On a Day Like Any Other
December 23rd, 2212
Ciar awoke to the soft hammering of the morning rain against an iron steam outlet. Though out of view, they could picture the object making the noise, a meter and a half or so from the edge of the barracks building on the left side of the emergency exit. It was a familiar sound, like little glowing glints of orange light in audio form, and it pleased them as they lay staring at the white ceiling, masked in gray with the slightest tint of pink dawn light. They checked their watch: 5:57 AM, and silenced the alarm that was due to wake them in 3 minutes. Wordlessly and with no other added sound than the rustling of sheets and clothing, Ciar donned the fatigues of a flight Captain. Just as they were straightening out their collar, their bunkmate made a noise and flung himself down the ladder before they could turn around.
“Heading out without me, Captain Amhránaí?” The man teased with a still groggy morning voice.
“You know you’re not supposed to leave your wingman behind, Dáithí.” They quipped back. “First daylight CAP at 0700 has our name on it and I’d like to grab a bite before then.”
Dáithí finished putting on his flight suit and the two clambered out of the barracks, onto the pavement and into the salty air.
This was Rhudbeal, a solitary island whose location pushed the limits of what could reasonably be defined as the Gulf of Iro. Though both they and the island’s residents were both considered by the decadal census as Raan Tekkian, the years Ciar had been deployed here had gained them an appreciation for how different they were. But that there was a difference was all that bureaucrats from the mainland understood when they showed up to take their vacations here. They got hints of it when they stepped off their jets into the lush green land, when they felt the temperate breezes free from both the parching aridity of the Kulge Desert and crushing humidity of Kafraic, or when they walked through the old town and made remarks about the quaint and different architecture.
But they could not name it. They never stayed long enough to. Though they might try the local cuisine, they didn’t observe how meat was smoked for days wrapped in leaves of the island’s native spice trees. They might see how the island’s children would wake up early and sail out with their parents for hours before school started, but they’d dismiss it as irresponsible. They might occasionally catch a sea-burial of a recently passed senior-citizen, but their thoughts are of the remains polluting the island’s clear waters. That was what enabled the 2138 decision by the Phoenian Federal Senate to approve a plan to turn 1/5th of the island into a joint naval base now shared between Aontas, the Imperial Union of Orion, Westray and Celeste, and as of 2207; the Arcovii-Zokesian Confederation.
The base was divided into four compounds, one for each of the signatories. Each nation got its own barracks, hangars, command rooms and maintenance stations for exclusive use by their deployments. Painstaking effort was undertaken by the work crews and planning agencies of the three governments to ensure that each compound occupied the same area and that the geography would not disadvantage any party. The result was three evenly spaced allotments on land cut down where it was too high and raised up where it was too low. The fourth compound though was the one they all shared. Adjacent to the main airstrip, it contained air traffic control stations, joint-briefing rooms, and most important in Ciar’s mind: the best mess hall on campus.
As Ciar and Dáithí drew across the open strip, the centerpiece of their focus quickly became a gathering crowd of figures in front of the main entrance, their silhouettes still a near black backlit by a rising sun that still hadn’t cleared the compound. As they got closer, they could count how many there were; eleven, four of which in a line denying entry to the rest, two of which bearing small arms. Ciar and the wingman exchanged glances and began to hurry towards the group. A woman in a Zokesian uniform had her hands splayed wide in argument and shouted something at a man pointing her away.
Ciar could now make out the patches on the side of the Imperial man’s uniform. A Westrayan major from what the past year of memorising two other nation’s insignia had told them.
“The hell is this?” Ciar asked as the group turned to face them. “Special party for His Majesty’s subjects only?”
The four servicemen making a wall in front of the entrance were all Imperial, and four of those standing outside in suits were night-shift administrators who had apparently been evicted.
“Sorry Captain, we are not to allow you entry.” He said, turning to the group before continuing. “And that goes for the rest of you, I ask you again to leave before I call someone to do it for you.”
“It’s Kapallshit!” The Zokesian lieutenant yelled immediately on the heels of the Imperial’s order.
“I’m sure the local restaurants will be more than sufficient to your liking, Lieutenant.” The man replied frustratedly.
Ciar knew the wiry man looking back at them over a short nose with a tired stare, or at least knew of him. They clearest memory they could conjure up was when Major Roan Venostra had flown CAP with them, kilometers away in a grey dot that was allegedly a K-53 completing the turn opposite to them. Roan spoke every once in a while to the controller in that contented voice aviators got when they were in their element. The only time he spoke to Ciar on that flight was to point out a school of fish that wasn’t there when they flew over that position 5 minutes later.
Now Roan stood in front of them, showing no signs of that cheerfulness, his hands on his hips weighed down by heavy arms that looked like they would lose their grip at any moment. They could tell this was the last thing he wanted to be doing right now. Ciar paced and scoffed as they stifled their disbelief and tried to scrounge up something to possibly dissuade the Major. At last they sighed and shouted over the bickering group.
“You’re getting yourself killed, do you realise that?” There was a brief silence as everyone turned to look at Ciar, the hands of the administrators immersed in their phone calls drifted away from their ears. “All of us: We’re dead because of this.”
“We have to have faith that this can be sorted out. Now please, go back to your barracks and we can all wake up a week from now when a new deal is signed.” The Major replied, trying in vain to calm everyone.
“They’re not going to, Roan. They’re not here. Their lives aren’t the ones at stake. All they’re going to see is a broken deal, and their territorial ambitions will do the rest.”
Major Venostra’s eyes were now on the pavement in front of him, it was brighter out now and he could make out the details of everyone’s resentful expressions as well as he could the different colourations and lusters in the compacted grains beneath him. He looked back at Ciar with a resigned but fixed gaze.
“My duty is to His Majesty and the Empire.”