BEACON- Part of the TORCH Saga

#32

Herod had never been to a funeral before. They seemed uncomfortable.

68 legionnaires had died in the first confrontation with the riders, 30 in the collapse of the BV Isaiah (plus the thousands more onboard, but they had all been disintegrated), 22 in the second battle, and 26 in the third. 146 dead. The survivors lined their bodies up, cleaned their often-charred or mangled corpses, and let those close to them mourn.

Every girl who died had been a friend, a colleague, a lover. Not just a number or a soldier, but a person. Big numbers were impersonal. Broken, glassy-eyed corpses were all too real.

Herod was acquainted with only one of them: Asiya, the bug-eyed sergeant who was part of Platoon Miriam. A bolt had melted through the back of her suit, destroying the flight module and sending her plummeting to the ground. Her spine broke on impact, killing her quickly. Her waxy face was frozen in a look of surprise, not pain.

Miriam sat by the body, telling a story. "So we're stuck there, pinned down, any girl brave enough to peek her head over the earthworks gets atomized. Asiya's next to me and says to me, 'what if we all leave at once?' And I say, 'command hasn't ordered that.' And Asiya said, 'yeah, but I think they've only got two shooters. It's stupid for us to sit around flicking our beans, there's like a hundred of us.' So I say fuck it, I tell the centurion and she says we oughta go for it."

"And it actually works! Only two of ours get hit. Sure enough, just a pair of sharpshooters. I ask Asiya, how did you know there were only two? Do some fancy ballistics analysis or something? Asiya, I shit you not, says, 'oh, that was a lucky guess. I just really wanted to get out of that trench.' And they made her sergeant for it!"

Several of the younger girls burst out in laughter. Miriam stroked Asiya's glossy black hair. "She was a good one," the captain said hollowly, her mirth gone. "Excited for this campaign. Wanted to use her shiny new rank to mentor younger girls."

The laughter died away. Miriam just sat there next to her friend's corpse, her elbows on her knees and her eyes dull.

It was such a strange blend of melancholy and affection. Tons of other girls were telling stories around their fallen comrades, toasting in their memory, hugging and smiling- and then drifting off like they died too.

A few were not mourning. The medical corps kept tending to the 60-odd wounded, while Amalek and Lucifera disappeared into the latter's tent for a powwow.

Herod had been dismissed from the night. She didn't know what to do with people who were in mourning. All she really could do was fight, and the enemy wasn't present.

She eventually wandered to the medical tent, or what passed for one. Amenities were pitiful: the "tent" was a blanket tied to poles, and the beds were little more than cloth rags.

But even in such dire circumstances, Zabda looked right where she needed to be. She tended to injured girls with such tenderness that she seemed more like their mother. Soon she made it to Tiglath, hanging onto life by a thread. Zabda stuck her hand out and dozens of hypodermic needles emerged from hidden compartments around her AEGIS' wrist. She injected one into Tiglath's neck, and within instants the injured girl went limp.

"What are we going to do with them, centurion?" Herod asked politely.

"Leave them here with some food and medicine," Zabda sighed. "They should be safe enough in the tunnels, and a couple medics have volunteered to stay behind. Those that can walk will be coming with, so we'll be leaving about two dozen behind." She looked down and gritted her teeth.

It was a mite cold, but entirely necessary. Making it to the mountain was an unbelievably long shot. If there was to be any hope at all, the 119th couldn't be burdened with wounded. "It's the best choice," Herod said lowly.

"I know. But doing a terrible thing because it's the least terrible of several terrible options... still feels terrible."

Herod nodded uncomfortably. "I hope I'm not bothering you, centurion," she said.

Zabda's shoulders slumped. "I'm exhausted," she admitted. "When my shift ends in an hour I'm going to sleep like an exceptionally tired rock."

"May I keep you company?"

"Please do. It'll help me stay awake." Zabda moved on to the next girl, who took a bolt to the side of the head. Half her hair had melted off and her scalp was ruined. "We're going to try to save her eye," Zabda explained, pointing. "Won't be easy... probably won't work."

Zabda dispensed a pale green cream and tenderly dabbed it against the wound. The girl shuddered in pain and struggled. Herod held her down until she slipped back into unconsciousness.

"Ah, good old 119th. How are you enjoying things so far?" Zabda asked, bitter sarcasm edging onto her voice.

((AN: War is heck.))