Now live with it. - The Malevolent Universe

"Tank 4-4-83 is taking heavy fire from crew served weapons emplacements," Communications Specialist Twelve Spre'ekmo'o said, one hand pressed against the side of his helmet. "Heavy rockets, look home-made, no seekers, just fire and forget."

"Tell them to hold on, we're on the way," Ge'ermo'o snapped, looking through the periscope.

His tank was surrounded by smoke that occluded the surroundings. The turbofans were howling, pushing the hovertank deeper into the city that the rebel Corporate Security Forces were making their last stand in.

"Tank 5-2-68 has hit an IED. Crew is bailing out, under heavy fire from small arms. Lasers taken from the Executor Corps armory," Spre'ekmo'o added.

"TARGET!" De'dmo'o called out, his face pressed against the gunner's sight.

"Verify target," Ge'ermo'o said, feeling his guts clench.

"Improvised light armored vehicle," De'dmo'o said.

"Permission granted to fire," Ge'ermo'o checked the periscope. He could see the vehicle, a heavy cargo hauler now burdened by battlesteel plating and what looked like a heavy plasma cannon attached down the spine of the vehicle. The vehicle was turning, trying to line up 1-1-7, Ge'ermo'o's tank.

"FIRING!" De'dmo'o said. "NEGATIVE HIT!"

"Get on it!" Ge'ermo'o said.

"WE'RE BEING PINGED!" Ha'artmo'o yelled from the sensor's station. "Many many..."

"FIRING! NEGATIVE HIT!"

The improvised tank was lined up with 1-1-7, the barrel glowing.

"FIRING!"

The improvised tank exploded in flame.

Rockets fired from both sides hit 1-1-7, collapsing the fully charged battlescreen with the first two rockets. A dozen more hit the heavy tank from both sides, almost all of them wasting themselves and only putting pockmarks in the armor.

Almost.

One got through, hitting right where the designers had ensured everyone that it could not be hit.

The explosively forged penetrator, part of the HEAP round, came in high, fired from the 35th story of the smouldering skyraker. It hit just forward of the tank commander's hatch.

The inside of the 1-1-7 filled with white fire.

Ge'ermo'o heard two of his men scream, sounds of utter agony that cut off almost instantly.

The fire faded even as the TC's hatch popped open. The automatic system tossed Ge'ermo'o out of the tank, lifting him to the top even as fire consumed the crew compartment of the tank.

But not before he had seen what was left of the men he had served with for fifty years.

He stood underneath a cloudy sky, ash and cinders raining down around him, mixed with the black sludge of ash-laden rain. He had his rifle in his hand, his body armor on, and his helmet on tight. He was gagging, choking on the carbonized ash that had been his men.

Small arms tapped at the tank's armor around him. He jumped, clumsily, and landed in the decorative bushes that were still somehow green, getting tangled up.

Fire started walking toward him, blowing divots out of the ferrocrete roadway.

He managed to get to his feet, still gagging, still choking on the thick greasy cloying ash that had been his men.

Two rounds hit his rear flank, slamming him back into the bush again. It wrapped around his arms, his legs, his throat, choking him, squeezing him. He fought, struggling, even as rounds fired by the rebel Corporate Security troops snapped at the brush and cratered the wall next to him.

More rockets were firing out of the skyraker, pounding the column of tanks that Ge'ermo'o had led down the main avenue of the city. The battlescreens, promised to be effective against anything Corporate Security could field, collapsed when the first few rockets detonated on them. The rest got through and the night was lit by exploding tanks. Some, just a burning hole in the side, white fire rimming it, was the only evidence. Still others, the plasma cannon ammunition locker exploded, shattering the tank. Shrapnel and chunks of armor shattered windows around Ge'ermo'o as the rocket ambush ripped apart the Military Forces tank column. It's fans howling like a wounded god, 1-1-12 fired at the skyraker, the plasma cannon gutting the lower floors. 1-1-42 fired at the upper level. The gunner's nest exploded in flame as the last of the rockets hit home and 1-1-42 exploded and 1-1-12 veered off to crash into debris, a hole rimmed with white fire burning brightly. Burning debris landed in the bushes, catching them on fire. The vines and tendrils of the bushes wrapped tighter as he struggled to get free before the fire reached him.

Ge'ermo'o threw his head back and screamed at the sky.

He woke up suddenly, thrashing, trying to get loose, trying to draw his weapon, trying to do something, anything, to change what had happened.

It took him a moment to realize he was tangled in his sleeping sling.

He sagged in place, breathing heavy, his flanks and torso covered in sweat that dripped from him and onto the floor.

A grainy hologram of a Lanaktallan appeared.

"You are under severe emotional and mental distress," the eVI said.

"Nightmare," Ge'ermo'o gagged out.

"Your bloodwork and physiological response affirms your statement. Would you like a sedative?" the eVI asked.

"No thanks," Ge'ermo'o said, carefully disengaging himself from the tangled sleeping sling.

"Do you wish to talk to a Mental Health technician or a Treana'ad Spirit Healer?" the eVI asked.

"No," Ge'ermo'o said. He took two steps forward and his knees almost gave out.

He could still taste his crew on his tongue.

"This is your ninth concurrent refusal. One more and I will be mandated to alert your chain of command to your continual refusal rather than alerting mental health. This will result in mandatory physician and mental health examinations as well as non-discretionary Mental Health system care," the eVI warned. "You are no longer eligible for command or mission essential status waivers. This is your official notice that you are no longer covered under Great Herd or Atomic Hooves' waivers. As per General NoDra'ak's directive, all psychological injuries must be reported, regardless of previous standards."

"Pound sand," Ge'ermo'o used the growl that the Terrans he had learned the phrases from always used, leaning against the dresser. He put the heels of all four hands against his eyes, closing his rear eyes, and rubbed hard at his eyes to banish that last lingering look at the inside of the tank that had been his first independent command.

"Is there any assistance I can give?" the eVI asked.

"Ask the Detainee to take my dreams," Ge'ermo'o said. He stumbled to the bathroom and grabbed the mouthwash.

It was bitter, astringent, and could probably peel the paint from a tank's hull, but it cut the taste from his mouth despite the fact it only existed in his mind. He swished a few times and spit into the sink before looking in the mirror.

He looked fine.

No scars. No markings.

There was no mute evidence to what had happened. To his impossible survival when rebel Corporate Security rockets had destroyed his tank.

And killed his men.

It is a testament to the malevolence of the universe that I bear no markings of that fateful night, Ge'ermo'o thought.

He reached over and slapped the button next to the shower, loading the preset.

Ge'ermo'o preferred water to ultrasonics. Ultrasonics made his hide prickle, made his skin tickle.

And that brought the memories back.

He stepped into the hot water, letting the smart-shower apply the spray all over his body. Rather than use the automatic scrubbing system, he took his time scrubbing himself, closing his eyes and breathing deep of the scent of the lather he scrubbed up on his hide.

The water washed away the sweat, the lather, and the last remaining bits of his dream.

It would seem my victories, my successes, in the decades since, would have made the dream fade. Rather, it made the memories stronger, made them more frequent, Ge'ermo'o mused as he got out and used a terrycloth towel to dry off with rather than the warm air blowers. Now, despite what my brain screams to do differently, I instead know what I am doing wrong right before the rocket hits.

He trotted into the bedroom and selected a set of physical training clothes and an off-duty sash.

The worst part is, the knowledge that I did nothing wrong, based on the data I had, what I had been promised the capabilities of the tanks were, and what I was facing, Ge'ermo'o thought to himself.

He left his General Officer's Quarters, stopping by the vending machine to buy a pack of Countess Crey Nuke-Hot Pretzels and a Kiwi-Manzaberry Superblast fizzypop.

It was late, only 0200 hours local, but he knew that he had to work off the stress or he'd never get to sleep.

The gym wasn't far. It was open, the competition floor where Treana'ad played basketball empty, the room dim.

Ge'ermo'o went into the locker room, dropping off his drink and snack in a locker, then bought a bottle of RealWater™ to take with him into the weight room.

The room was almost empty. Just two Tukna'rn working out, a Telkan using the climbing pegs, and another Lanaktallan on the AllInOne weight machine.

Ge'ermo'o moved up to the treadmill and set it for a light trot to start out with, with only a level one incline. The machine no longer offered VR trails or scenery, too risky in the post-Shade Night world. He dug out his earpads from the pocket on the back of his sash and put them in.

The sounds of the Telkan Church of the Digital Omnimessiah Choir filled his ear.

He stared at himself in the mirror as he trotted along.

The Confederate Armed Services stressed physical fitness. Not just among line infantry but among the entire service force. Tankers, power armor jocks, finance clerks, cooks, even paper pushers were all expected to be in excellent physical condition.

Ge'ermo'o had been startled to find out that poor physical condition without service related injuries or disabilities was reason for a shameful discharge. He was even more startled to find out that severe enough injuries mandated separations from service.

The Great Herd had not worried about physical condition for any but light infantry.

But Ge'ermo'o had also learned a Terran saying.

In the end, everyone's infantry, was what NoDra'ak had taught.

Ge'ermo'o had found out that the saying was ultimately true.

The memory surged up, unbidden, as they often did after his nightmares.

"Sir, behind you!" Spre'ekmo'o said, pointing with his one remaining arm, the bones of his lower ribcage gleaming ivory in the light.

Ge'ermo'o twisted at the waist, bringing the rifle around, and fired at where Spre'ekmo'o was pointing with fingers that were nothing but bare bone, his rounds blowing apart a large beetle.

Holding onto the bars firmly, he closed his eyes, controlling his breathing, focusing on the feeling of his hooves pounding against the plasteel conveyor belt as it moved beneath his hooves.

He opened his eyes as another Lanaktallan climbed onto the treadmill next to Ge'ermo'o. A quick look at the mirror told Ge'ermo'o that the Lanaktallan at the Omnistation was still working out, his black hide shining with sweat and tight over thick rippling muscle.

A glance in the mirror at the Lanaktallan next to him and Ge'ermo'o recognized him.

"Ha'almo'or," Ge'ermo'o said, nodding slightly.

"Ge'ermo'o," the other said.

There were no ranks in the gym.

"Surprised you aren't out saving another city," Ge'ermo'o said. He winced when he heard the tone. Flat. Dead. A slight bite to it.

Ha'almo'or shook his head. "No. Just making it through the night."

"My apologies. My statement came out snide when I meant it to be jocular," Ge'ermo'o said. He rubbed his forward eyes. "My night was, sadly, one familiar to us both."

"No offense was taken, Ge'ermo'o," Ha'almo'or said. He shook his head.

The two exercised on the treadmill silently. Not pushing themselves, despite the bone deep desire to push their bodies to exhaustion.

"Hand ball?" Ge'ermo'o asked.

Ha'almo'or nodded. "I would enjoy such physical activity."

The handball game, another Terran sport, was fast, exhilerating, and exhausting. After three 21 point games the two separated.

"Be well, Ge'ermo'o," Ha'almo'or said.

"You too, Ha'almo'or," Ge'ermo'o answered.

Ge'ermo'o trotted away, into the night, keeping it nice and slow. He opened the bag of pretzels and began snacking on them, relishing the painful burn of the all natural pretzels, washing it down when it got too much with a drink from his fizzypop.

When he reached his General Officer's Quarters suite he went inside, undressing and showering again.

He stared at his hands for a long moment in the shower.

They were clean.

Ge'ermo'o got out of the shower, dried off, and didn't bother with any modesty clothing as he went over to the sleeping sling and thumbed the pad to have it retract into the ceiling. He stepped onto the colored plate and activated it.

He felt himself go weightless, his hooves lifting off the plate. He opened his grainy holographic menu and went through the selections.

There was a live-stream of a Hamaroosan female cleaning the kitchen. An autonomous sensory meridian response video streamer that had nearly twenty million beings watching her clean her kitchen as she sang very softly to herself. The chat window had plenty of snooze icons and most of the names had "Zzzzz" tags on them to signify that the watcher was asleep.

He turned it on, set the hologram to move to be seen by any of his eyes he opened up, and relaxed.

He floated over the countergrav plate as the Hamaroosan female cleaned her kitchen, almost unaware of when he went from wakefulness to asleep.

-----

The day was cloudy, blustery, with the wind snatching at the breath in gusts.

Nearly fifty tanks were on the firing line, all of the massive vehicles trembling with restrained force.

Ge'ermo'o sat in the chair in the Range Control Booth, looking over the data. He looked out at the range and nodded when he saw there was nothing but blasted terrain.

"RANGE CLEAR!" sounded out.

Ge'ermo'o checked his instruments and nodded.

"LOAD PRACTICE MUNITIONS!" sounded out over the speakers even as it was transmitted to the crews of the tanks.

Ge'ermo'o nodded as the icons for the tanks showed that the proper rounds were loaded. None jammed, none got hung up, and all of them were practice rounds.

The Atomic Hooves no longer used plasma. Its tankers were training for standard Confederate Armed Services medium bore projectile cannon.

"MOVE SELECTOR FROM SAFE TO FIRE!" sounded out.

Ge'ermo'o watched the tanks all go live.

"RANGE IS LIVE! PREPARE TO ENGAGE!"

Ge'ermo'o leaned forward slightly.

He was confident in his men.

"ENGAGE AT WILL!" sounded out right before a loud, annoying buzzer that Ge'ermo'o knew would be transmitted to the crews.

He sat and watched as his men engaged the practice targets.

You will learn. I will teach you, the Lanaktallan General thought to himself. Hold to your training and you will survive. I will not waste your lives.