Dark Omega

CHAPTER 7 - FACE OF DEATH

The name 'Jarra' was stenciled in capital Common Dominion letters above her right breast. Her mother had named her Jarruvela and called her Little Jewel, but to the rest of the galaxy, she had always been just Jarra. Now she was First Sergeant Jarra, Devil Company, 2nd Assault Battalion, 112th Vaxandi Light Infantry Regiment.

She was locked up tight inside a Devourer-class assault lander parked on the well deck of a massive Coalition's troop carrier. The rest of her company was there, a hundred plus hulking mesomorph brutes. A geneered offshoot of humanity, the ancients had made mesos bigger, tougher, and stronger than ordinary humans, to better cope with the harsh conditions on the worlds they had been created to settle. Whether by accident, design, or subsequent evolution, mesomorphs had also turned out a bit dim-witted and prone to violence. It didn't help that most were born into poverty and never received any formal education. My kindred. I left my home on Nightshade to get away from the violence. And look at me now: leading a company into battle.

Jarra and the men and women of her company were currently assigned to the orbital drop elements of the Coalition fleet heading for the surface of a planet called Protasia. Jarra had never heard of the place before. Probably some backwater shithole Archon Guillaume wanted, just so he could brag about having the most worlds under his control.

Their objective was to conduct an assault drop to secure planetary landing sites for follow-up forces. The officers seemed optimistic—no real resistance was expected. Jarra didn't share their enthusiasm—assault infantry pretty much had the most dangerous job in the universe. Drop. Secure the landing zone. Wait for follow-up forces. I've been through worse. It'll be fine.

The rest of the Devourer was filled to the brim with a battalion's worth of ordinary soldiers, light infantry from the industrialized world of Vaxandi. They were almost universally pressganged, and most of them had only ninety days of basic training, plus whatever time they hadn't wasted while en route from their homeworld. Jarra found the Vaxandii to be dumb, irreverent, and unsavory—worse than her own people even. Their officers were only marginally more tolerable, better groomed, but equally stupid and ill-mannered.

"Sir," Jarra snapped to attention with perfect precision as one of the Vaxandii officers made his way down the lander's port side cargo bay. He was wearing the Coalition's standard General Infantry Battle Dress, which was nothing more than a self-sealing undergarment, a clamshell cuirass, shin and knee guards, reinforced gloves, and a helmet. Nothing that would seriously impede incoming fire. Hello there, dead man walking.

"At ease, sergeant," the officer said with deliberate slowness. "I am Captain Kor Amir." His rank badge said Junior Lieutenant; Jarra took that to mean he had just been breveted to captain for the drop. "I'm in charge of Devil Company now."

Jarra assumed the at-ease position, legs slightly apart, hands clasped behind her back. So this is the idiot the regiment has assigned as our commander.

"Are the troops ready?" he said in the same maddeningly slow tone. He probably thought Jarra was a dumb as a brick. I wonder what kind of douche came up with the story about the big, stupid mesos. Sort of true, though. She didn't want to upset the officer's worldview, so she shouted out a meaningless, "Sir, yes, Sir!" Jarra really wanted this conversation to be over before it had begun.

"Good," the brevet Captain said, "you make sure the boys and girls strap in. Could get bumpy." He nodded meekly and backed out of the shadow of the woman towering over him.

Jarra turned to the closest assault squad. "I give him half an hour, tops, after we hit the dirt. They don't last much longer than that." Her comment was met by thunderous laughter.