Battle Earth VII (6 page)

"And why should we care?"

"Your work now is to publicise the Corps and provide a positive recruiting role model for the next generation. So we may not like it, but you just single-handedly won over millions of people in a couple of minutes, doing nothing more than you were trained to do and have been doing for years."

"You don't really want to keep that circus going?"

"If the method works, then I can live with a lot. You remember what it was like after the last war ended. Nobody wanted to know about the Corps or signing up for future conflicts. This has struck home and is getting people thinking about it on a daily basis. This is exactly what we need to get some damn enthusiasm. Hell, almost nobody wants to sign up anymore. We lost massive numbers in the wars, and as many again who retired or found some other path out. Do you know how many thousands of marines we have lost to PTSD and who will never return to duty?"

"I think I know better than most," Taylor replied sharply.

The General sighed in response. He didn't like locking horns with Taylor. Neither of them wanted to be discussing the subject, and yet they knew it was their duty to do so.

"So whoever is running this, what do they want from me?"

"Another fight."

He knew it would be the answer, but he still gasped.

"Haven't I fought enough for this country...this planet?"

"And that is why they want you, in France. A guaranteed safe bet. They want someone who can do this, without risk to themselves and the people who they associate with."

"You talk about fighting the Krys as if they are helpless animals to be put down. Have you ever come to blows with one, General?"

He shook his head. "I am glad to say never."

"Precisely. Even without any weapons, they are highly dangerous opponents who should not be toyed with."

"Then don't toy. Go in there like you always do, and get the job done."

They were both quiet for a moment. Taylor could see there would be no getting out of it.

"And what if I left the Corps?" he asked.

The General's face sank in surprise and horror.

"Why on Earth would you think of doing that?"

"I am entitled to. I have done my service, and then some. I can put in my papers and be out of here before the month is through."

"But why? Not because of this fight? What is it you want? A rise?"

He shook his head.

"Then what?"

"To not have to put up with this bullshit. To not have weasel little bastards like Weaver breathing down my throat, and being pulled around like some puppet to give crappy displays for an unappreciating public who want nothing more than to see blood. This is not what I signed up for, and not what we fought for!"

The General's concern turned to anger at his comments.

"So what, you'll walk out of the only career you've ever known, and do what? Piss about drinking too much and trying to relive the glory days. You're a fighter, a marine; it's all you know how to be. Now you don't have to like these orders, but by God you will follow them. You can be nothing out there in the World, a bum with nothing to offer, or you can be a Marine officer and a hero. You may have done great things in the war, but it is the machine behind you that made that possible and has made you the celebrity you are today."

Celebrity? Christ that's the last thing I want.
All I ever wanted in my years
in the Corps was to have some kind of life with Parker, and now that’s the one thing being held from me.

"All right, I'll do it. But this is gonna end badly. The Krys aren't some wild animals to be cut up in an arena. Mark my words, this is the worst thing to have happened since we won the war, and you will regret it."

"It's out of my hands, and not for either of us to decide. I must follow my orders, just like you must follow yours."

* * *

Taylor walked back into his home and headed straight for the closet and grabbed his kitbag. He turned around to see Parker standing opposite him in the hallway.

"Thought you'd be at work by now?" he asked.

"I booked these few days off to share with you, remember?"

He had already forgotten.

"What can I say? I have my orders."

She knew it was useless to argue with that, but she wanted to nonetheless.

"You have to take this up the chain of command. You aren't a machine. You can't keep working day after day."

"We did in the war."

"Yeah, but the war's over. We worked without rest because the survival of our race was at stake. Why do you need to do it now, except to just appease a few idiots?"

He nodded in agreement.

"When I get back, I'll take this up the chain of command and see what I can do. They can't run me like this forever. They want me to fight over in France. I think it's a bad idea, and I think they'll realise it pretty quick."

"Why France?"

"Ah, some publicity stunt, I suppose; recreate a fight of the war or some shit."

"So they are making a gladiator of you?"

"I guess."

"A little bit beneath you, don't you think?"

"Marines, are we not the gladiators of our day?"

"No, because we don't play to a crowd."

"Mmm," he grunted back.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Look, I don't want to fight about it. These are my orders. I don't like them either, but they are what they are. I promise once this is over, I'll push for a few weeks’ leave, and we'll go somewhere nice."

"I don't want to go somewhere nice. I just want you."

It brought a smile to his face.

"And you'll have me. Just give me a few days."

* * *

Thirty minutes later Taylor was aboard the bridge of the Deveron and soaring across the World for France. The ship had almost become his personal transport for publicity purposes. The crew loved it, for it meant light duties and a heap of attention from crowds wherever they went. Jafar travelled with him as ever.

The crew discussed Taylor's fight with such enthusiasm and expectation of what was to come next. They seemed to have enjoyed the concept as much as the public had. He hadn't thought those who had served in the war would be so keen for it. Then he looked around and realised that whereas they had all done their part in the war, not one of them had to ever come face to face with a Mech.

"Ready to whoop some ass?" asked Captain Ryan.

Taylor continued to stare out over the Pacific in a world of his own for a while until his brain finally processed what was going on around him. He turned to the Captain with a puzzled expression and asked.

"Ever fought a Kry in hand-to-hand?"

Ryan shook his head.

"If you had, you'd know the answer. It's no joking matter."

Ryan seemed confused.

"I thought you liked nailing those bastards?"

"Yeah, when I had to. When they were destroying our world and killing my friends. Because back then I knew every one I killed would save lives. But now they have lost, they are nothing more than our prisoners. Fighting one is nothing more than an execution, and a dangerous one at that. It brings me no joy."

Several of the other crew had overheard his comments and went silent. Many looked sheepish for having been so enthusiastic for the fight now they had heard is thoughts. Several felt sympathy for him, but he knew deep down they would still watch the fight with delight.

"So what are we doing here? Why are you fighting?"

"That's a good question, and not one I have an answer for."

Ryan could see it was time to drop the subject and quickly shifted focus.

"So I see you're still carting Tsengal around. Is it really necessary?"

"Mechs being lined up for gladiatorial combat and executions, and you have to ask? Tsengal is the lone survivor from Colonel Chandra's mission. If he ever wakes, I want to be sure it's someone I trust who hears what he has to say."

"Why? We're all on the same side here."

As he said it, Weaver walked onto the bridge. Taylor gestured over to the civilian and whispered to Ryan.

"You sure about that?"

"How long until we arrive, Captain?" Weaver asked.

"Ninety minutes."

"You've really stepped on it," added Taylor.

"Yes, Sir."

He could see the military courtesy he was given bothered Weaver.

"We're on a tight schedule, Sir."

"Yes, the crowds around the World are eagerly awaiting your fight, Colonel," Weaver added.

The rest of the flight went by slowly, and he had to put up with Weaver's endless bullshit that the crew seemed to lap up. Taylor had to admit Weaver may be an asshole, but he was a great salesman. As they finally came into land, Taylor instantly recognised their location. It shouldn't have been a surprise to him, but it was an odd feeling to be returning to Paris once more.

Lines of flags tracked a path up to their landing zone with thousands of people awaiting their arrival. Much of the city was in a state of rebuilding, and only a few newly finished skyscrapers made up the skyline. They were putting down in the gardens before the Eiffel Tower. It was a one kilometre square area of land that had been given priority in the restoration of the city. Despite many streets around the perimeter still lying in rubble, the grass was impeccable and the paths and benches like new. Construction cranes mostly covered the damaged tower itself as the rebuild was being undertaken.

"Hard to believe, hey, Colonel, that the city could ever return to its former glory?" asked Weaver.

You were never there during the war, so how would you know?

However, he was overcome by a sense of nostalgia seeing it once again. Their landing was smooth, and as the engines powered down, they could hear the roar of the crowd.

"It's time to meet the fans," Weaver said.

Taylor sighed as he put on his beret and headed for the exit ramp. His image in peacetime had always been carefully managed. He wore his Reitech armour because it was how people expected to see him. He was hardly ever out of it. Weaver always wanted him to be seen as a conquering hero, and not a politician. Rarely did he see his dress uniform anymore.

As the ramp lowered, the warm fresh air swept inside, freshly mowed grass and moisture from the sprinklers. It was refreshing. He faked a smile for the crowd. It was not only his job, but also his responsibility to be the hero the people expected him to be. As he stepped out, he went onto autopilot. He shook hands and responded to greetings, but an hour later when he was free of it, he barely remembered a single moment.

Finally spirited away into an army staff car, he noticed the sun going down. They had lost many hours with the time zone change coming over the Atlantic. The afternoon had gone, and he wondered if they could even do anything with the rest of the day.

"Guess I'm not fighting tonight, Weaver?"

The man responded with a sleazy smile before responding. "Far from it. This evening's fight is prime time television. You'll be fighting at midnight local time. That's 1800 hours back on the east coast, just in time for workers to get home from the commute and have something to watch before dinner.

"Sounds like a great family night in," he replied, not attempting to hide the sarcasm.

"Not like you need the rest anyway. As far as your body clock goes, you've not even done anything all day."

"Two days ago that video went viral, so how can this be going ahead so soon? No consideration given, no discussion, planning."

"No planning or consideration? This isn't the twentieth century, Colonel. Things change on an hourly basis. This is a now culture. They got a taste of the action two days ago. Forty-eight hours of waiting and anticipation."

"Jesus, are people really that bored? Did we fight to save a civilisation whose greatest desire is to watch the next piece of broadcast shit?"