Another of my New Year's resolution prompt responses. This one was actually meant to be uploaded yesterday, but I liked it so much that I put off uploading it until today. (Yes, I know that kinda defeats the point, but I DO WHAT I WANT.)

Anyways, here you'll be introduced to one of Jace's friends from his time in the Faolchian Army. The story is nowhere near complete, and I will most likely expand upon it later. (The first thing to go will be that crappy title...) Enjoy!

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057. Dust

"It had been years since I'd seen the place, and for good reason. When even the Faolchian Army abandons a post, there’s little reason to stay. A friend of mine from training had sent me a cryptic message asking for my advice in person. Of course I went. What else could anyone do for a pal in the Army? And if I'd known then what I know now, I would still have gone..."

Their lonely outpost was one of just three in the Goran Desert, that persistent blight in the middle of the Continent. In the early days of the Faolchian Empire's expansion, a few small towns had sprung up around oases despite the sweltering heat, mostly to serve as way stations for trade caravans that crossed the treacherous sands daily. Naturally, the folks in Parliament thought it best to plant a few forts to protect their citizens - but more importantly, the valuable wares that they sent north. Even under the new constitutional republic, the forts remained. Ostensibly, the people were overjoyed for the protection. Secretly, they questioned the soldiers' presence as the soldiers did themselves. No bandits were seen or even heard of, and on the rare occasion that a shipment would vanish, the next caravan would happen upon the remains. There were never any bullet holes, nor blaster marks; just unfortunate souls that were caught in the open by a sandstorm and swallowed up.

The unlucky soldiers sent to stand watch in the Goran Desert were the misfits, the nitwits and the dipshits, passed over and left behind. Penal battalions had been disallowed since before the War, even before the Officers' Coupe, but there was little to stop a general from consistently giving one battalion the very worst assignment available. I was astonished to find that General Murin had been given command of the Unlucky 11th Regiment. After the disaster he threw my half-trained company into, he ought to have been hanged, or at least court-martialed. Perhaps giving him command of the 11th was his punishment. Never mind that he was only the latest in a long string of generals whose views toward the 11th were nothing short of disgust. The position was just a stepping stone for him, a point which he made painfully obvious by never issuing a single order. Command of the Unlucky 11th was left entirely up to their lieutenant colonel, my old friend Chance.

I approached the base with my rifle and pack slung over my shoulder and identical side arms on my belt. When the sentry asked for my ID, I showed him instead the note my old friend had thoughtfully sent along with his letter, ordering those under his command to extend every courtesy to me. The sentry motioned me inside without a word. I couldn't tell if he'd accepted the written order from his commander, or if he simply didn't care enough to question it. That question was answered quickly enough when a lanky pair of soldiers wielding machine guns that probably weighed more than they did stepped up on either side of me. As we marched quickly through the blowing sand, I glanced around, but there was nothing I didn’t expect to see. Rings of trenches and pits for crew-served weapons marked the perimeter. Further back were pits for mortars and quad cannons that I presumed were originally intended to shoot down aircraft. Within the base sat rows of barracks that looked like cans half-buried in the ground, a mess hall and a few scattered tents, and at the center was the command bunker, which the Army had somehow forgotten to construct underground. From loose chatter, I gathered that Chance had taken the smallest hut available, but spent most of his time pouring over maps and dispatches in the bunker. The guards stopped at the entrance and nodded inside.

When I stepped inside, I spotted two dogs hunched over a long table in the middle of the room. It was easy to recognize my pit bull friend, but before I could get a good look at the second dog, he glanced up and immediately drew his side arm on me. Chance looked over his shoulder and shoved the Rottweiler’s arm down.

“Woah, Max, stand down!”

The big Rottweiler glanced at Chance the way an irritated father would look at his son. Disregarding the breed difference, it could almost be true. The command sergeant easily looked twice Chance’s age, yet it seemed that he had allowed Chance to push his arm down. There was serious power underneath that uniform, and I made note of it as I approached the table.

“Colonel Ember,” I smiled, sticking out my hand.

Chance took it with a grin to match. “Just Chance, please. I think we know each other well enough for first names, Jace.”

“What the Hell is a merc doing in a Faolchian Army command bunker?” the Rottweiler growled, hand still hovering over his holstered pistol.

Chance almost chuckled, gesturing to him. “This upstanding gentleman is Command Sergeant Major Maximus Persh.” I made to salute, but Chance grabbed my arm. “Oh, don’t salute him out of uniform, or he’s liable to break that hand.” Pit-bull turned to Rottweiler. “Max, this is Jace Taer. Certainly you remember what I told you about the attack on the capital, just before the War? How my company was thrown into the defense, under-power and barely trained.”

The Rottweiler gave a curt nod.

“Jace was my lieutenant then, and the only reason I’m standing in front of you today.”

Max’s eyes snapped from Chance to me, and though I still sensed a healthy distrust, he moved his hand away from his holster. Good enough. “That’s all well and good, sir,” he rumbled. “But with respect, what is he doing here?”

Chance set his jaw and I couldn’t help but smile at his attempt to frown. “He’s here to help us.”

“With respect, we don’t need his help, sir.”

“You don’t, Max. I do." Max narrowed his eyes when Chance turned back to me, but said nothing. "And believe me, my friend, you'll have your hands full."

"...Little did any of us know how true Chance's words were. Even the Unlucky 11th had some measure of good fortune, but what little they had was about to run out..."