The dugout was small and lit by a single fluorenscent lamp, which hung from the ceiling near John's head. He'd put it as close to the mirror as possible, though it was still difficult to see as he lathered up for a shave.

He stood there near the door in his fatigue trousers and undershirt, his green-gray coat and gear hanging from a nail nearby. Much of his skin had been stained a rusty brown by the iodine he'd spread across it to counteract the effects of the gas. His skin still itched, but he hoped that was all it would do.

Sergeant Leighter came in just as John had finished one cheek. "Got the casualty figures from last night," he said.

"How many?" John asked, trying to get the spot underneath his jaw.

"We took five casualties in the first bombardment, then four more during the attack." Leighter looked down at his battered little notebook. "That includes two who had enough exposure to the gas that we had to send them back."

"Dead?"

"Two sir. Schacter and Harrison."

Poor Gil Schacter, John thought to himself, then asked. "Harrison? Wasn't he married?"

"Yessir, a wife and two kids on Baleares."

Damn, poor Schacter and Harrison. Then another man pushed through the nylon flap that was the door. It was 2nd Lt. Charlie North, of 3rd Platoon.

"You wanted me, John?" he said, saluting.

"Yea Charlie, though it's not good news I'm afraid." Pelgram had finished with his other cheek and began washing off his face. "Battalion's called for a patrol out across to the enemy trenches to make sure no one's trying to use them again. And it's your platoon's turn."

North didn't look happy. "They serious about this?"

"Fraid so, man. Serious enough that they gave your boys NBC combats just for the hell of it." John looked at his watch. "I'll brief with your volunteers at 2100."

Just then the field telephone rang. John picked it up, listened, grunted once or twice, nodded and then put down the phone.

"What is it?" Leighter asked.

John chewed on his lip. "I'm to report back to Regiment. They're investigating me over the use of the gas shells yesterday."

"You, sir?" Leighter and North asked together.

"Yea, there's a car waiting." John reached for his coat. "Over the river and through the woods..."

***

The sound of John's booted foot tapping against the hardwood floor was a dull, muffled thud. It sounded to John like knocking on a coffin lid. He was sitting in Regimental HQ, a building that had formerly been a town hall or Elk Lodge or something, but was now filled with Enforcer staff and corporate types. In his filthy combat fatigues, John felt shabby.

"Lieutenant Pelgram, the board will see you now." The clerk held the door open for him as John entered the room, his heart beating fast from dread.

There were four men seated at a long table, facing a single chair which sat in the middle of an otherwise empty floor. Three of the men were in Enforcer uniform, one of whom John recognized as Colonel Burr, his regimental commander. The other two men were unknown, as was the fourth man who sat on the far left dressed in a swanky black suit. A fifth man, also in a suit, was leaning against the wall, and he walked forward now and shook John's hand.

"Hi, I'm Tom Laurel," the man said, "I'm with Human Resources, and for this inquiry I'll be your counsel." He guided down to the chair. "Now, if you'll take a seat..."

John did as he was bidden, and one of the officers, a man with a white moustache and general's stars on his shoulder bars, looked up. "All right, if we're all ready, we can begin." He stared hard at John. "Lieutenant Pelgram, do you understand why you're here?"

"Yes sir," John replied.

"Pelgram?" repeated the man on the far right, the other unknown officer. "You wouldn't happen to be related to General Pelgram, would you?"

"He's my uncle, sir."

"Is he now?" The officer seemed pleased. "Thornton and I happen to be good friends; we go way back. He's a great man."

A great man. Oh yes, Thornton Pelgram was that. All charm and humor and exciting stories, always showing up at family gatherings in his sleek navy blue uniform. 'Johnnie,' he'd said, 'Having trouble getting a job, I hear. Things are always tough right out of college. Tell you what, I'll pull some strings and get you a good position in the Enforcers. It's a fine job, it pays well, and you'll be able to do your grad courses in your spare time online. It's one grand adventure, Johnnie. Whaddaya say?' A fine job.

"If I may continue, Major Hannebrink" the first officer said, moustache twitching. The other officer fell silent. "You understand that an artillery battery at your request fired a solution against Guards positions that included poison gas shells, a weapon registered as List A Illegal at the Warfare Summit?"

"Yes sir."

"Now, the question is: did you specifically ask for poison gas to be used against the enemy positions?" The board as one leaned forward slightly. Tom Laurel put a warning hand on John's shoulder.

"No sir," John replied honestly. He had just asked for return fire against the enemy mortars. "I did not request such an action."

The man on the left end of the table, the civilian, nodded as if this were the right answer. "That's good, very good," he said, making a few notes on the legal pad in front of him. "We might be able to patch this one up."

"This is Leo Feldman, the company's PR head," Colonel Burr explained to John. "He keeps Corporate looking good, or at least minimally bad."

"And you boys have kept me working overtime," Feldman replied, "Though this might just work. You see, our policy is that the gas shells were delivered by mistake by our supplier. But that won't do if this becomes a big scandal; the interplanetary community is going to want more than excuses, they'll want someone responsible. Now, the blame has to land at someone's feet, and that would have either been you or the captain in charge of the artillery battery."

John felt his face go white, but the corporate man kept talking. "After hearing your story, however, it's clear the captain is the one at fault. He was always something of a loose cannon, while your record," Feldman looked down at his papers, "Has been exemplary. Additionally," and at this he looked down the table at Hannebrink. "You do have several people close to you arguing on your behalf."

The general put his pen down. "So I believe you're off the hook, Lieutenant Pelgram."

John sat there, stunned for a moment. "But, won't the war have to end if they find out we broke the rules?"

"Possibly." Leo Feldman spread his hands. "But remember this company has several things the good people of Ceres do not. Namely, good lawyers, the friendship of many important politicians, and lots and lots of cash."

Colonel Burr nodded. "Very well, Lieutenant. You are dismissed. Return to your company."

When they were outside the room, the HR man Tom Laurel shook John's hand. "Congratulations, Lieutenant, you got out of a lot of trouble today."

"Thanks." But for some reason, John didn't feel happy.

Eleric saluted as soon as Ser... Lieutenant Wheatfield finished his orders. "Roger that sir, and well done; peace be upon Eric's soul ..." and with those glum words said, for they were just that, hollow and devoid of happiness, just an automatic answer given out. Now that Trancy didn't truly mean it, but it wasn't something he liked to joke about as David did.

At once, Eleric began rallying the men, bringing them back towards the medical, and already barking out the orders given to him. As he shouted at the men, his cries were met by another, more distant one, but he nonetheless heard their words clearly: the enemy was retreating from the trenches ... Snapping out of his momentary astonishment, the soldier began once again bossing men about, getting them moving, and getting the wounded or too unfit to move on stretchers and shoulders.

A few were already dead, but they were still cradled in the arms of their comrades, untied 'till the end in an embrace of true friendship and loyalty, the final respect paid to the dead man. Slowly, the mud-stained, foul-smelling troup of men filtered off in an (mildly) orderly line back to the hospital, gossip of the enemy's withdrawal as thick in their ranks as flies around the carcasses of fallen men. the trudged along, a whispering trail of haggard, gaunt-looking soldiers all having seen too much, just too much. Hopefully, the little reporter's pictures would be priceless in ending this war, and retaliation from neighbouring systems would come soon. Eleric sorely hoped so.

"Please get me Lt. Wheatfield, or someone in local command," Dr. Lang said as he finished working on a fallen soldier, reattaching torn ligaments and shattered bone of a leg. "Tell him... tell him that I have an idea on how to deal with the poison gas."

Lang finally stood as the soldier slept, oblivious to the doctor's efforst to save his leg. Cooper rubbed his eyes as he looked around at the sheer number of patients that had filed into the makeshift hospital. He let out a heavy sigh and flexed his shoulders to try and relieve some of the tension.

"This is ridiculous. We can't possibly cope with the amount of wounded we've got here. We need either proper, professional facilities and equipment, or twice as many medically proficient staff as we have. This just can't go on like this. Dear God, please send us whatever help you can manage. Wait, nurse! Who's more familiar with local terraforming facilities than Wheatfield? He's got enough on his hands, and there may be someone more knowledgeable with whom I can go over this idea."

((someone was sposed to take me to the school/hospital, but since no one has made any movements, I'm taking creative control of a random soldier who took pity on my poor reporter and dragged him with other wounded to the hospital))

Jack sat upright, gaging a bit. What the hell was that smell? A mix of rotten eggs and bad potatos. He sat still a minute trying to regain his senses. His mouth tasted bad, horribly bad, and his head swam, so bad in fact, he was still seeing spots in front of his eyes. He leaned his back against the wall, closing his eyes, and just listened. He could hear some yelling and alot of crying. Also a distinct ringing noise reverbated in his ears, but he ignored it. He had to calm down. He had to think about what was going on.

Oh God. The soldiers. It all game back in a flash, images appearing in his head. Jack's eyes fluttered open quickly and he fell forward on his hands and knees. He couldn't breath. It took only a moment to realize it was his own doing, and he once again allowed himself to suck in air. Taking in his suroundings, Jack rose shakily, keeping his hand on the wall. The sight sickened him. Soldiers everywhere, nurses and doctors tending to them. Many of the soldiers covered in sickly looking blisters or seemingly tainted erosions on their skin. Even more of them were dead. Jack put on his face of calm. He was a reporter, he needed to contain his composure and look at this logically and not emotionally. He had work to do.

He reached down for his camera. Instead he found air. That wasn't right. His face of calm slowly melted away. This was even worse. Where the hell was his camera? He looked around frantically. His duffel bag gone. Alot of good that did, he couldn't even develop his film without it. Thats where he kept his reels and chemicals. He scanned the room, and not seeing the familiar navy blue bag, he bolted to the closest nurse.

Jack hurriedly rushed up to her, "Scuse' me ma'am, do.."

"I have work to do, now please move!", The nurse exclaimed without stopping in her quick progress to a man lying on the floor in agony.

Jack spotted a doctor heading away from a large group of nurses, probably issuing them orders. "Sir it's important that I fin..."

"Dammit son, can't you see I'm busy.", the doctor said busily pushing Jack out of the way.

This wasn't gonna work. Everyone seemed to be in a rush. That didn't help his problem. Quickly turning around in a circle, trying to spot his bag, and failing, he ran out the door and into a long hallway, filled with lockers. Alot of the lockers were wide open, being used as shelves for books, medical concoctions, machinary, amongst other things. He slowed to a trot as he passed by all the lockers, hoping to notice his belongings. He passed by classrooms , quickly glancing in them, most were dark and empty, a few were being used to treat sick patients as well.

Jack sighed. He'd never find his stuff here. Where the hell could it be? Then it hit him. Cooper Lang. Dr. Cooper Lang. He had to find the doctor. Perhaps he could let him know where his stuff was. Ofcourse he still needed to find a dark room, and manage to set up a small lab to develop the film properly, but this was a school and a hospital at the same time. That problem shouldn't be too hard to solve. As he trotted down the hall, peaking in doors, looking for Lang, he couldn't help note but how hot it was in here. He was already sweating heavily.

Lang's gloved hands were covered in blood. He finished the final maneouvres, and pulled a fragment of shrapnel from a soldier's abdomen. With practiced skill, he did what he alone could do, then gave concise instructions to an assisting nurse to finish the rest while he moved on to the next patient. There seemed to be no end to the dead and dying. Cooper couldn't even remember when he last stopped to rest. He stood in place a moment, trying to recollect the last time he slept. As the answer dawned on him, he felt his legs tremble and his head grow light.

It had been three days since he had slept. Only through strict discipline had he managed to keep from getting sloppy, but now, with the full weight of awareness, he had reached his limit. As the sounds of wounded men filled his ears like a dreadful choir, he felt the initial lurch of the world shifting underneath him. He held out his bloody hands in front of him, to break his fall as he collapsed to the floor with a wet slap.

He thought he saw the reporter enter the room shortly before he could only see the stained floor.

David sat down as Eleric pulled the squad back towards medical and someone dragged away that damnable reporter. His guardsmen would need chemical rinses, new uniforms and serious psychical help to get recovered from the gas attack. Sure mustard gas only had a small fatality rate but if you breathed it in, the gas caused bleeding and blistering within the respiratory system, damaging mucous membranes and causing pulmonary edema, followed by respiratory failure. Or the cancer it causes later on in life.

As the reserve Guardsmen raced to take watch over their gassed comrades and the trench lines, Lieutenant David Wheatfield wept softly, his fingers wrapping around the grip of his MLR-35. After a while, he lifted the binoculars to his eyes, trying to see if he could catch a glimpse of the murdering bastards that used gas on their fellow humans. One pillbox was burning and a platoon size unit was retreating back over no-man's land. It didn't make sense, why would they attack after using gas? Not that it mattered, they were retreating.

"Bloody Hell" grumbled David, looking next to him. There was the camera that the reporter had been using to take pictures of the gas attack. Grumbling, he grabbed the thing and started hoofing it back towards medical, he had a use for the leech and it was useless with out the camera.

Jack watched as Dr. Lang collapsed on the floor. Last thing he needed was the doctor sleeping. It was pivotal he get his camera and duffel bag back. He watched nurses and even some soldiers quickly crowd around the doctor. He stood back by the door, trying to reason out how he could get closer without getting shoved out of the way again. Jack shrugged. He began pushing his way through the small crowd. Sliding in between a doctor and nurse, two soldeirs stopped him.

"Where do you think you are going?", the first jarhead asked, putting out a hand to stop Jack.

"Yeah, you know any uninjured civilians are supposed to leave immediatly.", the other idiot joined in.

Jack threw his hands up exasperatedly, "Will you fucking move? I have to speak to the goddamn doctor. If you get in my damn way, and I have to go chase down Lieutenant Wheatfield, then you'll be sorry."

The two soldiers glanced at eachother before they picked up Jack by his arms, "Okay buddy, whatever you say, out you go."

Jack struggled against the two larger men,"Godammit... HEY! HEY DR. LANG. LANG ARE YOU UP? WHERES MY STUFF? I NEED TO DEVELOP MY FILM.... Will you get off me you assho... HEY LANG CALL THESE MONKEYS OFF ME!"

Jack tried to squirm out of the grip of the two men, but he couldn't manage it as they dragged him to the door. These idiots. You try to help them and this is the respect you get.

"Someone's callin' m'name," Cooper mumbled, "m'okay. I jus' need a bit of a break. Maybe I could use a nap, too. Thank you. No, I'm alright, thank you."

An orderly helped Cooper to his feet and lead him to his office. Lang sat on his worn chair and leaned his head back. His head swam as he held onto the arms of the chair. Days without sleep, barely eating, and performing so close to the front lines had taken their toll. His hands shook and his body felt cold.

The orderly still stood there, offering the doctor assistance.

"What can I get you, doc? I mean, are you hungry, or do you want a blanket to sleep?"

"Thanks, Jeffrey. Can you find out who was calling my name? It sounded important."

"It was that new reporter. He was asking where his stuff was."

"Is he still here," Cooper asked as he took a drink of water.

"No. Security dragged him outside."

"God. We're not barbarians. Have security bring him here. No, have them ask him politely to come see me."