Disenfrancised
Beep Beep
Ol' Eagle-Eye takes in the View
Sunsets were always the saddest time of day.
With the sun behind them, and dark shadows cloaking the alien vegetation and erosion, the western hills looked akin to gentle piedmont of Mt. Triumph. It had been three decades of his lifespan since Altos Mundane had last seen the place he had been born and raised, and he dreaded to think how many years had slipped by unnoticed in flat space-time.
He clambered up here near every evening to take in the view; nostalgia may be a bitter brew, but men indulge themselves in far worse poisons. If you didn’t stop to think about where you’d been, how could you be sure in where you’re going? That had been a favourite phrase of Altos’ father; not the smartest of men to be sure, but he had dug kernels of wisdom from a long life working the land. Simple human truths fit a life better, not the bright sharp big ideas of philosophers, though those had their place.
Bessy chirped beside him, and he whistled back a standdown code. As she flexed and cycled her barrels Altos reflected that rigging explosive timers into your best gear to prevent theft was another thing his father had taught him. Not that Bessy would explode of course, she had far too much sentimental value for him to risk that, but an electrified chassis had proved more than an adequate deterrent thus far in life. Still that his last standdown had elapsed meant he’d been up here longer than he realised. Oia did turn more slowly than Old Standard, and Abell took hours to haul its orange bulk beneath the horizon. The dusts and the atmospheric composition did give it garish vibrancy he’d grown to appreciate though.
He chided himself for a minute or two - he’d been so lost in the sight and the memories he hadn’t even got round to making the hard decision yet. Cultivating a reputation for careful consideration is one thing, but take it too far and people will wonder if you're going senile.
He turned towards the wooden entry hatch. This church of yellow sandstone was the tallest thing for twenty klicks in every direction of featureless badlands, a natural focal point for the rough village of Standardite buildings that had formed around it. The grounds had held a grove of dead and desiccated trees when they’d first arrived, long since chopped for firewood. The trees had been dead for centuries by Altos’ estimation, but that hadn’t stopped the stupid Oiat priest from screaming bloody murder. Laughin’ Janos Typical had wanted to shoot the man at first, but Altos had managed to bring him round to the folly of making a martyr of a holy man. Typical may have twice the force following him Altos did, but the big lug still looked up to a man who had ridden with Elric Standard himself, the fact Altos had been nothing but a common sniper in that first band notwithstanding. Altos’ would rather the young bucks listen to his years of experience as mercenary captain before and during the Dathic War, and the time-crunching interstellar travel that left him late middle aged when the rest of that old band was dead and buried, but he’d play whatever cards he’d been dealt to get the job done.
Bessy was light for all her 190 centimetres in length, and lithe for all the incrustations of machinery around the original gun his second wife had given him all those years ago, but it was still a hassle to fit down the hatch carrying her. The fact that the hatch was, like all the old architecture on the planet, designed for a people a good bit shorter than a regular Standardite didn’t help either. The ladder up had been kept in good condition though and descent was easy enough. The priest had kept some sort of telescope up on the roof when they’d first arrived, a nice looking piece that had disappeared into someone’s loot stash with some speed. The idea that the priest had shared his passion of sitting and looking was one of the reasons Altos had warmed to the man.
Elsie Banal sat cross-legged at the bottom of the ladder, keeping watch over the door for him. She’d only been with Altos’ company for a few months, but he’d had a couple of her cousins with him since the Second Battle for Standard, and they were both fine lads and she looked to be of a similar cut. Truth be told he’d always been a bit over protective of the young women in his company, always having dreams of what the original Bessy would have been like if she’d made it, and turned some who wanted to follow him away. Elsie at least had put his mind to rest; after she cut the balls off the thief who’d been siphoning fuel from the main transport for his personal veto Alto’s had no worries for her safety.
Worries for her fashion choice maybe; with a spring-loaded pistol holster on each of her forearms and a pair of even bulkier pistol deployers on each thigh, Altos’ lived for the day she’d accidently catapult one of her mean looking automatics across the room when scratching her nose. He had no clue why the younger generation insisted on having more guns than they had hands at all times. He had Bessy for his serious kills and his little Dathic Service issue Deegle for his quiet ones; anything more would have been an indulgence. When Altos’ and the other old fogies in the company had been drinking Ol’ Sticher Humdrum had advanced a theory to explain it. The greyhair, in charge of fixing both the companies gear and their wounds, thought it was because the kids didn’t have a sense of place anymore. They didn’t have a world, they didn’t have holds, and few had clans worth a damn. So they doubled down on the most visible and personal aspects of their forefathers; more guns and more attitude, and strutted around to hide their insecurity. There might be some merit to the idea, though personally Altos’ opinion was that the kids were just idiots. He hoped for the sake of the future that Sticher was right, and that the kids would calm down once they had a place in the universe once again.
It was that more than anything that had made him add his voice to the hundred other leaders of the Basin when they told the Commodores to go screw themselves last year. They couldn’t keep their people whirling around from planet to planet; they’d lost so much already, you had to pick a place to stand, any place, or you’d lose yourself as well. Now though he had additional issues, especially at this last communication from the cowards who had run away to Mern. His boys and girls followed him because they believed in him, just like Janos’ derpwits followed him because they believed in him. Standards were a free folk, they followed the man not the title and certainly not the rules. That’s what Elric had shown them right from the start - that the choice was in each of their hands and each of their hearts. Elric Standard, Commodore; the name came first and the other words were just descriptions of what he did. To put their title first, to not even sign their names to their demand, showed Altos’ more than anything that the council had lost their way. To act like the Standardites owed them allegiance, rather than setting an example and trusting them to follow left a bitter taste in Altos’ mouth.
Heh. Thinking about that his choice was obvious really, if you had a chance to fight for the soul of your people, and you rolled over, well then you were the worst sort of traitor you could be. At least he’d seen a beautiful sunset whilst he was wasting time up there on what should have been a snap decision. He turned to Elsie.
“Thankee for waiting for me kid, now run along to Janos and relay a message, he’ll like the personal touch from a lovely lass.”
“Yer done made a choice whilst roosting up there Ol’ Eagle-Eye? Thought it’d be days yet” she replied with a grin.
“Slam that trap of yours and tell him...tell him we’ll be with him to the bloody end.”
Sunsets were always the saddest time of day.
With the sun behind them, and dark shadows cloaking the alien vegetation and erosion, the western hills looked akin to gentle piedmont of Mt. Triumph. It had been three decades of his lifespan since Altos Mundane had last seen the place he had been born and raised, and he dreaded to think how many years had slipped by unnoticed in flat space-time.
He clambered up here near every evening to take in the view; nostalgia may be a bitter brew, but men indulge themselves in far worse poisons. If you didn’t stop to think about where you’d been, how could you be sure in where you’re going? That had been a favourite phrase of Altos’ father; not the smartest of men to be sure, but he had dug kernels of wisdom from a long life working the land. Simple human truths fit a life better, not the bright sharp big ideas of philosophers, though those had their place.
Bessy chirped beside him, and he whistled back a standdown code. As she flexed and cycled her barrels Altos reflected that rigging explosive timers into your best gear to prevent theft was another thing his father had taught him. Not that Bessy would explode of course, she had far too much sentimental value for him to risk that, but an electrified chassis had proved more than an adequate deterrent thus far in life. Still that his last standdown had elapsed meant he’d been up here longer than he realised. Oia did turn more slowly than Old Standard, and Abell took hours to haul its orange bulk beneath the horizon. The dusts and the atmospheric composition did give it garish vibrancy he’d grown to appreciate though.
He chided himself for a minute or two - he’d been so lost in the sight and the memories he hadn’t even got round to making the hard decision yet. Cultivating a reputation for careful consideration is one thing, but take it too far and people will wonder if you're going senile.
He turned towards the wooden entry hatch. This church of yellow sandstone was the tallest thing for twenty klicks in every direction of featureless badlands, a natural focal point for the rough village of Standardite buildings that had formed around it. The grounds had held a grove of dead and desiccated trees when they’d first arrived, long since chopped for firewood. The trees had been dead for centuries by Altos’ estimation, but that hadn’t stopped the stupid Oiat priest from screaming bloody murder. Laughin’ Janos Typical had wanted to shoot the man at first, but Altos had managed to bring him round to the folly of making a martyr of a holy man. Typical may have twice the force following him Altos did, but the big lug still looked up to a man who had ridden with Elric Standard himself, the fact Altos had been nothing but a common sniper in that first band notwithstanding. Altos’ would rather the young bucks listen to his years of experience as mercenary captain before and during the Dathic War, and the time-crunching interstellar travel that left him late middle aged when the rest of that old band was dead and buried, but he’d play whatever cards he’d been dealt to get the job done.
Bessy was light for all her 190 centimetres in length, and lithe for all the incrustations of machinery around the original gun his second wife had given him all those years ago, but it was still a hassle to fit down the hatch carrying her. The fact that the hatch was, like all the old architecture on the planet, designed for a people a good bit shorter than a regular Standardite didn’t help either. The ladder up had been kept in good condition though and descent was easy enough. The priest had kept some sort of telescope up on the roof when they’d first arrived, a nice looking piece that had disappeared into someone’s loot stash with some speed. The idea that the priest had shared his passion of sitting and looking was one of the reasons Altos had warmed to the man.
Elsie Banal sat cross-legged at the bottom of the ladder, keeping watch over the door for him. She’d only been with Altos’ company for a few months, but he’d had a couple of her cousins with him since the Second Battle for Standard, and they were both fine lads and she looked to be of a similar cut. Truth be told he’d always been a bit over protective of the young women in his company, always having dreams of what the original Bessy would have been like if she’d made it, and turned some who wanted to follow him away. Elsie at least had put his mind to rest; after she cut the balls off the thief who’d been siphoning fuel from the main transport for his personal veto Alto’s had no worries for her safety.
Worries for her fashion choice maybe; with a spring-loaded pistol holster on each of her forearms and a pair of even bulkier pistol deployers on each thigh, Altos’ lived for the day she’d accidently catapult one of her mean looking automatics across the room when scratching her nose. He had no clue why the younger generation insisted on having more guns than they had hands at all times. He had Bessy for his serious kills and his little Dathic Service issue Deegle for his quiet ones; anything more would have been an indulgence. When Altos’ and the other old fogies in the company had been drinking Ol’ Sticher Humdrum had advanced a theory to explain it. The greyhair, in charge of fixing both the companies gear and their wounds, thought it was because the kids didn’t have a sense of place anymore. They didn’t have a world, they didn’t have holds, and few had clans worth a damn. So they doubled down on the most visible and personal aspects of their forefathers; more guns and more attitude, and strutted around to hide their insecurity. There might be some merit to the idea, though personally Altos’ opinion was that the kids were just idiots. He hoped for the sake of the future that Sticher was right, and that the kids would calm down once they had a place in the universe once again.
It was that more than anything that had made him add his voice to the hundred other leaders of the Basin when they told the Commodores to go screw themselves last year. They couldn’t keep their people whirling around from planet to planet; they’d lost so much already, you had to pick a place to stand, any place, or you’d lose yourself as well. Now though he had additional issues, especially at this last communication from the cowards who had run away to Mern. His boys and girls followed him because they believed in him, just like Janos’ derpwits followed him because they believed in him. Standards were a free folk, they followed the man not the title and certainly not the rules. That’s what Elric had shown them right from the start - that the choice was in each of their hands and each of their hearts. Elric Standard, Commodore; the name came first and the other words were just descriptions of what he did. To put their title first, to not even sign their names to their demand, showed Altos’ more than anything that the council had lost their way. To act like the Standardites owed them allegiance, rather than setting an example and trusting them to follow left a bitter taste in Altos’ mouth.
Heh. Thinking about that his choice was obvious really, if you had a chance to fight for the soul of your people, and you rolled over, well then you were the worst sort of traitor you could be. At least he’d seen a beautiful sunset whilst he was wasting time up there on what should have been a snap decision. He turned to Elsie.
“Thankee for waiting for me kid, now run along to Janos and relay a message, he’ll like the personal touch from a lovely lass.”
“Yer done made a choice whilst roosting up there Ol’ Eagle-Eye? Thought it’d be days yet” she replied with a grin.
“Slam that trap of yours and tell him...tell him we’ll be with him to the bloody end.”
and looked around commandingly issuing mostly trivial orders while, as in most militaries, the petty officers did the actual work.