Tychus Findlay

Dispatch Hall, Fort Howe, July 16, morning.

For Private Tychus Findlay, this was a good day. It was the first day he had been free to escape the living hell of the R-156 Federal Prison.

Tychus was a veteran. He had once been a staff sergeant, only a few Kel-Morian heads away from promotion to sergeant major. But after he tried to steal some battlefield spoils, he was stripped of his rank and thrown in prison.

According to Article 2, Chapter 76, Part 14 of the Unified Military Code of the Confederacy, Tychus should have been executed immediately. But perhaps the Marine Corps brass figured that a dead Marine was no more valuable than a criminal, so he had at least managed to stay alive.

During his three months of forced labor, Tychus worked sixteen hours a day in a Confederate mine, digging ore without any protective gear, using the most primitive and dangerous tools: explosives, carts, and pickaxes. Even so, he had made it through and was allowed to rejoin the Marine Corps as a private.

An order transferred Tychus and other soldiers who had been reinstated for various reasons from his former home, the planet Reding III, to Turaxis II. There, they joined the garrison at Fort Howe, a military stronghold of the Confederate Marine Corps on the planet.

Far from the equator and in a frigid climate, the soldiers taking turns on guard outside Fort Howe's dispatch hall wore thick gray wool coats, leather earflap caps, and knee-high leather boots. The men stationed here were bona fide Marines. They didn't need to wear flashy Power Armor every day or drive retired Goliath Mechs around to lure in wide-eyed little boys who got excited at the sight of a mech.

Tychus tugged at his thin shirt and walked into the crowded dispatch hall. It was warmer inside, but still cold enough to make him shiver. He was used to Reding III's dry, sweltering climate, and the "lovely" layer of fat on his belly didn't help keep him warm.

After he had been locked up, all his personal belongings and equipment had been confiscated. Now he wore only a shirt and a thin black nylon jacket. His only possessions were a few pairs of underwear and an electric razor in his hand-carry bag.

Now Tychus had to get past the long line of thirty or forty people ahead of him and report to the uniformed sergeant at the counter. Only then could he get a set of warm clothes and new equipment, and report to his new commanding officer.

Tychus walked straight past the long queue, ignoring the startled looks from the people beside him. He planted his belly against the counter's mahogany edge, then deftly used his large backside to shove aside the soldier talking to the dispatch sergeant.

He rested his elbows on the counter's smooth surface and pulled an ID card with an identification chip from his pocket.

"Sergeant, old Tychus has some important business to take care of. I'm sure you can make an exception." Tychus slid his ID card toward the sergeant, discreetly offering him a cigar that didn't look to be the best quality.

The soldier he had shoved aside could only grumble under his breath. Tychus stood six and a half feet tall, making him a giant next to the man's slender frame. He was frighteningly bulky, too, with thick layers of fat over his solid muscles. He walked like a lumbering but unhurried grizzly bear.

Tychus's dark brown hair was cropped short. Deep wrinkles lined his sharply defined features, and when he furrowed his thick brows or got angry, they only made him look more fierce and intimidating.

"Private, cutting in line isn't what a virtuous citizen of the Confederacy should do. As an exemplary member of the Federal Marine Corps, you should abide by Article 43 of the Marine Corps Regulations." The sergeant was a young man with brown hair and eyes. A long, dark scar ran down the back of his neck, just below his left ear, to be precise.

"What's with you? You're not my mother." Tychus had no idea this meant the man had undergone re-socialization. He knew very little about soldiers who had been through the process. "Instead of wasting time yammering, you'd better hurry up and put that pink little card away in the place it belongs."

When the sergeant didn't take his cigar, Tychus assumed he looked down on the cheap brand he had gotten in prison. That saved him the trouble of giving up a cigar.

"Yes, you're right." To Tychus's surprise, the sergeant actually agreed with his brazen, nonsensical logic. "I shouldn't keep the people in line behind you waiting, and I'm not your mother. It isn't my responsibility to educate you."

Though the sergeant's voice stayed calm and serious as he said the latter part, Tychus still felt insulted. But not wanting to end up in prison again, he swallowed his anger for the moment. He decided to remember the man's face and find a chance to make him pay the next time he went to the communal showers.

Were people on Turaxis all this polite? It made old Tychus look downright uncultured.

"Go to Supply Depot No. 7 and give this to the person on duty. He'll give you what you need." As the sergeant returned Tychus's ID card, he also handed him a chip.

"Sounds good." Tychus took the ID card and chip, then turned and left. At the entrance, he boarded a bus headed deeper into Fort Howe. It finally stopped in front of a squat, single-story building.

Supply Depot No. 7 had a silver-gray metal shell. Two huge turbine fans gleamed on its metal walls, and a metal pipe running straight underground hummed loudly.

No one guarded the depot's entrance. Tychus swaggered inside, thinking that maybe he could find an opportunity to "borrow" some supplies and help out some poor girls who had no clothes to wear and could barely cover themselves.

The depot was spacious, a massive warehouse filled with rows of shelves several people tall. Cardboard boxes and combination lockboxes were stacked on them. Seven or eight young soldiers in brown uniforms were unloading and counting cargo in small groups, climbing ladders to put things on the shelves or take them down.

At the only counter sat a sharp-looking soldier whose expression occasionally turned sad. He had short black hair, and his uniform was neat and tidy. His nameplate read James Raynor.

"Good morning. What can I do for you?" said acting logistics sergeant Raynor.