Damn. Damn.
There's a lot to do. Progress updates from R&D. Specs for the new generator being built down in engineering to supplement to the wind turbines; construction schedules for the two additional satellites being paid for with Canadian dollars from Vancouver.
Promotions to sign off. Cpl. Gent's kill count after "Cursed Palace" speaks for itself - I'm promoting him to Sergeant. We could dub him Nix, for those shots in the dark.
I can't concentrate, though. I've killed my first soldier, as sure as if I'd held the gun myself.
I liked Sq. Joy - Adrienne. We'd had long, loud conversations before the invasion: about Doctor Who, the absurdity of our gender conventions - railing at the Forces' idea of equal opportunities. Blowing off steam after boring watches and days full of paperwork. Flicking through her file, I discovered she'd been finding time to write a blog, even between operations. It's very good.
My desk is cramped with several large cardboard boxes. Joy's things, ready to be returned to her family. I had them brought up here, hoping they might help me somehow with the letter to her parents. The other thing I have to do. There is always the official letter, of course, but that has never sat right with me.
There's not much there. Some clothes, a stuffed toy of a flying bison. The barracks has taken its share already, honouring informal promises made in the anticipation of death. Not strictly regulation, but customary. She always said I could have those boots... I wanted something to remember her by... Something to throw in the X-rays faces when we're out there... The teas went quickly.
I sift through, hand lighting on a model of a blue police telephone box. I place it on my desk - my share, to remind me that you cannot turn back time. That we must live with the past, and ourselves.
I sit down and force myself to write. That's what I came here for, after all.
| The troops have put together a memorial board in the bar. Sq. Adrienne Joy, KIA. We will remember. |
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