Keptin Donncheadhn Mac a Phearsain was glowering as he climbed out of the simulator pod, radiating fury in the manner that only an angry Celt can.
The training sequence was supposed to be difficult; He had known that going in. The Överstehad called him into his office, and in breach of a dozen regulations, had shown him the intelligence briefings from the Periphery.
It was not just rumours. Someone, or some thing, had been systemically annihilating the pirate bands, and while normally this would be cause for celebration, no nation or mercenary band had claimed credit.
It was an unknown, and unknowns were dangerous.
So. Training had been ramped up. Donncheadhn had had one of his old Resistance buddies, one of their few tech whizzes still kicking about, fiddle with the records. The unit’s excercise scores were low. They had to improve, or demerits all round.
Of course, this new Löjtnanthad seen the adjusted scores before his transfer. And was new to his rank, and full of himself, and saw no reason why he should listen to a foreigner even though that foreigner outranked him.
Donncheadhn was glad it had just been a sim. If it had been a live-fire exercise, someone would be dead.
He stalked over to the Löjtnant’s pod, waited with his arms crossed and his foot tapping as it finished going through the shutdown procedure and that hatch hissed open.
“What in the hell was that, Kavallerist!” he demanded. He didn’t shout. It might have been better if he had.
“You were ignoring an opening. I took it.” The youngster barely looked old enough to shave, to Donncheadhn’s wizened eye.
“You were under orders. You disobeyed them.” Donncheadhn’s voice was cold and hard, but the Löjtnant noticed only the lack of heat.
“Under orders from a glorified mercenary.” he shot back, and Donncheadhn’s eyebrows rose.
“How old are you, Lad?” He asked, tone deceptively soft.
“Twenty-one.” The Löjtnant sounded confused, but remained defiant.
“I. Have been fighting for Rasalhague longer than you’ve been alive, Boy.” Donncheadhn’s voice was increasing in volume.
“I have fought Lyrans for Rasalhague. I have fought the Combine and the Ronin for Rasalhague.” He leaned in close. “I have fought Pirates and Mercenaries and OTHER RASALHAGUERS for the Republic.” He straightened back. His gaze scanned the simulator room. Other Pilots were climbing out of their pods, and officers and cadets were gathered in the briefing room where they had been watching the exercise. Now they were plastered to the big window, watching the commotion below.
“I was three years before I saw a single Krona for the blood I shed for the Republic. So don’t you go calling me a Mercenary, Lad. Or you’ll answer for it.” That last was back to cold and hard, with as little mercy as a polar sea.
Donncheadhn spun a slow circle, taking in his assembled audience.
“You’ve all heard the rumours. Something is picking of Pirates in the periphery, and nobody seems to ken who’s doing it. If they come for us, we need to be ready. And that means training. That means following your orders. And most importantly it means learning from them as have the experience to know what it’s like to fight in a real war.”
He leaned back in close to the luckless Löjtnant,
“And here, that means me, laddie-o”
