called the computer-filled compartment reserved for their platoon. He had also begun to tune into all local broadcast systems, be they video, audio or net. At least until the blanket ban had come into effect, cutting most base personnel off from the outside world. Now the entire planet could be on fire, and he would only know about it when the skyline was aflame.

The ban had also denied him any prospect of reestablishing contact with his family.

He sometimes wondered about the enemy. Local speculation currently ranged from aquatic aliens in fishbowl helmets to the exceptionally rancorous inhabitants from the Terminator hub (All gave Rakaia a wider berth once that theory became airborne). All that was certain was that Leiben had come under missile attack twice on the same day, each salvo having been launched with enough force to completely annihilate it if not for the city's defense grid. The few missiles that had managed to punch through devastated entire segments of the city. Not a whisper of enemy action had been picked up afterwards, although elements of the ASC had since begun reconnoitering eastern Thaumantias due to whisperings about lights in the sky and missing miners.

Baylen had been pulled from the SIC last week, a personnel deficit in the FIC having apparently been discovered, and they were once again stuck with Ian as liaison between the instructors and their cadets. Morale had subsequently taken a nose-dive. Ray hadn't been helping things either. His father's life had been extinguished in the second strike and the cadet's once-entertaining tantrums had begun to take on a much nastier tone.

His performance in the sims, however, had suffered dramatic improvement.

Despite the brutal increase in the training load, the platoon was still only expected to graduate by the eve of September. The mid-course break had unsurprisingly been cancelled, but there appeared to be no wish from the brass to commit cadets to a fight before they were fully qualified. Toni felt both relieved and annoyed by the decision, although Ray had been furious when the platoon was informed. He had since had a look in his eyes that kept most cadets clear of his path, although Toni still counted him as a friend and therefore listened patiently to the cadet's vengeful monologues.

"Cadets, time to get up!" Toni suddenly heard someone say.

He turned his throbbing head slowly, feeling every muscle in his neck strain as he did so. An already uniformed Ian stood beside his bed as if expecting his comrades to leap up eagerly from theirs. A few well-deployed blankets ensured that it was still quite dark, but Toni didn't need the light to know that Ian's boots were already shining.

Backside-kissing fire-stomper, he thought tiredly. He wondered whether he should inform medical of his persistent headaches.

All cadets remained where they were. When Ian realized that no one was going to move in the predictable future he finally gave up, exiting the casern quietly without a backward glance. Toni suspected the special one was about to inform on them, but he couldn't have cared less; a day off was a day off in his book, and he was not alone in the thought.

"You guys thinking what I'm thinking?" Gordie croaked out loud. There were several answering grunts.

"If the Special One gives me grief today, I'm gonna fuck him up." he declared throatily.

"About time," someone groaned.

"Make it count," someone else added supportively, and similar remarks made themselves heard over the following minutes.

"Choose the time and place carefully, mate ..." was about all Toni could say. There were several agreeing grunts to the somewhat obvious suggestion.

And just like that, Ian Templeton had once again been promoted to target status. There was no need for deep discussion among them; he had simply pissed off too many people too many times for a cadet to be willing to speak in his defense. Comforted by the prospect of justice, Toni found himself drifting towards sleep again.

The lunch-horn rudely woke him.

He had managed to fall deeply asleep, and time must have flown by over the course of his slumber. Glancing at the wall-clock, he found both hands pointing to the number twelve. Surprisingly, Toni didn't feel hungry in the least, and even Gordie complained that he could have waited another hour or two before stuffing his face. The shift officer might have something to say to that, however, and so all reluctantly left their beds, some complaining loudly over the assortment of injuries they possessed.

There was little time. Within fifteen minutes the platoon would be expected to form up before the canteen, and so there was a hurried rush to the lavatories at the casern's opposite end, although not without the customary laughing and shoving that normally accompanied the trip. Thirteen brief minutes later, the platoon's male elements exited their casern at a swift jog and coursed towards the canteen. Something struck Toni as quite odd as he ran; no other platoons or companies were formed up inside the bright yellow rectangle at the canteen's entrance, where a single blonde cadet awaited their arrival. He also noticed that the few observable soldiers remained at their own caserns' entrances, some clearly showing surprise as they observed the cadets' progress.

The inertia of habit causing them to continue, the platoon formed up hastily as a beefy shift officer and his sergeant-at-arms joined them from the canteen's interior. Toni made no effort to remember their names.

"Well, well, just look at all those slumberous faces ..." the captain remarked with a smirk. He then turned towards Ian.

"Cadet, why are there five holes in the ranks?"

The cadet stood at attention and answered.

"Sir, there are only three missing cadets, the others have walked, sir."

"I see, but where are –" the captain began, but then something at the parade's opposite side caught his eye. His hardening features gave Toni the feeling the officer had just caught sight of the missing cadets.

Soldiers snorted and laughed as the three female cadets crossed the parade at a run. Each requested permission to join the ranks and hastily fell in, Rakaia occupying the empty space before Toni. As he waited for the storm to break, Toni glimpsed the sweaty outline of the Terminator's neck and wondered briefly whether she had ever been kissed there.

"I patiently await the inadequate excuse for your tardiness. Please take your time," the captain declared, a sardonic smile tugging at the corners of his almost lipless mouth. Rakaia snapped to attention.

"Captain, sir. We, um, had pressing sanitation issues to take care of, sir," she answered, earning a quick grin from the officer's stocky sidekick. The captain appeared unmoved by the explanation.

"I care not about the current state of your menstrual cycle, cadets! There is no justification for such a delay. This platoon is already well into its basic training and we're still seeing day-one fuckups here! I have been told your sergeant ordered you to get your rears out of bed over an hour ago. Isn't that correct? This is so far beyond disrespect, it borders on insubordination!" the captain roared.

A few silent moments passed by and the officer slowly regained his color, having apparently reached some sort of decision.

"Alright, so be it. I'd been pondering a simple chewing out and dismissal, but it seems we'll be requiring more drastic correctives. This platoon will remain formed up until the lunch hour arrives. If in the meantime I happen to notice a single cadet twitch in formation, you'll be spending the remainder of the afternoon in formation as well. That clear?" he finished, flashing them with a vicious grin before about-facing and returning to the canteen's cool interior.

There was silence as all digested what had just been said. Toni required no explanation; only Ian was permitted to carry a watch, and the caserns' wall-clocks were regulated by the shift officer from his office. He wondered idly what time it really was, and whether the stunt had been Ian's idea or the captain's.

In truth, it did not matter who the mastermind was. As the volume of whispering began to swell, all eyes became fixed on the blonde cadet standing rigidly at ease before them. Ian's expression hadn't changed over the last few minutes, but his eyes occasionally darted towards the cadets standing at ease before him. What he saw there probably didn't please him, and instead he began to stare long and hard into the void directly over their heads.

The whispers died down after a while and the cadets settled in for the wait until the lunch horn, the sun slowly baking Toni's ebony cap until he began to feel light-headed. He could usually bank on his unstoppable train-of-thought to entertain him in times like those, but today was a different matter. His body was in such discomfort that he couldn't focus on anything but the pain, nor could he manage to keep from staring at Ian's pale throat and imagining his hands wrapped around it.

After a while, base personnel began to loiter beneath the canteen building's shadowy overhang, curious at the collection of cadets suffering under the blood-red sun. Through his discomfort, Toni noticed that a few had huddled together and were talking excitedly amongst themselves, and he saw several credit-notes passed between hands.

Toni suddenly felt himself sway and quickly righted himself, and there was a sudden flurry of excitement among the huddle of nearby soldiers. That was all he needed to know what they were betting on.

As the platoon's discomfort began to peak, Toni once again heard dire mutterings from the cadets around him. Ray's voice was particularly prolific among the renewed threats and insults being hissed at Ian. He remained quiet, however, preferring instead to focus his attention on the canteen door in case the captain were to make an unexpected appearance. Gordie was making a particularly nasty remark about Ian's lineage when they heard a throat clearing noisily behind them.

"So this is how we treat each other when the brass isn't looking, huh?" a familiar voice remarked. "It seems we must inform the platoon commander that his lessons of unity are failing, mustn't we?"

The captain slowly stepped around the platoon from behind, his boots beating a slow and steady cadence against the concrete parade ground until he stood before them once more, smiling at their steadily reddening faces. Despite his embarrassment, Toni was quite impressed at the subterfuge. Impressed enough to take a brief glance at his nametag. ALBINO O -, it proudly declared.