Christmas Vacation

0736 Hours, 25th December, 2546 (Military Calendar)
Tau Ceti System, Lusitania
Lower Almeria Terraforming District.

“Can you believe it? Actual snow!

Montag could believe it, almost. No planet was monoclimatic, so even a hot, tropical planet like Lusitania had to have snow and glaciers somewhere. However, the high air pressure and the altitude of Lusitania's sun hinted that they were at least twenty-five hundred miles to the south of their base, not bad for five hours of travel.

“What do you think we're doing out here, man?” Private Kevin Downy asked from the front of the Pelican. “We've got to be a thousand miles from the base.”

Duvall, characteristically, was the first one with a wise-crack. “We're here making sure Santa's got the Innies on his naughty list, and we're going to check it twice!”

“Five credits say he's got better intel than ONI.”

It was fair question. The last time Montag had heard, Beatty had pulled some strings and twisted a few arms to make sure that Demarest's Degenerates got the coveted off-duty slot on December 25th and 26th. What had promised to be a day, a night, and a morning of drunken revelry was tossed out the back in favor of what looked like a training exercise.

“I'm serious. Are there Innies or something up here?”

Somebody's answer was cut off when three of the Pelicans dropped Long Toms; thousand pound 'earthshaker' thermobarics intended to level office buildings and warehouses. They dropped silently, accelerating at eight meters per second until they hit the frozen ground. The tall clouds of vapor they left behind ignited at the top, and a shockwave slapped the ground, leaving a 25-meter wide crater.

It sounded like God snapping his fingers, even at this range. An expanding circle, too soft to be called a shockwave with a straight face, whipped through the patchy forest of native bushes, shaking snow and branches loose.

The Pelican that carried Barnes's squad turned and banked for one of the craters, and it was in position for drop-off before the smoke cleared.

Staff Sergeant Barnes turned on his radio, trying to make sense of it all. “Lieutenant Demarest, sir, what are we supposed to be doing here?”

The reply was typically brusque. “Get off the Pelican, Barnes. That's an order.”

Montag shrugged and jumped out of the blood tray and onto the frozen dirt below. If the Lieutenant hadn't told them what to do yet, he wasn't going to until the time suited him. Barnes hesitated as Duvall and Downy climbed past him, and then was the last of the eleven man squad out. As soon as this boots hit the ground, the Pelican ascended, pausing only to drop off three resupply canisters before taking off.

“Your instructions are in the drops, people,” Demarest informed them over the general channel. “Have fun!”

Like the other two squads were surely doing in the other two craters, second squad rushed to the ammunition pods, forgetting the five Pelicans receding into the distance.

“We've got gauze, antiseptic, and hand warmers,” Barnes called out when he'd pried the lid off one. “How about you, Montag?”

“A compass, sextant, and a book on sphere trigonometry.”

“What?”

Montag lifted the sole occupant of the ammunition pod up for all to see. A red flag, slowly nodding in the breeze, became an island of color in the drab crater, the only primary color amongst dirt, snow, and winter camou.

Barnes still didn't get it. “No guns? No paint marks? What kind of an exercise is this?”

Montag answered with a question of his own. “The temperature out here is above freezing, da?”

Private Downy climbed over the lip of the crater and gathered up a fistful of snow. It had been wet before the thermobaric blockbuster had hit; now it was a heavy slush. Once he was done, he grinned and held up a sphere of off-white snow.

Sergeant Barnes couldn't stop laughing for a full minute. It was the laugh of the last person to realize that the joke was on him.

Fifty meters north of Yellow Base, 0812 hours

Eleven men in the squad made for some interesting tactical options. Five men and women guarding the flag left six to assault other positions. Of course, six soldiers could guard the flag, leaving five to do the running. In this way, the other two squads would be outnumbered if they split their forces in half and, of course, it was best to at least have an extra person around to guard the flag in an all-out skirmish.

In this manner, Sergeant Gui B. Montag found himself facing the entirety of Yellow team with just Corporals Duvall and Dawson, as well as Private Downy and Amereti. Outnumbered two to one, and it had been all Montag could do to convince Barnes to let him have four people for the team. They could hide in the bushes and plan, for what that was worth.

“What are they doing?”

“Building a snowfort, I'd guess,” Montag replied dryly.

“No shit, Moriarty,” Duvall snapped. “I'm asking why they're wasting all that effort. It's pointless!”

“Well, if you think you can vault over a snowball, what about one that's got sticks and branches sticking out of it?”

Duvall didn't like the sound of that at all.

“Fine,” Montag continued. “You four will rush towards the area they haven't completed yet and make as much noise as possible. I'll come in through the completed section and throw the flag to one of you. They won't be watching that area as closely, so it should work.”

That wasn't enough for Amereti. “So, should we try and destroy some of those snowballs while we can?”

Montag shook his head. “Flags first, defenses last. When we get their flag, they have no reason to stay at the base, and they'll all give pursuit. Whoever gets it, don't wait for anybody. Run back to our base and bludgeon anyone who gets in the way. Everyone else, try to catch up and run interference.”

“Playing rough with the parade flags,” Duvall laughed. “Lieutenant Scheisskopf isn't going to be happy with that.” Referring, of course, to the much unloved officer in charge of ceremony back at the barracks.

Thirty seconds later, four members of red team broke cover and charged at the snow fort while Montag came in low and fast from another direction. While they skirmished with the defenders, not a single member of Yellow team saw Montag as he closed in, vaulted over the first row of snowballs, lost his footing, fell over a second row, and landed flat on his back. Not altogether a bad thing.

In the meantime, Corporal Duvall picked up the yellow flag and threw it to Downy, who immediately took off for Red Base.

Montag, however, found himself at the feet of one of the remaining defenders. He kicked the guy in the kneecaps and skidded in the opposite direction, across snow that had been trampled beneath ten standard-issue Marine Corps boots for half an hour. Pleased with the success of that maneuver, Montag kicked some of the snowballs that formed the walls. All he had to do was put enough room between him and the other soldier to get to his knees and run awa-

That train of thought was rudely derailed as Montag crashed into a pair of the aforementioned boots. He looked up just in time to see the Marine hoist a basketball-sized chunk of snow over her head.

On the whole, it just wasn't Montag's day for strategizing.

On reflection, the defenses weren't so smart after all. Sergeant Barnes had hoped that, by piling large snowballs waist-high around the crater and leaving three corridors open, (Evenly spaced around the base, of course) they could funnel the other teams into predictable assaults. Except the mounds wouldn't slow anyone down, they'd just run right over them.

It wasn't much to show for thirty minutes of hard work.

Luckily, Downy ran up with the Yellow flag flapping behind him, giving Barnes something else to worry about.

“Can't... breathe... ran... all... the... way...”

“Where's everybody else?” Barnes asked, coaxing the winded Marine to a sitting position.

“I... don't... know...” Downy coughed and leaned back against one of the mounds.

“Hey, I'm going to make it easy on us.” Barnes said. “I'm going to ask you yes or no questions, and you are going to catch your breath, capiche? First, did the rest of the team fall behind?”

Downy nodded.

“Did Yellow team follow you here?”

Downy shook his head.

“Did you run more than five klicks?”

Downy shook his head.

“Did you get lost?”

Noncommittal shrug. The liar.

Barnes rolled his eyes. “I guess we just radio Demarest and tell him we've got Yellow team's flag.”

No sooner than he established contact, a group of six Marines broke cover and ran at a tangent to the curve of the crater's walls. Even at fifteen meters, Sergeant Shaker was instantly recognizable taking the lead. A quick consultation with Downy confirmed that Sergeant Walden had been Yellow team, and therefore this was Blue team showing up for a raid. It had to be blue, if they all using Scheisskopf's flags.

As a group, Blue team turned in formation and charged, loosing a volley of snowballs in the meantime. Beautifully executed, and the snowballs were timed so that they'd all hit at the same instant, but a waste of energy. Snowballs were nothing more than an annoyance.

Barnes turned slightly and raised an arm to ward off one snowball that was aimed at him, and then yelped in shock as a lance of pain raced down his arm. Those jerks had loaded their snowballs with rocks!

He ducked to avoid a second volley, noted he wasn't the only one to do so, scooped up an armful of snow, and shoved it in the face of the first Blue to run down the path. That was quickly followed by a roundhouse punch to the ribs.

The fortifications his squad had erected, contrary to Barnes' doubts and fears, were working beautifully. Three Blues had tried to run over the top of them, only to sink up to their hips in snow, slowing them down considerably. The rest were bottlenecked in the path, forced to fight him one on one while getting pelted by all Reds present.

The balance of power was changed, however, when the entirety of Yellow team burst through a thicket on the other side of the crater. Seven Marines could hold off six, but not sixteen.

“Kevin, take the flags and run!” Barnes shouted. Anticipating the question, he appended the order with “Anywhere!”

A kidney punch from the blue sent Barnes sprawling, but not before he saw Private Downy following orders, grabbing both flags, roll over the walls, duck under a Yellow who had circled around to cut him off, and run like a startled jackrabbit.

Corporal Maria Bailey was actually a gentle soul, and had really gotten into the Christmas Spirit this year, but Corporal Monfriez was coming very close to being beaten to death with his own skull.

“Honestly, if Demarest wanted us to keep the flags at the base, he would have given some sort of instruction along with the flags.”

Bailey picked up a handful of snow and crushed it into ice and water. “Or maybe he thought we'd think for ourselves. If we try hiding the flags in the forest, the exercise is going to decay into a hundred square kilometer scavenger hunt.”

“So, you're saying that you could hide a bright blue flag,” her antagonist jeered, pronouncing blue as 'bleu'. “Somewhere around here where twenty people couldn't find it in twelve hours?”

Bailey found herself in a trap. In order to prove her point that hiding the flags would slow the game down to a frickin' drag, she'd have to hide the flag somewhere in the brush forests around their base. If they did that, then Monfriez would do everything he could to keep the flag out there, a victory for him. If she refused point-blank and dropped the matter, she'd be a bitch who did things “because I said so”.

Even if Sergeant Shaker had left her in charge, he wasn't here right now, and Monfriez was the same rank as her. She had to cut him off quick before he pulled out the “If the Sarge was here, he'd do it” card.

Salvation arrived in the form of a lone marine breaking through the wilderness, pursued at a distance by most of Walden's squad. Bailey couldn't tell who it was at that distance, but he was carrying the red and yellow flags, and was screaming for help.

Without orders, the present members of Blue team rushed forward, rock-packed snowballs at the ready. Corporal Bailey switched on her headset radio and cued the general channel.

“Lieutenant Demarest, this is Corporal Bailey at Blue base. We have captured the yell-”

The Marine with the flags raced past her. By the time she realized that it was Private Downy under that scarf, the creep from Barnes' squad, he'd jumped into the crater, grabbed the Blue flag, and just as quickly jumped back out the other side.

Twenty seconds later, he was gone.

Three members of Shaker's squad turned and stared at her. Sure, none of the other halfwits had thought to stop him, or even smelled a trap. And yet, it was all her fault.

“Bloody hell,” she swore, switching off the radio. “We're going to get that flag back, and we're going to bury it!”

On the whole, the sight of the Pelican hovering over the crater made up for losing Yellow team in the brush. Barnes had no illusions that it was here to whisk his squad back to the barracks in San Lorenze, or somewhere civilized with a roaring fire and hard cider.

Instead, a row of ammunition pods dangled from the magnetic clamps, painted a brighter shade of green with duct tape for ribbons. One of the pods fell and slammed into the crater as the Pelican flew over, waggling it's winglets at Barnes.

Two minutes and a third of a kilometer later, Barnes was running down the path to the first present of the day. By the time he saw that someone had already opened it, he'd tripped over a pair of legs.

The legs belonged to Gui Montag, who was propped up against one of the mounds of snow. Remarkably, his left eye (the one not covered by the custom HMD) was purple and swollen shut, and bloody scratches crisscrossed his face.

“Der Kommandant got into my stash,” Montag said, holding up a bottle with a gearbox label. Barnes could have sworn he felt his liver recoil at the thought of the stuff. “He also sent bourbon and plain beer, if you want the weak sauce.”

“What happened to you?”

Montag poured some of the drink onto a gauze pad (Was it eating through the fibers, or was that his imagination?) and dabbed at the cuts. “I fell behind, and two of Walden's squad pushed me into a bush. How about you?”

Barnes indicated the left side of his face, where his sideburns would have been if he had any. The skin had been scraped raw. “Gary's got his squad loading their snowballs with rocks.”

Instead of replying, Montag took a long drink from the bottle.

“Are you trying to get drunk? It's barely oh-nine-hundred.”

“It keeps me warm.”

“No, that's your liver melting down.”

Downy, ever the one for abrupt appearances, ran up behind Barnes, stopped by the ammunition crate, and waved all three flags at the departed Pelican, off in the distance. Before Barnes could order him to turn on the radio and signal properly (Downy was, of course, too breathless to talk) the dropship had begun to bank and turn back toward the crater.

Of course, there was considerable debate over whether Barnes' squad had scored on one or two flags. Sergeant Walden, arguing over the radio until she could get to the crater, made a good point that Red team had never lost possession of the Yellow flag, and therefore were ineligible to score off it. Montag countered with the assertion that, since Downy had carried it all the way to the dead center of Blue base and back, it might as well count as losing possession. In fact, since he'd also been carrying the Red flag, Red team might as well get points off that flag as well.

During that time, the Pelican pilot, one of the flyboys Demarest often kept on retainer, landed his bird so he could get involved with the decision making. Blue, Yellow, and most of Red team gathered around the four NCOs and the Warrant Officer as they argued, trading jokes and cans of beer while they rested. The squabble over the rules was accepted as a break from reality, an event that warped the fabric of space-time so that the rules and commitments of combat no longer applied. Akin to what would happen if a spontaneous game of soccer had broken out with the Covenant during a pitched battle.

The matter was resolved when the pilot arbitrarily declared that Red team had scored off the Yellow and Blue flags, resolved the question of how far you have to go before you can rescore with a simple “I'll know it when I see it.” and promised to drop Blue and Yellow's flags off at their respective bases. That said, he shouted down a counterpoint from Sergeant Shaker, grabbed both flags he had assumed custody of, and boarded the Pelican. Two decorated ammunition pods fell as it ascended to the skies, and Barnes found himself holding the Red flag.

Everyone was staring at each other, but mostly at him, with the puzzled, concerned expression of factory workers who realized that they had lost track of time and overstayed their break by two minutes. Some of them mournfully gazed at their half-finished cans of beer, realizing that they wouldn't get a chance to finish. Private Downy groaned from his fetal position, where he was halfway through a pint of bourbon that Duvall had graciously decided to help him drink while he recovered from his exhaustion.

“Back to the grind,” Barnes muttered darkly as he whacked the first person to move over the head with the flagpole. That action broke the silence, and the crater that served as Red base became a boiling storm of elbows, fists, and boots. Before Barnes was tackled by four different Marines, he saw Duvall jump up and headbutt someone in the small of the back and kick a girl in the back of the knee, toppling both of them like trees.

Darn, that made him proud.

“Six years in the Marines, and I've never even heard of roast duck MREs.”

Duvall accepted that with a casual shrug.

Red team hadn't scored since ten, as the side effect of their rewards killed any ability to plan carefully, coordinate effectively, or even walk straight. However, it was hard to tell what the Marines were guarding more zealously, the beer or the flags.

Nevertheless, the Pelican using the callsign 'Blitzen' had dropped off lunch and painkillers, giving the marines a sort of cease-fire for an hour or so.

“I mean, even if it's just a limited run for the holidays, someone in the squad must have heard of it,” Montag continued.

“Demarest fancies himself as a miracle worker.”

Montag grinned. Lieutenant Demarest could talk Supply and Logistics into shipping sand to the Sahara, but conjuring a nonexistent MRE out of nothing was beyond his abilities.

“Hey, d'you got any cigarettes to spare?”

Duvall held up a crushed pack and wagged it to demonstrate that it was empty.

“Yeah, right, Condi. I know you've got spares.”

She didn't argue, but pulled out a pack and threw it at him. Montag didn't see where she'd stashed it on her person, but it smelled sweaty.

“eh, so wh-”

“Hey, Montag.”

“Yeah?”

“Has anyone ever told you you're lousy at starting conversations?”

“Yeah, I'll admit I'm terribly deficient in that area. What'dya want to talk about?”

“How about what I got you for Christmas?”

“What, when I haven't even had a chance to look?”

“It's December twenty frickin' fifth, Gui. We might as well. And what I got you was, I got you an anthology from Ballentine.”

Montag recognized the name of the publisher, but only after a moment of thought. “An anthology? Why?”

“Yeah. An anthology of anthologies, by the way. The entire collection of science fiction anthologies published by Ballentine from twenty-five hundred to twenty-five-twenty-five. I was browsing and figured, if you couldn't find a few good authors in that collection, you're completely hopeless.”

“Thanks,” Montag said, feeling that he was not treading on thin ice but merely the thinnest coating of frost on still waters. “I guess. Truth be told, I don't really like short stories. They're great and all for presenting concepts, but you don't have enough room to really go into detail in ten thousand words or less.”

“Well, sucks to be you then,” Duvall muttered as she stabbed at her turkey stuffing. “And for future reference, I like fantasy, but only if it's not a Tolkien clone. Those guys are a dime a dozen, and they usually suck.”

“You mean there's other kinds of fantasy, that don't feature dwarves, elves, orcs, and a plot to doom all peaceful races? I never would have guessed.”

“Yeah. You end up digging for hours, but the originality is worth it. So, what did you get me?”

Montag tossed his empty MRE wrapper away and pulled a bottle of Likero-Vodochnyĭ Zavod Kantoreka out of the nearby snow mound. “I'm probably ruining it for Shaker here, so when he tells you, act surprised. We got you a Mongoose.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Some civvies stole it and modded it, and we reclaimed it. It was Gary's idea to get it, so I bribed someone in S&L to take it out of the register, and he shipped it home. When your tour ends, it's waiting for you in a storage shed back on Luna, all paid for.”

“That's really... wow, thanks for not shipping it straight home. My mom would've pawned it the day it arrived, and I'd do the same thing if things were backwards.”

“He, he remembered you gripping about her, and we decided to keep things safe.”

Of course, that was only half of it. Not only had Shaker noted that and wrote it down, but he'd also been adamant about getting her some sort of off-road vehicle, claiming she ran dirt as a hobby before joining. Somehow, Montag couldn't help but feel impressed and very disturbed at the same time.

He got up and walked out of the crater. Lunch was over, and as the most sober member of Red team, it would probably help if he tried finding where Blue and Yellow had hidden their flags.

“Speaking of sober...” Montag muttered as he stuck the Knife into the neck seal of the Kantoreka bottle and cut it off. The nice thing about one-twenty proof alcohol was that nobody tried to mooch some off of you.

Downy sniffed the bottle of eggnog suspiciously. “Is it alcoholic?”

Barnes took the bottle and poured a few drops of liquid from another bottle into it. The gearbox label twinkled in the dim sunlight like light probably glints off the fangs of a deadly viper.

“It is now.”

“Hey, careful with that stuff, man! For all we know, Kantoreka Likeroo-Vodkyni Zaphod is Russian for 'concrete cleaner, industrial strength'.”

“To be honest, it wouldn't surprise me in the least. I've seen Montag clean cuts with this crap, but there's no way in Hell I'm going to let him drink three bottles of it in a six hour period.”

“Then give it to Shaker. A ten-man squad ought to drink it down without any ill effects.”

The land around the craters was mostly rolling hills covered in places with dense thickets of bushes that barely grew taller than four meters. It was a lot of territory to cover, and it would probably be impossible to find three flags in an area so big, if it weren't for the snow. There were tracks all over the place, but the Marines had begin to find trails and ravines where it was easier to run and harder to be seen.

A lone man with a flag would probably stash it in a bush, except his footprints all around the bush in question would give the hiding spot away. With this in mind, Barnes had ordered that the Red flag be hidden by one of the well-worn trails to Blue base, on the chance that the trampling and broken branches would be less conspicuous in a well-traveled area.

When it came to hunting for the other flags, however, Barnes was assuming that the other two squad leaders would arrive at the same conclusion he did. So he'd split his soldiers into two-man fireteams, with the odd-woman-out scouting the enemy bases to ensure that that wasn't where the flags were being kept.

When he saw it and got a good look at it, he was surprised that he'd been able to see it in the first place. The yellow flag was stuck upside-down in one of the bushes, with the fabric rolled up and covered with snow, and the pole cunningly disguised with bits of bark. Furthermore, it was at the very center of the bush, a strange hybrid of a tumbleweed and a dead lilac.

Barnes pointed it out to Downey and told him “I dare you to go get it.”

“What, with those thorns? You think I'm stupid?”

“You'll be fine.”

“Like Hell! I double dare you to go get it!”

“Yeah? Well I double-dog dare you.”

“I triple-dogdare you!”

“You're going to wade in there and retrieve it, and that's an order!”

Thus outclassed, Downy wrapped a scarf around his head and climbed up into the branches while Barnes lit up a cigarette. Less than a minute later, Downy threw the flag out of the bush. It got halfway before the fabric unfurled and caught in the thorns.

Barnes reached in, avoided a thorn as large as his middle finger, and tugged it loose. He'd gotten the flag out and curled back up when he suddenly heard a low, droning sound he immediately placed as Blue Team's Mongoose.

Shaker's squad hadn't done as well as Barnes's or Walden's had, scoring only three points to six and eight, respectively. And so, to even up the odds, Demarest had dropped a Mongoose into Shaker's base sometime after lunch.

Ultimately, that had led to a lot of harassing, two scores, and two injured Marines in Shaker's squad. And now one of Shaker's Marines was bearing down on Barnes, one arm outstretched to grab the Yellow flag.

Barnes fell to one knee and rolled away from the Mongoose's path, and felt the pole jerk out of his hands. As he got to his feet, Downy ran past him, and they both chased after the quad.

The Mongoose raced halfway up the side of the hill and hit a patch of ice. The driver, whoever she was, stomped down on the pedal and steered to the right to compensate, and still continued to lose speed as the wheels ground through the layers of ice and snow. Barnes and Downy reached the bottom of the hill as the Mongoose's tires finally hit dirt and gained traction. The sudden acceleration and the slope of the hill lifted the front of the Mongoose off the ground and past it's balance point. The driver was mashed into the snow she had just driven over, and retained the presence of mind to let go.

When the quad finally stopped at the foot of the hill, Barnes rolled it over on its right side and drove it up the hill to Downy, who was making sure the Marine hadn't killed herself.

“That's Bailey, right?”

“Yeah. I think she'll be fine, but that was quite a spill.”

“Load her up on the Mongoose, and I'll drive her back to our base. We can't leave her here.”

They loaded her onto the equipment rack, made sure she couldn't fall off, and Barnes mounted the vehicle.

“OK, I'm taking the flag and the Mongoose. You just try to make it back to base in one piece.”

“Wait, what? You're leaving me behind?”

Barnes gestured at the pillion, completely taken over by Corporal Bailey. “Sorry man, but it'd be really awkward. There's only enough room for two people total, y'know.”

Barnes gunned the engine and roared up the hill. He barely had time to notice that the electronic suspension was broken before the left wheel hit a rock, flipping the quad over and pinning him in the snow.

After what felt like months, Downy caught up and leaned over the Mongoose, grinning like an idiot.

“Sir, I hope you can still walk, because it's going to be really awkward carrying two cripples in the rear. There's only enough room for two people total, y'know.”

“Screw you, Downy.”

The Mongoose coasted into Red base with a load of branches and twigs tied to the rear seat. While Sergeant Shaker untied the branches and stacked them on an ever-growing pile, Duvall dismounted and pulled the fuel cell out. When they were through, they sat down against the engine for warmth and waited for others to show up.

Gradually, more Marines appeared out of the darkness, dragging wood or carrying beverages from the other craters. The goods piled up, and the Marines huddled together. Friends who had spent half a day throwing ice-laden snowballs at each other now sought each other out for jokes and stories. And right by the mound of branches, twigs, and deadwood, the four NCOs of Demarest's Degenerates held a quick conference.

“Is everyone accounted for?” Walden asked.

“Not yet. Downy's gone and got hisself lost again.”

“Light the bonfire, then. 'T'll give him something to walk towards.”

“Yeah, light the fire!” someone called out. “I'm freezing my nads off here!”

Montag turned to face the heckler and shouted him down. “Es 'st zu kalt fur dich? Back am Siberia Prime, we'd talk about global warming when it got this hot!”

“Montag. English. Please.”

Instead of replying, Montag doused the Red flag with a bottle of his gearbox label, took out his cigarette lighter, and flicked it open.

Click... click... click. Click-click-click...

“Aw, Hell, you're too drunk to use a cigarette lighter?”

“Shut it, Barnes.”

A small blossom of flame leaped from the igniter and embraced the flag within its glowing wings. Montag raised it and waved it about, saluting the gathered Marines and raising a few cheers. But before he could jam it into the woodpile, the flag fell off the pole and into the mud at Montag's feet.

“Heh. I guess that fabric burns pretty quick.”

“Hey, Walden. Hand me the yellow flag.” Montag said, ignoring Barnes's quip. He ripped the flag off and stuffed it into the neck of the vodka bottle, muttering “If you want things to work right...”

Everyone backed off quickly as Montag lit the flag and threw the Molotov cocktail into the woodpile, but the fireball everyone expected to consume Montag and the wood failed to appear. Instead, flames slowly spread from the inside out, heating the wood and melting the ice that tenaciously clung to the dead branches. Montag fed it with the Blue flag and the fuel cell from the Mongoose. Within two minutes, the whole woodpile was ablaze, and the Marines were basking in the radiant heat.

"Burning the flags. Scheisskopf won't be happy about that." Walden muttered.

"If that shithead doesn't like it, he can go to Hell." Barnes shot back.

“Right.” Shaker said when the laughter died down. “Demarest will pick us up in another hour or so. He might even bring dinner... ham, or maybe turkey. Something that doesn't come freeze-dried in a wrapper.”

From behind him came the sound of someone cutting open the foil seal on a bottle of liquor. “So, we spend eleven hours beating each other to death, and we come out with no fatalities. Broken bones, contusions, lacerations, and loads of fun, but no fatalities.”

“That's what we call victory, Montag. Merry Christmas.”

“Aye. Merry Christmas to y'all too.”

---

Awesome.

Okay, I haven't finished it completely yet, but I literally lol'd at this part:

“Hey, careful with that stuff, man! For all we know, Kantoreka Likeroo-Vodkyni Zaphod is Russian for 'concrete cleaner, industrial strength'.”

EDIT: Okay, I finished it, and I love it!

A belated Merry Christmas Rasq!

I'm glad you guys like it. This is the only place where I've gotten such a large response. Thanks, y'all!

PiEdude wrote:Okay, I haven't finished it completely yet, but I literally lol'd at this part:

“Hey, careful with that stuff, man! For all we know, Kantoreka Likeroo-Vodkyni Zaphod is Russian for 'concrete cleaner, industrial strength'.”

EDIT: Okay, I finished it, and I love it!

A belated Merry Christmas Rasq!

Lol!
The "Industrial Strength Concrete Cleaner" is one of a lot of jokes in this I've wanted to use for a long time. The other one is "When it gets this warm on Siberia Prime, we start talking about global warming", which I came up with about two years ago. Unfortunately, you guys need to know what Montag's home planet is like to get it... and I doubt many of you have been keeping up with Isolation.

To be honest, "Siberia Prime" doesn't sound too warm to begin with.

Rasq'uire'laskar wrote:"When it gets this warm on Siberia Prime, we start talking about global warming", which I came up with about two years ago. Unfortunately, you guys need to know what Montag's home planet is like to get it... and I doubt many of you have been keeping up with Isolation.

I just imagined it was a cold planet similar to Siberia and populated primarily by Russian colonists.


I just now read the story, and I liked it too

Fucking brilliant Rasq.

Yes, I loved it.

BBJynne wrote:

Rasq'uire'laskar wrote:"When it gets this warm on Siberia Prime, we start talking about global warming", which I came up with about two years ago. Unfortunately, you guys need to know what Montag's home planet is like to get it... and I doubt many of you have been keeping up with Isolation.

I just imagined it was a cold planet similar to Siberia and populated primarily by Russian colonists.


I just now read the story, and I liked it too

I'm glad you liked it.

The humor from the comment about Global Warming dates back to how Siberia Prime, despite having a population of about 930 million, is putting out three times the greenhouse gasses planet Earth is today, in a sort of gonzo terraforming project. If they talk about Global Warming, it's in that "Hell, it's finally working" tone of voice.

Scheisskopf

Doesn't that mean.... shit head in german?

Gauz wrote:Scheisskopf

Doesn't that mean.... shit head in german? :p

Yeah, it does. I admit, I stole that joke from Catch-22.
But it had me laughing for a whole minute when I read it, and I feel that I'm paying homage to it.