The first few moments of awakening are disorienting – a struggle to rid yourself of another world. Sighs and stretches between tossing and turning. There's a moment when you're beckoned to close your eyes and return to that other world. The comfort of that place holds you. And the fear of a fresh reality pushes you back. The senses can't cope with the light and the sound. It overloads and overwhelms you.
So, Eli had taken to rising early. Just before dawn, it was quiet and dark – just the occasional wash of sand catching the ear, sifting slowly. After a moment of adjustment, Eli dusted himself off, flicking the light on and removing the cover from his weapons crate. The once-sharp steel edges looked softer now, worn by the abrasions of the desert. Inside, his rifle looked new. The naked light in his prefabricated hut would have exposed any flaws.
Nonetheless, Eli lifted each component from its foam housing, holding them up for inspection: the magazine, the barrel, the silencer... each fastidiously maintained. The cleaning cloth had become worn, darkened by the gathering oil. But, stored in the same flight case, it bore no dust. To be sure, Eli flicked the cloth gently before the first cleansing stroke, a wipe across the gun's magazine. It was pointless but therapeutic.
By the time he was done, the day's heat had begun to creep through the gaps in the door. Inside, it resembled a shipping container, only smaller – six-and-a-half feet by six-and-a-half feet by six-and-a-half feet. It was just enough for an average soldier to stand, lie, and stretch his arms in any direction. Hardly lavish. Still, enough. The cheap plastics were unappealing to the eye. But once the light had warmed, the sand-colored surfaces were not unlike the subdued interiors of the 2030s, though no one spent long inside.
A twist of the lock allowed the door to swing open – the hinge groaning softly. Eli took a can of WD40 off the shelf and aimed a careful squirt. The viscous white liquid crept down the frame, darkening a patch of sand gathered at the bottom. Lifting a short broom from a fixture on the wall, Eli swept the box room with a mechanical motion. A soft smile contradicted the activity – it was mind-numbing, he knew, but purposeful. Each stroke of the broom cleared a tenth of the room, but Eli continued for several minutes.
At 7am, the desert had reached 25 degrees Celsius, and the other early risers were beginning to file out of their cabins. Some exchanged the odd greeting, but generally, they kept to themselves. Eli replaced the broom, leaving the door open and reopening his crate. It was standard procedure to time one's gun assembly. The competition had started years ago and mothballed into a global leaderboard. Eli was a dab hand, but he couldn't hope to match the best. Habitually, he started the timer with a few taps of his smartwatch. His hands were fast that morning, and the result broadened his dim smile when he tapped to upload his time. 35 seconds wasn't bad for a battle rifle; Eli's 29.5 placed him in the top 100,000 globally – the top 10,000 nationally. It was enough to make his morning.
The metronomic march towards the firing range was livelier than usual. There were a couple of full barracks, a smattering of tents, and – for the decorated and wealthy – around 50 private boxes of varying sizes. But, even at capacity, the 3,000-strong base rarely felt this hectic at this time of morning. Soldiers were pouring through alleys between the barracks, tents, and storehouses.
A few familiar faces showed themselves: waving, bowing, trading handshakes in the customary manner. The crackle of gunfire was muted by the sound-deadening that bordered the firing range. Still, the echoes bounded into the distance, fading like water on sand. Eli watched his heads-up display keenly. There were rumors of an upcoming offensive. Another short skirmish was more likely, perhaps a farm raid. Maybe that was why so many had taken the morning's opportunity to hone their gunplay. Maybe the rumors were the reason for the crowds.
At the gun range, Eli's form was poor. The queue for a window had thrown his rhythm, and he was aware of more eyes than usual taking an interest in the skills of an Elite. Rank came with perks – like his private box – but it also had pressures. In his hand, the rifle suddenly felt heavy. The shots took longer to line up, and they drifted right as if carried by the sounds of the gallery. His performance still drew enthusiastic applause but missed his personal best by an agonizing 10%. Eli made his excuses and took his leave. Considering the drifting bullets, he decided to visit the gunsmith.
Red's box was one of the largest – a steel shipping container in desert camo. An A-board sat at the entrance: "Gunsmith – No hire. No discounts. No nonsense." It set a tone consistent with the entire experience of doing business with its notorious owner. Red stood behind a Perspex display cabinet carrying an assortment of exotic weapons. The display box was low enough to force Eli to bend at the waist to reach the top, but it met Red just below her shoulders. Yet, despite her diminutive frame, she carried an unmistakably dangerous presence. Her hair matched the name, rose crimson with a fringe that traced an asymmetric line covering her left eye and finishing beneath a pronounced cheekbone. She appeared beautiful and impossibly young for someone so deadly. It made her customers even more cautious.
Eli glanced at the display on the wall behind Red. He had always picked his weapons from that rack. But he had his eye on one in the Perspex case today. Beyond the specifications and enhancements, exotic weapons had an aura that transcended their flashy appearance. Each came with an effect on one's battlefield manner. Some could spawn barriers, some tapped into cerebral matrices to manipulate the perception of time, some diffracted light for the momentary illusion of invisibility. All were exceptionally valuable. Despite the prices, people fell in love with exotics in an instant – attached to their weapon of choice at first glance. And as a result, an exotic weapon said something about the owner.
Eli couldn't deny his attraction to Mirth's End, a battle rifle that shimmered blue-black, its iridescence mimicking motion. Red had raised the price by his next visit. Months had passed since, and Eli remained frustrated by the persistence of the new valuation. But he could no sooner bargain with Red than build Mirth's End with his own hands.
Placing his battle rifle on the pristine countertop, Eli smiled at the steely proprietor. The smile wasn't returned. 'It's drifting right.' The small woman behind the display case kept her eyes on Eli. Picking up the rifle, she looked from one end to the other, turning it back and forth and peering down the barrel. The gun was disassembled in a flash, lying neatly ordered on the surface. Eli made a mental note to check the leaderboard for her time. After a moment's pause, Red looked up at Eli, down at his left arm, then back at his face. 'LENA, run drift analysis,' she said. Her first words since Eli entered were enunciated in a clean, plainly intelligent voice with a mid-Atlantic twist.
The countertop lit up, cast in a green hue from a collection of pinprick lasers in the ceiling. After no more than two seconds, another voice responded: 'No fault found.' Unable to help himself, Eli glanced down at his left arm. Half expecting the lasers to turn on him, he muttered, 'There's nothing wrong with my shooting.' Red merely blinked, having not lifted her eyes from his face. 'Perhaps the conditions are… suboptimal,' she offered. Eli flashed a smile, thankful for the charity – there was no more wind in the air than water underfoot. 'Could I look at her?' he asked. An unfortunate pronoun. 'Of course.' Red's expression was as well controlled as her disassembly. Under the angle of hair, there was nothing to suggest any interest in the situation, nor the prospect of custom, and certainly not Eli. The cabinet slid open at the rear, and Red lifted Mirth's End from its presentation box with an ease that belied the apparent heft of the weapon.
The gun seemed to morph and twist in the light even when held perfectly still. A stubby silencer protruded from its utilitarian body. The detachable stock bore a plush leather end. And the magazine was broad, holding a deceptive number of rounds. The bundled sight found and marked enemies with red dots, zooming on their position as they neared the center of the sight. The demo playing on the scope's screen reflected the perspective of a skilled marksman picking off combatants in the distance and at close range with incredible ease. The fire modes were a traditional three-round burst, a single shot, and semi-automatic. But none of this trumped Mirth's End's party piece – a 20-second cloak mode that rendered the holder virtually invisible in the fog of war.
Eli looked a moment longer, measuring the reassuring mass in his hands. Handing it back to Red, he said: 'I'd like to pay the deposit.'
'Full payment is needed within 30 days', Red responded flatly.
'I'll be back to collect it tomorrow.' Tapping his temple to confirm the transaction, Eli couldn't mask the smile. His next mission would bring in the necessary funds and leave change for a solid stock of supplies. He would also trade his old rifle – he had no use for a legacy item. Besides, he thought, it's drifting right. Turning to leave, Eli attempted a nonchalant wave at Red.
Parties had begun to form on the edge of the camp. Chatter was humming and weapons were still warm from the range. Every few seconds, someone would tap their head, consulting their heads-up display for an update on the next excursion. Eli perused the groups, looking at the insignia and taking stock of the familiar logos. Many of the gathered collectives looked at odds with one another, sporting conspicuous camo that neither blended with the desert nor their companies. More experienced teams donned uniform colors but comprised equally contrasting frames and weapon sets. A wise decision for the formative combat years – spread betting against the enemy's composition and strategy. But Elite Brigades could be spotted at a distance – each comprising a specific skill set, with only one or two exceptional outliers for insurance. There were only ever three or four Elite Companies stationed at each encampment. But they set the tone of each encounter, dominating the field.
At Syria West, there were three Elite Companies. The sparsely populated and difficult terrain dictated two specialisms: engineering and agility. Channel One was a team of builders, but their combat expertise was not to be taken lightly. Ones were broad-shouldered and quick-witted. Any opposition quickly found themselves battling the environment as much as the enemy. Osterley Rifles was a fleet-footed division of lightweight combatants. The Rifles arrived at pace and en masse and could outflank almost any division, turning the tide of battle at a moment's notice. Black Death was a stealth company – those who faced them also confronted their own mortality in short order.
Everyone had heard at least one account of each company's greatest victories. Only yesterday, Eli had overheard the latest Channel One legend. The young teller described it with vigor – hands flying everywhere in celebration of the tale itself, and his exuberance grew along with his audience: 'They were pinned under mortar fire! A torrent of the stuff. No one thought they'd survive. Even BRUN3L thought about pulling back.'
'Who's BRUN3L?' asked a pair of attending ears.
'Channel One's CO, come on, keep up! But then it hit him. The Romans had it. Their shields. The Ones scattered among the settlements, grabbing sheet steel, corrugated iron, any scrap they could.' He paused for a moment, looking between the crowd for effect. Eli winced at the delivery but couldn't help smiling at the enthusiasm. 'Before the next barrage, they were ready.' Here, the storyteller lowered his voice to a gruff whisper, or as close as he could muster: 'An intercepted enemy broadcast spoke of "beetle-like beasts" emerging on the horizon. But they were no monsters; they were Channel One's fireteams, five feet deep beneath makeshift Roman shield formations. Dug in.' A few eyes cast dubious glances, but Eli had seen the Ones in full flow – it wasn't too much of a stretch. 'It was a rain of fire, but they made it. They pushed 'em back towards the desert, slowing them down.' Eli could tell by his intonation and emphasis that the story had been told one hundred times that day and was reaching its conclusion. 'When they climbed out of the holes, the enemy's range weapons were useless. Channel One swept them away – obliterated 'em. Picked them off one by one from behind their battered barriers.'
As the partied continued to gather, Eli looked over at the Ones – standing square, with distinctive white sashes thrown across broad bodies. BRUN3L was nowhere in sight. The tags of each Elite Company's protagonists were often spoken in hushed reverence. Almost always, the expectations were met when observed in battle. Eli wasn't among the legends yet. Without an exotic or a command post, it was almost impossible to achieve the necessary heroics. Not that it stopped soldiers trying. The desert claimed many ambitious lives, the simmering heat coagulating the minds of good men until their desperation for glory outweighed their sense. Eli had seen inexperienced soldiers in aspiring companies sprinting from cover, firing aimlessly, perhaps tossing a grenade or two, before a single sniper's shot rang out to end the madness. Eli understood the pipe dreams – the greats were usually transferred to other theaters of war. Anywhere was better than the monotony of the desert.
But Eli had come to understand that the monotony was just one of the rhythms of war. Between the boredom, chaos gathered and dispersed in response to the environment. And it was amid those swells that soldiers lost lives. Today is a day for madness, he thought. He could feel the anticipation building as the forces were amassed. To cool his mind, he decided to await the brief before joining his company. There was time for the range, which would have quietened during the feverish preparations.
The temperature was soaring now, waves of heat irradiating from the baking sand. Each step crunched. The throngs in the alleys had thinned; just a few stragglers hurried to rejoin their parties. Eli inspected his rifle one last time. The entire assembly was spotless. Taking a deep breath, he pointed his weapon at the tiny figures at the back of the range. He could just make out the typical monstrousness of the enemy on the cardboard cut-outs – their leathery skin sagging about sallow jaws. Soldiers speculated that it was a sad symptom of the sun and the setting. The weight of his gun felt more natural now, with his hands warmed and his mind at ease. The imminent crackle of fire seemed to resound in his mind even before the shots rang out. And Eli could see the difference between where the hot spot sat and where the bullet would land almost instinctively.
A gentle wind had now blown in from the east. Eli could see it in the grains of sand that skipped along the surface and could hear it buffeting the canvases gently. This time, when he raised his weapon, the bullets found their target – each landing with a thud entirely masked by the rebounding crack of fire. Eli proceeded to drain two magazines before clipping the safety and letting the gun fall by his side. The score closed within a few hundred points of his best, comfortably inside the top 10 percent. Eli lifted his left arm and looked at his hand. It trembled slightly. I'll get it looked at, he thought, his mind drifting like the morning's bullets and landing on Red. He resolved to ask her to connect when he collected Myth's End. As he considered the curve of the combat fatigues against her figure, he wondered what lay beneath. His mind ran wild with the thought; a klaxon sounded in the air.
Eli snapped back to reality with a jolt. The wind sounded louder, his vision sharper. Against his will, his body had begun to prepare for battle. He glanced at his left hand and saw, with relief, that it no longer quivered but sat deathly still. With little time to consider the implications, he set about a brusque march to the field. The Osterley Rifles would be suiting up at this moment, ready to descend on the objective the moment the pin was dropped on their heads-up displays, and Eli needed to be there for selection. His khaki camouflage caught the wind as he picked up the pace. The entire base seemed a ghost town now, flushed of its occupants and locking down zones, door by door, sector by sector. Eli knew he had time to catch the send-off. Flying through passages, his core temperature alarms sounded in his Heads Up Display. He was prepared, a full hydration bladder lining his rucksack. He would take on fluids when he had joined his company.
Rounding the central barracks, Eli could see the Rifles positioning their force – leaders selecting troops, separating the growing company into divisions and units. Eli sprinted the final hundred meters, arriving in a shrinking crowd in time to be spotted by BUG. The hawk-eyed Brigade leader could see an oncoming force at almost five clicks, an augmentation boosting his vision beyond that of the everyday soldier. He nodded through the crowd, waving away the eager and mistaken young man who began to step forward. 'You got a good excuse?' BUG barked. Eli shifted his feet a little faster as the final stragglers formed up. 'Not one you'll accept.' BUG smiled. 'Fall in, soldier.'