It wasn't the best of times but I wouldn't trade it for anything. - General NoDra'ak, Commander, 7th Army, during his change of command ceremony speech.

The system of TLK-38732 was deep into the Long Dark. A third of the way back toward Terran Confederacy of Aligned Systems was located, poised dead center of the old Unified Civilized Council anti-spinward border.

A fairly non-descript system, it followed the same pattern of a stellar mass with fifteen orbital bodies. Two were hypermassive gas giants, four gas giants, and nine rocky bodies. There were two asteroid belts and a thick Oort Cloud. The system had plenty of comets, but they were all regular in their orbits and patterns.

The three planets in the green and amber zones for life had all been badly damaged during the First Precursor War, millions of years ago. Only one planet had managed to survive and begun to thrive again. The other two, both in the amber zone, bracketing the one in the green zone, were nothing more than scarred rocky planets with poisonous atmospheres and heavy metal laden seas.

Then the Confederate Armed Services had arrived.

Massive shipyards were constructed. Mass storage and mining facilities. Asteroid mining. Stellar corona energy gathering. A hypercom system under tight security.

The fourth planet, in the green zone, was surveyed and construction began. First came satellites, then defensive orbital platforms, then a weather control system, followed by an energy transfer system.

Then the ships began to land.

Turning the grass, moss, and fungi covered planet into a massive military base.

Seventh Army, Coreward Forces, had moved in.

Compared the Lanaktallan military planets, it was not heavily populated. Only the eighteen divisions that made up 7th Army, their dependents, and civilian workers and entrepreneurs.

A population of eighty-five million was laughably tiny to the pre-Big C3 planners of the Unified Military Council.

But 7th Army stood at nearly 5 million.

From First Telkan Marine Division to 9th Hesstlan Armor Division to 3rd Armor Division (Old Blood) to IX Guards and more, the entire planet was devoted to training military forces.

It had originally been designed as a launching point and bastion for waging war on the Unified Civilized Council worlds.

During the Atrekna Conflict AKA The Second Precursor War, the massive military complex had been only skeleton crewed. Rear Detachments, training units, major hospitals.

Three months prior had seen 7th Army return from deployment. Units that had been scattered all across the Operation Shattered Finch had returned to TLK-38732.

Motorpools were full. Airfields were full. XVI Fleet had returned and was rearming, retraining, and reconstituting. Male, female, both and neither of over a dozen races jogged on the roads of the military bases in the early mornings, worked through the day, and gratefully returned to their lodging after the work was done.

21st Replacement had the nightmare task of figuring out who had been with which unit for how long. Even worse, they had to figure out how long every being had been in service.

Only three years had passed since the founding of the military system.

There were service members who had been in the Confederate Armed Services for nearly a century who were returning three years after their initial induction.

The medical boards were booked for months.

Many service members expected there to be lawsuits, legal arguments, and more over the fact that temporal warfare had been the watchword of the day.

Most, who had enlisted in the Confederate Armed Services after their worlds were liberated, were startled to find out that the Confederate Armed Service had regulations and protocol.

Temporal Disruptions to Service was the entire section.

Med-hold units found themselves stuffed to the gills with beings that had been in service for over thirty years since they had been on TLK-38732 only a year prior.

Doctors at the hospital met with patients who were suffering the effects of advanced age despite longevity therapies who had only joined a year or so prior.

Mental Health Services found themselves practically drowning in patients, to the point that Confederate Department of Defense moved nearly a division of mental health specialists and doctors to TLK-38732. Smokey Cone itself sent nearly a thousand spirit-doctors to help heal the trauma many had suffered.

But the troops still ran down the road in perfect cadence, in perfect formation, their feet pounding the traditional tarmac, their guidons held high, their voices raised in song.

General NoDra'ak turned from the window, where he had watched the 193 Special Troops, 5th Division, Telkan Marine Corps, run by.

To see dogbois run is something I thought I would never see in my life, he mused as he lit a cigarette and sat down behind his desk.

7th Army wasn't in bad shape, but it wasn't in great shape either. He had recently read the reports of a Hesstlan medic who had joined less than five years prior had been medically boarded out of service at over eighty years old.

Spending your whole life in the military is one thing. Returning home to find out you are older than your parents, possibly even your grand-parents, is another thing indeed, he mused, looking over the reports.

The Temporal Warfare Office had produced its report.

By Temporal Warfare Office standards, the vast majority of 7th Army were temporal casualties. Of the troops, 93% had at least five more years in service per individual than standard galactic time would indicate.

The retention offices are pulling their hair out. Temporally sunken systems mandated stop-loss for any troops engaged in fighting. Now, they're trying to convince people to re-enlist after they spent five, ten, or even twenty years fighting in a system when less than a year passed outside, NoDra'ak thought to himself, looking over the data.

I've been in charge of 7th Army for nineteen years according to my own local temporal stream. Yet it was only two years ago I accepted the command of 7th Army according to the rest of the galaxy, he thought. He shook his head. I should have retired or changed command prior to this, but galactic local I'm only in the middle of my command tour.

The big Treana'ad had to admit, he was starting to feel it a little.

Oh, it wasn't anything major.

Just, where he'd regrown his legs, arm, and bladearm on one side ached some days. His CASPFT (Confederate Armed Services Physical Fitness Test) scores had started to slide slightly, from the 450 out of 500 he'd always managed to reach or exceed, to 375 the last test, barely making the 60 point minimum several times.

His left side hurt to breathe after any extended physical activity.

I'm getting old, he thought, looking up at the walls, where a lifetime of awards, memorabilia, holosnaps or vidsnaps, and souvenirs were all displayed. He leaned back in the chair. The Atrekna incurred serious casualties on the military. Not necessarily the dead, but how many people need to be separated from service. It'll be a massive manpower, skill, and brain drain on the services.

He looked back at his desk, the data displayed on it.

Still not as bad as the Mar-gite War or that shitshow Clownface, he thought to himself. Thank the Digital Omnimessiah and the Biological Apostles for small favors.

Sitting on his desk, hardcopy only so there was no trace of it in the electronic and computer systems, was the recommendation from the Office of Temporal Warfare.

Bad enough that we're back to 480p or less, mostly text, and everything tinged red, but whatever changed really messed things up, he thought as he unsealed the document carrier and shook the document inside out.

He read it quickly, then got up and put it in his file cabinet.

Reduced to regular paperwork, he mused, giving the equivalent of a smile. Filed in triplicate, according to color, and much of it done on an electrically driven typewriter.

He closed the filing cabinet and sat down.

I'm past retirement age now. Not minimum retirement, but full retirement. A few more Red Suns and I'll probably be past mandatory retirement, he thought. He reached into his desk, pulled out a can of fizzypop and cracked it open. At least initial scouting reports are showing that most systems we had not assaulted yet are 'rising up' on their own. Atrekna presence so far has been limited to the Servitor species and the Dwellerspawn.

He sighed. The Dwellerspawn. We've got to liberate those planets and restore the eco-systems in hundreds of planets.

He reached up, closed his eyes, and rubbed the hard chitin covers.

PERSCOM (PERSonnel COMmand) is already having fits applying the temporal warfare protocols to virtually every deployed being in the theater, he thought. We've got beings who were bare minimum age to join when they arrived in 7th Army that are past mandatory retirement age for their species with only two or three Red Sun Assaults in their jackets.

General NoDra'ak made his decision. He hated to do it, but it had to be done.

-----

FROM THE DESK OF GENERAL NODRA'AK

At this time the entirety of 7th Army is under a bar to reenlistment as well as a bar to permanent change of station. All previous bars to reenlistment, promotion, or change of station shall be lifted.

The entirety of 7th Army is to be considered under stop-loss until further notice, unless separated by a medical or temporal warfare board.

All serving members of 7th Army must undergo temporal warfare compensation protocols. Full medical and mental health checks, age determination, as well as a practice CASPFT to let troops see where they need improvement to pass a CASPFT that will be set at a later date.

Currently, all field exercises are canceled as well as any deployments.

All troops are to be considered non-deployable until cleared by Temporal Warfare, MEDCOM (MEDical COMmand), MENTCOM (MENTal health COMmand), and PERSCOM.

Retention Offices should prepare to do a full accountability of troops who qualify for reenlistment.

21st Replacement should prepare to replace all soldiers lost due to medical or temporal issues.

-----

Major Vuxten, 5th Telkan Marine Division, sat and picked at the gown that he was dressed in. Parts of him still ached, itched, or felt violated from the in-depth medical scans that the hospital had performed on him over the last three hours.

Knowing that he wasn't the only one having it done wasn't exactly a balm to his wounds.

He lifted his feet and looked at them, noting the gray fur around his toenails. One toe was twisted slightly, an old break that hadn't healed right and at the time hadn't seemed like a huge issue.

The medics and doctors had scanned his foot a dozen times.

There was a light knock at the door and Vuxten lowered his feet, sitting up straighter, and put his hands in his lap as the door opened and the russet mantid Tender of Wounds moved into the room. The russet mantid was holding a dataslate and looking at it as she moved over to the chair and sat down.

Vuxten sat silent as the doctor paged through the data on the dataslate, then moved to look at the paperwork on the clipboard that she'd hung from her belt.

After nearly five minutes the doctor looked up.

"How long would you estimate you've been in service, Major?" the russet asked. "Knowing that only eight years have passed since your conscription."

Vuxten thought about it, then shrugged. "I don't know. Ten years? Fifteen?"

The doctor shook her head. "Counting your last Red Sun Dive, you're at twenty-five exactly."

Vuxten blinked.

It hadn't seemed like that long to him.

"You're fourty-seven years old according to Confederate Armed Services records, Major," Tender said gently. "You've had nerve replacement multiple times, the last one was across the entire front of your body. Both eyes, both ears, one liver, and your secondary spleen have all been replaced. You have internal tissue scarring and adhesions as well as nerve damage specific to phasic shade attacks," she set the dataslate and the clipboard down. "You were one of the first Telkan in service."

Vuxten nodded, his gut clenching.

"Without even going into your phasic contamination, commonly referred to as 'enragement', you've suffered twenty-five years of high intensity war-time service," Tender said. "That does not take into account what looks like nearly 18 months of extra-dimensional service."

"What..." Vuxten's voice was dry and raspy and he swallowed a few times to wet his throat. "What does it mean?"

"According to genescans, you're approximately fifty-three. You're in remarkable physical and genetic condition for your age, as according to Unified Neo-Sapients Council records your species enters late middle-age at forty-five and elderly at fifty," Tender said gently.

She folded her bladearms across her lap.

"You're not the oldest Telkan in service, Major," the russet mantid said gently.

"What about longevity treatments?" Vuxten asked, his mouth still dry and his paw palms feeling damp and clammy.

Tender shook her head. "Major, your genetic sequences have been radically altered, by not only the touch of the Digital Omnimessiah, but by your stint as one of the New Biological Apostles," she said. "Longevity treatments for Telkan are still barely out of the experimental stage. With your decades of service and exposure to genetically altering contaminates and environments, you are radically diverged from your Corps baseline as it was recorded after your conscription."

Vuxten nodded. "So... so what happens next?"

His stomach clenched as Tender sat silently.

"You'll have to undergo skills and knowledge testing, as well as recertification on just about everything," she said. She shook her head. "The medical board will probably want to see your recertification results, if you choose or are able to recertify.

"Major, I've referred you Mental Health as well as a review to see if you must undergo a medical board. If you pass that, you'll be passed to retention. Retention will make the final decision," she said. She stood up and held out one hand.

Vuxten shook it out of reflex.

"Good luck, Major," she said.

She paused at the doorway.

"If it's any consolation, Major," she said.

Vuxten looked up.

"There's a six month waiting list for medical boards, sorted by urgency, right now. You're low priority compared to some of my patients," she said.

The door closed and she was gone.

Vuxten sat for a long moment, staring at his carefully folded adaptive camouflage uniform and shined boots.

I've been in the Corps over half my life, he thought, staring at his uniform. Brennie's only been Planetary Director for five years. My podlings are still small children. My broodcarriers are still fluffy.

He stood up and took off the gown, slowly getting dressed.

He stared in the mirror at himself for a moment.

I'm older than my brother.

He walked out of the evaluation room, past beings waiting their turn, being weighed, or just moving through the hallway, heading to the elevator. Once he was in, he punched the button and waited. Once out of the elevator he made his way to the parking garage.

Pv2 Bit.nek was slumped down in the seat, hat pulled over his eyes. As soon as Vuxten got in, he fired up the ground car and headed back to Regimental Headquarters.

"How did it go, sir?" Bit.nek asked, tapping his ashes out of the crack between the window and the frame.

"They're med-boarding me," Vuxten said, staring down.

At the stop-light Bit.nek leaned over and slammed his fist against the top of the dash in front of Vuxten. The glove box popped open, revealing a bottle of hard alk.

"Have a swig, sir," he said, hitting the turn signal.

"How did yours go?" Vuxten asked, taking out the bottle and twisting the top.

"Told me to watch my diet, quit drinking, quit smoking, quit entertaining myself with females of loose morals of various species," Bit.nek shrugged. "Typical sawbones talk," he hit the accelerator and pulled smoothly into the left hand street. He glanced at Vuxten, who was taking a drink off the bottle.

"Figure going out from a heart attack with a smoke in my hand, a BAC of point two, with a Welkret honey riding me is a better way to go than I saw a lot of guys go out," Bit.nek said.

"True," Vuxten said, wiping his mouth and recapping the bottle.

"They're putting the Colonel in front of a med-board," Bit.nek said.

"Chuck?" Vuxten asked.

Bit.nek nodded. "I'm buddies with his driver and his aides driver. He doesn't think he'll pass," the private said. "He shouldn't have gone back out with his arm the way it was after we got atom smashed. Damaged his left side limb-spinal cord."

"He looked fine to me," Vuxten said, looking out the window.

The Terran Descent Felines of the 432nd Special Troops Battalion (Fire-Catz) were doing grass drills on the lawn of their barracks in full battle gear as the groundcar went by.

"Apparently, from what I heard, he's got less than 20% sensation down the entire left side of his body and his bladearms are numb," Bit.nek shrugged.

"The Atrekna did a number on us," Vuxten said as Bit.nek hit the blinker to turn into the Regimental HQ parking lot.

"They had a vested interest in winning too, Major," Bit.nek said, turning in. "They knew what the outcome was if they lost, we knew what was in store for us if we lost. We just wanted it more."

Bit.nek parked the vehicle and shut it down.

"I'll wait in the vehicle in case you need me, sir," Bit.nek said, picking his hat back up off the dash.

Vuxten just nodded, getting out and putting his softcap on.

He glanced back at the vehicle and saw that Bit.nek was slumped down again, hat brim pulled down to cover his eyes.

The orderly room was busy, beings moving back and forth. Typewriters clacking, computers and copiers and printers humming. Soft conversations filling the air.

Vuxten headed back toward his office.

Once inside he sat down, glancing at 471's desk. The diminutive green mantid had left his wallpaper and answering service up.

Vuxten turned around and looked out the window, staring at the grass lawn of the quad.

Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of my life, he thought.

Before he could do anything else, his comlink chirped.

"Major Vuxten," he said, turning around and hitting the button.

"Regimental Retention for you, sir," the private outside said.

Vuxten put away all the worries. "Line three," he said.

"Roger, sir," the private said, disconnecting. The light for line three lit up.

Vuxten picked up the handset. "Major Vuxten speaking, how may I help you, sir, ma'am, both or neither?"

"Captain Prawlawrk here, Major, Regimental Headquarters Company Retention Officer," the voice said.

"What can I do for you, Captain?" Vuxten asked.

"I've been told I need to look over your record, schedule with the Recertification Office," the Captain said, their voice sounding much more chipper than Vuxten thought it should.

"Already?" Vuxten asked. "I've only been out of the hospital for less than an hour."

"You were marked as priority," the Captain said. "How does tomorrow work for you? I've got a group going to the simulators for power armor requalification."

Vuxten sighed.

"Sure, sounds good," he said.