There is nothing more noble than the love between soldiers — the love of compatriots, brothers-in-arms. “To lay my life down for a friend.” And so it is — the battlefield is studded with warrior-bonds between Men. The love Men have for each other is the love Mankind has for itself — for its superiority, for its chosenness, its magnificence. Indeed, the love between fellow warriors is deeper than the love between civilian-wives, or even a Soldier and His wife — for the bond forged in the crucible of combat rises beyond romantic or sexual — it reaches towards the sublime, approaching theosis. It is the vision of God’s love, agape, merged with the perfect physicality of Mankind — an eros of transcendence.
Reverend Serrat Haywire, Sermon at Brigham Young University, Provo, Utah, UCF 262
Off the coast of Fukuoka, UCF-Japan, UCF 04/24/454, 0723 hours
Approximately three weeks later
PLAA THRONES launching from the southern shore of People’s Korea clash with KILLBOYS over the Tsushima Strait. Dozens of THRONES circle and meet each other in dances of metal blades and jet engine exhaust.
“How’re we holding up back there, Joker?”
“I’m—” Trinity grunts with exertion as she dives to grapple an enemy WATCHER-Class THRONE. “—Doing my best here! God, this is taking longer than usual, isn’t it?”
Flechette laughs at the grim euphemism. It’s been a battle of attrition. Par time was 20 minutes — they’ve been fighting for the past 3 hours straight. It’s grueling work. But the PLAA forces are being slowly pushed back to the Korean shore. The PLAA and the ARC grind their edges against each other, churning the sea beneath in their wake.
Trinity’s exertion can be heard over the commsline, as she successfully decapitates the WATCHER-class, wrenching its neural core off its shoulders with her claws.
“Ugh, god! That makes… Four? Jesus Christ, we’re getting rusty.”
“Don’t let your guard down just yet, Trin. We’ve still got heathens inbound.”
Sure enough, more THRONES are swarming in — but instead of charging the front line, the entire enemy formation inverts, rushing back to the shore, with the fresh mechs guarding the rear.
“Aw, that’s pussy shit,” Trin grunts, as she heaves the THRONE corpse in her arms into the ocean below, and speeds off after them.
“Wait, Trin—” Flechette calls out to her, before groaning and making a half-second command decision. “Alright team, we are following Joker to the shoreline to neutralize the retreating forces. Full throttle towards Busan!”
The sound of THRONES jetting off towards Korea roars across the water.
The KILLBOYS are accelerating, closing in on their marks. The shore is just ahead. Below, citizens of Busan can be seen walking along Haeundae Beach, enjoying the spring air.
Flechette has a sinking feeling in her gut. This is…
Behind, one of the other KILLBOYS fires a barrage of plasmic rifle rounds towards the enemy, scattering bolts of plasmic charge all across the beach. The shrill sound of citizens screaming is picked up by the VENUS’ comms array.
She watches as a plasmic bolt flares out, striking a child walking with a parent. The child flinches, and moment by moment, Flechette can make out the way their skin boils and peels, before their body erupts and then vaporizes, leaving behind a fine pink mist and a smear on the sand.
Flechette’s awareness closes in. The image replaying in her mind over and over. She tries to force down a retch that comes bubbling up. Oh. Oh god… Oh god…
“EDGE WATCH YOUR SIX!”
Flechette looks up just in time to see an enemy THRONE barreling towards her, spear pointed directly at her cockpit. Wait, that’s not—
A flicker of darkness, and the ISCARIOT flashes into view, piercing the enemy THRONE through the chest with its claws, massive jaws roaring behind its sealing mask.
Back on the Rumsfeld, in their quarters, Flechette waits for Trinity to get out of the shower.
“Hey Trin?”
“Yessir,” Trinity responds, predictably playful, distracted as she lays out some clothes, a towel around her waist.
“I… I froze out there.”
Trinity pauses.
“You did, Sir.” Trinity has a smooth, indecipherable expression on her face. Like the wall of a fortress.
“I…” Flechette forces the dread in her gut to settle, grappling with the horror of what she saw, what she was responsible for. This is what we do. This is the mission.
She’s not sure what that means.
“Yes, sir?” Trinity has that same indecipherable expression.
“Trin, I… I appreciate your help. You… You saved my life today. Thank you.”
Trinity’s stony neutrality falls away, leaving behind a proud grin, like a child who was just praised for their exceptional performance at school.
“Flechette. You are absolutely welcome.”
Flechette turns to her, begins to speak.
“Trin, I—”
But before she can finish her sentence, Trinity is striding over to Flechette’s side of the room, and tackles Flechette, pinning her wrists to her bunk.
“Trin what—!”
Trinity’s mouth is on hers.
“!”
It’s nothing like what Flechette expected. She admits, she spent time thinking about it — how soft her lips would feel on her own, what her skin must smell like, but — the real thing is somehow more real than real. Like concentrated humanity, layered on itself, over and over.
Flechette doesn’t notice until it’s too late that she’s kissing Trinity back, hard.
Trinity throws off her towel, straddles her commanding officer — her cross, driving herself deeper into the kiss. She comes down like a blade on Flechette’s throat, biting, kissing, laughing the whole time. Flechette can’t help but whimper — pathetic, she thinks to herself — unable to stifle the sounds that escape her.
Trinity grabs Flechette’s hands and places them firmly on her hips, as she grinds against Flechette’s uniform, hard and rough, like a whetstone.
“Sir. Take off your clothes,” she murmurs.
Flechette returns to the present, to the secular functionings of time, exhausted. Hours have passed. I think? She collapses, flushed of combat adrenaline, the relief of weeks of uncut tension finally released. Satisfaction seeps into her bones, a deep feeling of comfort and completion she hasn’t experienced in — longer than she can remember.
“Wow.”
“Proprioceptopath’s gift. Consider yourself blessed.” Trinity snickers, snuggling up against Flechette’s body. Flechette idly wraps her arm around her student, emptied of all anxieties and frictions, leaving behind only clarity.
God, forgive me for this. She idly thinks about the drive in the pocket of her abandoned uniform, a quiet sense of dread, and drifts off to sleep.