The room was white tile and white grout with white light coming from old style gas tube light bulbs in the ceiling. The entire room was faraday caged, no stray electronic impulses in or out, even the lights had their own micro-power cell and were on a closed circuit with a standard flip switch to turn them off and on. There was a single unpowered examination table in the middle of the room. There were old fashioned paper charts, diagrams, and statements pinned to the walls.

There had been delicate and complex medical equipment in the room only a little before but now it was all gone, wheeled out to be recalibrated and examined before the next patient.

On the examination table sat a small creature. Only a foot high normally, able to stand up to almost a foot and a half on fully extended legs and upraised thorax. His coloration was bright green, with streaks here and there of darker green. He had a single cybereye, one cybernetic bladearm, and one cybernetic antenna, all on the same side. He was humming to himself as he rocked back and forth slightly, waiting patiently.

The room contained no stray impulses or mechanical objects to his senses, leaving him to rock back and forth, hum a song, and wait for the doctors to get back to him.

Finally the door opened up and a russet mantid entered the room.

To his senses she was as different from the other russet mantis as a proton was from an electron. The subtle differences in carapace shading, the difference in the antenna, the slight angles of her head.

She used his mathematical name.

"[471], I've gone over your medical checks," she stated.

471 just waited.

"Suffice to say, there's a few startling points," she continued. "First of all, and most prominent, is, well, to put it bluntly, your age."

471 just kept humming.

"You were six when you were assigned your current battle buddy," she said gently. "According to suit records, that was thirty-one years ago temporal local for you."

471 nodded, still humming.

"Physically, you're in the same condition as a member of your sub-species less than half your age. Genetically, though, you're a mess," she said. "Lots of unknown mutation, additional nucleotides and telomeres."

471 just nodded again.

"Your service records show you were exposed to the Digital Omnimessiah directly, you've been in sustained contact with the Biological Apostles, and you were engaged in combat in extra-dimensional spaces," she finished.

471 just nodded.

"That doesn't count whatever happened when the mountain on Telkan exploded, as suit records were garbled and unrecoverable," the doctor said.

471 expressed pleasure and nodded.

"We would like your consent to examine you further, to see why you're thirty-seven years old with the health profile of a twelve year old," the russet mantid said.

471 expressed a polite refusal of consent.

"Something you were exposed to seems to have extended your life," the russet said.

She had a name, but so did several of 471's wrenches.

471 expressed a firmer refusal of consent.

"The information could be important," she tried.

471 put forth a no-longer polite refusal.

The russet sighed.

"Other than that, you're in good condition. You're still past mandatory retirement age. I'm recommending a medical board and they can debate your condition with your lawyers," the russet said, obviously frustrated.

471 watched her leave, then got up and got dressed, putting on his tool bandoleer and his grav-boots, then his abdominal wrap. He patted the pocket to make sure his hat was present. Satisfied, he left the clinic, humming to himself in satisfaction, keeping one eye on the sky for birds.

It was a good day to be him.

-----

Vuxten followed everyone else out of the classroom and into the simulator room. The last two days had been spend with 'refamiliarization' classes, going over everything like it was the last couple of days of power armor training.

Generic HUD readouts, standard armor movements, standard armor configurations.

Vuxten was pretty sure that everyone present had heavily modified armors, even if it was just graffiti. There were all kinds of tweaks that could be done by the operator and the field maintenance green mantid engineer. Strength limiter overrides. Wired reflexes. Reflex limiter overrides. Battlescreen projector strength and wavelength modifications.

Vuxten had been able to tell the Telkan Marines that wore assault grade power armor by how short their pelts were trimmed. Heat was a major issue for the Assault Infantry, hell, for any power armor, but most Telkan Marines ran their battlescreen projectors at a higher level and faster 'flicker' between wavelengths than normal, causing more heat buildup.

Beats catching a variable wavelength laser to the faceplate, Vuxten mused.

The simulator rack he ended up standing behind was bare bones. Boot liner, glove liner, spinal induction strip, HUD headband, and a standard neural jack.

The techs went through, helping everyone up into the simulator and hooking them in.

Vuxten waited patiently. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been in a simulator.

After First Telkan? No, wait, was it after Second Telkan? No. Advanced Power Armor Pilot School, post First Telkan, he wondered.

"All right, Marine, let's get you in," the tech said. "Left foot first," the tech crouched down and opened the boot. Vuxten put his foot in, then followed the directions till he was spread-eagled, his arms and legs at an angle from his body.

"All right, let's get the neural jack..." the tech's voice trailed off.

There was a tapping sound behind Vuxten's neck.

"Marine, is your neural socket locked out?" the tech asked.

Vuxten brought up the visual menu and checked.

"No. It's on standby," he said.

"Staff Sergeant? Need a little help," the tech said.

One of the Senior NCO's moved over. "What's wrong."

"Look at this neural socket plate," the tech said.

There was silence a moment. The Staff Sergeant moved around in front of Vuxten, looking at a datapad.

"Did you get your neural link socket and socket plate modified offpost?" the Staff Sergeant asked, still tapping at the datapad, the red graphics and letters glowing softly.

"No, Staff Sergeant," Vuxten said.

"This isn't warsteel. I don't know what it is," the tech said after there was a tapping noise. "Appears to be a white enameled implant. Snowflakes done in some kind of silver on either side, frost pattern in silver on the edges, then what looks like binary in gold."

"Can you open the cover?" the Staff Sergeant asked, tilting the red cased datapad and shaking it, erasing what he was working on. He started punching in data again.

Vuxten checked and opened the iris that kept debris from getting into the socket.

"All right, it's open," the tech said. "Let's see..."

Vuxten felt the neural jack slide in and shuddered. He could hear whining and clicking.

"Locking collar won't lock. The jack's adaptive plug system isn't mating up," the tech said, giving an exasperated sigh. There was a tug and Vuxten knew the jack had been pulled free from the socket at the base of his skull.

"All right, Marine. Normally we use randomized numbers and letters to identify beings going through recertification to avoid accusations of favoritism," the Staff Sergeant said.

The datapad beeped.

The Staff Sergeant looked up. "Well, the SOP just bit me on the ass," he said. "Private, get the Major down."

"But, Staff Sergeant," the private started to say, but still reached up to undo the wrist lock.

"Just do it, Smyrthe, We got lucky," the Staff Sergeant said, tilting the datapad and shaking it to erase the data. "The system should have popped a warning when you came in."

Vuxten waited till he was released and stepped out of the frame.

"So, what happens now?" Vuxten asked.

The Staff Sergeant motioned at Vuxten to follow. "This way, sir," he said.

Vuxten followed silently.

The bay was slightly different. Hard light projectors, hologram projectors, and heavily armored walls.

"We'll use the system that the mek jocks use," the Staff Sergeant said.

"My socket isn't compatible any more?" Vuxten guessed.

The Staff Sergeant barked out a laugh. "You could say that, sir," he said. "Back when the Dark Crusade of Burning Light was here, I got to attend a few of their classes on power armor. Your suit obviously went what they called 'personalized proprietary' on you at some point in the past."

He motioned for Vuxten to stand over in the middle of the room.

"You shouldn't be able to summon your armor here, sir, but if you do, nothing will get damaged. There's a slight bit of lag, but you aren't doing high speed reflex checks. You're doing standard operation certification, so the lag won't matter," the Staff Sergeant said. "Just remember, sir, slow and steady movements."

Vuxten nodded, feeling the muscles on the back of his neck tightened.

"T-pose, sir," the Staff Sergeant said.

Vuxten nodded again, putting his arms out.

"And here... we... go..."

-----

"Not bad, sir," the Staff Sergeant said. "T-pose and we'll drop the system."

During his certification, nearly a dozen officers had come in, watched for a minute or two, then left. There was a small group of enlisted against the back wall and two other Senior NCO's had joined the Staff Sergeant.

"Thank you, Sergeant," Vuxten said as he dropped his arms with a gasp of relief.

"Orbital drops, rapid insertion drop, striker combat operations, basic and advanced power armor training certifications are complete," the SNCO said. He looked at his tablet. "Normally, you'd be going to range next, but you've got an annotation here regarding your sidearms, cutting bar, rifle, and heavy weapon."

Vuxten nodded. "They've all become a bit... aggressive."

The SNCO tapped a few icons.

"We'll use the VR hard light range then, Major. Hard light weapons shouldn't trigger your own weapons for qualification," the SNCO tapped a few more buttons and the room dissolved then reformed as a standard outdoor firing range. "Popup biped silhouette targets only. We'll start with standard sunny day and then move through the weather familiarization, night fire, and all that good stuff. Grab your pistol."

"Oorah," Vuxten said. He moved over to the table and grabbed the hard light pistol. It felt slightly slick and greasy in his hand.

"Standard firing position," the SNCO said.

Vuxten took the position.

"RANGE IS LIVE!" the SNCO called out.

-----

Vuxten stood up behind his desk as his visitor entered the office.

The Commander of 7th Armor Regiment, Colonel Brett T'Klakak, moved carefully into the room. He had one cybernetic arm and a cybernetic bladearm that was in a sling, red pinlights showing the arm was deactivated, and Vuxten noted that the Colonel's left rear foot in the back wasn't lifting very high.

"Congratulations, Major," The Colonel said, his good humor dispelling Vuxten's worries. The big Treana'ad warrior caste reached across the desk and shook Vuxten's hand.

"For what?" Vuxten asked as the Colonel moved over and settled into the bench seat Treana'ad and Lanaktallan used.

The chair whined as the back and arm rests moved into position.

"The promotion list came down for Lieutenant Colonel," the Colonel said. "Temporal Warfare Office got everyone's date of rank and time in grade and service finally sorted out."

"Don't tell me," Vuxten groaned.

"Yup! You'll be attending the Command and General Staff College and the Marine War College through eVR," the Colonel's expression was one of malevolent glee.

"But..." Vuxten started.

"Major, you've served in the Corps for over thirty years, you have over eight years as a Major with three planetary liberations under your belt at your current rank," the Colonel tutted. "It's high time you quit dicking around in the motor pool and come out here with us staff officers and do some real work instead of running around on the battlefield like an enlisted with a gut full of Bingo Cola and an erection."

Vuxten coughed.

"You didn't need a waiver for time in service, time in grade, fitness reports, evaluation reports, or your combat record," the Colonel said. He dug out a back of cigarettes from the sling and got one out, putting in his mandibles before putting the pack back in the sling. "Hate these self-lights," he muttered, puffing on it to light it.

"Wasn't that your worry, Major?" the Colonel asked. "That it was all political and you were afraid that you were going to get men killed?"

Vuxten nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Well, I think your actions during the spur-wide phasic assault showed command that you've got what it takes to lead, not just on the battlefield, but during the recovery," the Colonel said, exhaling a stream of smoke from his mandibles.

Vuxten noted that the smoke only leaked out on the right hand side. Only a few wisps eeking out from above the left hand footpads.

"Relax, Major. You'll need to train your replacement, continue with your medical boards, your recertification, and help my replacement get the Regiment under control," the Colonel said.

"Replacement, sir?" Vuxten asked.

The Colonel nodded slowly.

"I got my results back from the medical board this morning, right before the promotion list came down," the Colonel said.

Vuxten waited.

"Non-deployable. Not fit for combat. My rank means I'll be riding a desk, but, to be honest, my military career is over," the Colonel said. He shrugged and looked down at his arm and bladearm in the sling. "It's progressive," he sighed. "I knew the risk, but the men, Major, the men needed me to lead them."

"Sir?" Vuxten said.

"You were in the hospital, Major. The Regiment had been more than decimated. Most of the officers were dead or hospitalized and the Atrekna were making another hard push," the Colonel said. He tapped the matte black warsteel cybernetic arm. "I'd taken a high-vee through and through, couldn't feel my arm, but I went out anyway. Let the men see that I believed in them. That I believed we could pull victory from the Atrekna's grinding plates and feeding tentacles.

He puffed on the cigarette a few times.

"The doctors were right. It cost me my arm. Phasic shade took my bladearm but it was already numb by that time," the Colonel shook his head. He fixed Vuxten with a hard stare. "There comes a time, Major, in every Marine's career, he must make a decision.

The shadows seemed to thicken.

"Do you what must be done, what is right, and throw away your career, or do you do what is easy that will let you keep your career? That is the question that sooner or later the universe will ask you," the Colonel said. "From what I've seen of you so far, Major, you and me, we'll do what is right. I know you'll lead your men with honor once I'm gone. You always have."

Vuxten just nodded.

"Besides, you're going to need a mentor for your schooling!" the Colonel said, his mood suddenly brightening. "Who better than me in this man's Corps?"

Vuxten chuckled. "True, sir."

"And, of course, you'll need to train your replacement, seeing as your Third Shop has certain, shall we say, irregularities."

That made Vuxten laugh. "Hard to be by the book when you have Crusade and Martial Order Warbound teleporting in for repair and maintenance, demanding prayers be read to them and hymns sung in their presence."

The Colonel nodded. "When I see the Warbound, Major, I always think: There, but the grace of the Digital Omnimessiah and the Biological Apostles, go I."

"Are there Treana'ad Warbound?" Vuxten asked.

Colonel Brett T'Klakak shook his head. "No. Only the Terrans and the Telkans so far," he looked away slightly. "We have something just as bad."

Vuxten frowned. "What?"

"The Matron's Special Blend," Colonel T'Klakak said softly. "They give up everything. Everything they were, everything they are, everything they could be, to bring the Treana'ad people's rage against those who threaten us."

The Colonel looked at Vuxten. "To me, it is a fate worse than death. To know nothing but rage."

"So, they're enraged?" Vuxten asked, feeling the fur along his back raise up slightly under his ACU top.

The Colonel shook his head. "More. And less. It is a terrible thing," the Colonel twisted the cigarette butt and it vanished in a sparkle. "Let us speak of more wholesome things, Major."

"Black cherry and peanut butter ripple ice cream is on sale at the commissary," Vuxten said.

"Ugh. They're still getting rid of that surplus? I ate so much of that our last deployment that I never want to see a black cherry again," the Colonel said, making a noise of disgust. "I swear, they messed up the randomization in the MRE's. Three out of five dehydrated ice cream packs were black cherry and some other flavor mixed together by what tasted like an old paint mixer."

Vuxten laughed, feeling the mood lighten.

"Why, I would have been better off with the three flavors they had when I was in Basic Training. Charcoal, old sweaty jockstrap, and habenaro sauce," the Colonel said, his face lighting up. "Back then, Major, they punished us recruits with ice cream."

-----

Vuxten got out of the cab and limped up to the steps of the Bachelor Officer's Quarters he was staying at. When he saw who was on the steps his mood lifted immediately.

471 waved from where he was sitting next to a six pack of beer on a grav-dolly.

--drinky drinky no more thinky-- 471 said.

Vuxten sat down, got out a beer, twisted it open, and poured some in the cap.

--thanks-- 471 said.

"How'd your medical check go?" 471 asked.

--doc mad am over thirty but fit as five year old-- 471 said, putting up shrugging emojis. --no med board mad because won't let them experiment--

"Yeah. I get it," Vuxten sighed and looked up at the cloudy sky. "I'm getting a med-board. There's a bar to promotion blanket across 7th Army, but I'm being promoted to Lieutenant Colonel."

--warrant school-- 471 lamented. --die young and hero or old and villain--

Vuxten nodded. He opened his mouth to answer when a priority marked message popped up.

He opened it and frowned, wondering why he had received what looked like spam with a high priority header.

CLONE MY SHIT UP GRAND OPENING!