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“Orbital Drop Unit Six, at attention!”
The bark of the Lance commander had a transformative effect on the line of slack-shouldered jarheads. Immediately they shut up, an unfinished joke echoing around the wide mechanized cavalry hangar, shortly punctuated by the shrill squeak of boots on polished concrete. Cavalry pilots fell into a neat line as the Marshal emerged in his smart red uniform. He was old, but his dark face didn’t wrinkle easily, save for the well-worn creases of concentration and disapproval on his forehead. He walked up and down the rank and file, no doubt inspecting the troops for presentability. Marshall Adej never gave his briefing if so much as a single button was out of place.
He nodded once to himself as he passed each member of the Lance - Rigby, Hachin, Lopez… and then he stopped. No nod for Ensign Pavel. The tension grew thick. Pavel tried to stand up taller, which was hard to do without standing on tip toes.
The Marshall pivoted. The room held its breath.
“Ensign Pavel.” The Marshal’s address was neither a question nor an accusation. His voice was level and quiet, which usually indicated it was about to get very loud.
“Yes, sir?”
“May I ask what you are wearing?”
“Standard mechanized cavalry uniform sir.”
“I was referring to that on your head, Ensign.”
“A beret, sir.”
“ Under the beret, Ensign.” The Marshal’s voice remained admirably level. Across the row, the Lance commander was fidgeting.
“Sir, permission to–” He began. Pavel interrupted him.
“Those are my ears, sir.”
This is when the Marshal got loud. His voice boomed through the hangar.
“And why, Ensign, are you forcing your lance to bear the indignity of seeing you standing at attention during an official briefing with a pair of cat ears! ?”
Pavel was staring straight ahead, with dead eyes.
“Because they won’t fit under the beret sir.”
A vein bulged in the marshal’s forehead.
“Sir, permission to speak” The lance captain said hastily.
“ What is it, commander?” The Marshal roared, wheeling around.
“Sir, Ensign Pavel has undergone a GTBM procedure on Kepler-3. The ears are not accessories.”
The marshal cursed and turned back to Pavel, an expression of bewilderment on his face.
“Gene therapy and body m- why on earth did you do that? Are you trying to turn your lance into a joke?”
“No sir.”
“Did you think your lance needed a mascot , animal boy?”
“No, sir.”
“You are no doubt aware that your actions and the choices you make in how you present yourself have a bearing on how your colleagues are perceived?”
Pavel glanced up at the row of mechs, lined up on the far side of the hangar. There were some spartan, respectable ones, such as Grimace’s olive drab SSC Swallowtail. But right next to it, he saw Sanada’s IPS-N Blackbeard with its detailed decal of breasts practically spilling out of a polkadot bikini painted across the front.
“Yes sir.” was all Pavel said.
“And do you think your colleagues appreciate their wingmate using his own hard-earned credits to turn the whole wing into a laughing stock?”
“Why don’t you ask them?” Pavel said mildly. “Sir.”
The Marshal paused at the perceived insubordination, then scowled and took a step back. He saw a row of large, grizzled, tattooed, hard-looking men and women, standing in deference and respect to his authority. Amidst them was this one scrawny little ensign with calico cat ears poking out from under his beret. The ensign was going to get bullied into submission eventually. He may as well weed him out now. It was a shame - finding good pilots was difficult. But what good was a pilot who jeopardized the respectability of his lance?
“If a single one of you likes the notion of being a proud member of the cute and cuddly catboy brigade, I invite you to step forward.” He said to the group of grizzled veterans.
The Marshal’s expression froze when each member of the lance took a heavy, perfectly synchronized step forward. He stared up and down the row, and let his gaze settle back on the Ensign.
Pavel didn’t look smug. He only looked exhausted.
⁂
Grimace slammed a row of rectangular tiles on the table. “Chiitoitsu, boys. Pay up.”
“You discarded two six pins and got two more in your hand? Bullshit. Bastard doesn’t even need to bluff; he just plays like an idiot and draws exactly what he needs,” Sanada grumbled, sliding a pile of hexagonal chips across the narrow table of the barracks common room.
“Maybe you should do the same, San, otherwise you’re gonna spend shore leave eating rations and backpacking.” taunted Pigpen, who was holding down the east side of the table.
“Fuck this. Hey, I’m cashing out.“
“We’re in the middle of the game.”
“That’s too damn bad. I wanna eat at least one order of soup dumplings when my leave hits. I know when there’s something I can’t afford to gamble away.”
“At least get someone to take your spot so we can keep playing.”
Sanada stood up and glanced around the breakroom, where his gaze settled on Pavel lounging on a squat chair with a datapad. The ensign was wearing only a t-shirt and a pair of slacks he had altered so that his tail could poke through. His ears were on a swivel but he didn’t seem to be paying attention to anything besides what he was reading.
“Hey! Pspspsps, cuddly widdle catboy. Come play Mahjong. You owe the boys a shot at your shore leave allowance for sticking up for you today.”
“Lick my ass Sanada”
“Lick it yourself. What else did you get that surgery for?”
There was a chorus of laughter. Pavel scowled, and then got up, pocketing the datapad.
“Cash me in and redeal” he said, taking Sanada’s place. Two of his wingmates clapped him on the shoulder and then they began shuffling the tiles around. When the clacking subsided, Pigpen continued the conversation.
“Actually, why did you get the surgery? I been wondering.”
Grimace shook his head, always ready to play the mediator.
“Pig, you can’t just ask people that. Pavel, you don’t have to answer that.”
“It’s fine.” Pavel said. “I just wanted to, that’s all.”
“That can’t possibly be all .” Pigpen pressed. The whole barracks common room seemed to be listening now - there was no more murmur of conversation outside of the Mahjong table. “Gene therapy and surgery ain’t something you get cause you were drunk on shore leave. Not like San’s tattoo.”
“Yeah.” Pavel said dryly, starting to build up the wall of tiles in front of him. “A bit more thought went into it than that.” His tail was flicking to and fro. If anyone in the barracks had interacted with a cat long enough to know that this was a sign of annoyance, they didn’t show it. Instead they waited for him to continue, expectantly. “But that’s really all. I just wanted to look like this.” The players began drawing their tiles from the walls.“Really badly,” he added.
There was a considered silence. Pavel let it rest. He hadn’t been in the lance long - not even long enough to get his own callsign - but he knew that they respected him, and he respected them. They’d actually consider what he had said.
“For how long?” Switchboard responded, breaking her long silence as the fourth player at the table.
“Since I was fourteen I guess?”
Pigpen gave a low whistle.
“What’s that? Like two years?” Sanada said, which earned him an elbow to the gut from Pavel.
“And you did it even though it was gonna put everyone in the chain of command on your ass?” Pigpen asked. “You must have really wanted it.”
Pavel drew his last tile and started arranging his hand.
“How much would you go through to feel comfortable in your own skin?” He said as he threw away his first tile. A full round of discards passed, and then another. Finally, Switchboard spoke again.
“That takes balls ,” she said. The group nodded in agreement.
“Big swingin’ kitty nuts,” Sanada said, which prompted a chorus of assent.
“This kitty’s got claws”
“He’s a tomcat that’s for sure”
Pavel rolled his eyes.
“Shut your goddamn mouth.” He said, and then he discarded a tile. “Riichi.”
Grimace’s eyebrows shot up, which was the most emotion he had let show on his face since the game started. Pigpen paused, apparently reconsidering his discard.
“He doesn’t seem to like Tomcat” Sanada said, grinning and leaning annoyingly over the table.
Pigpen gingerly laid down a nine bamboo.
“Ron.” Pavel said immediately, and flipped his hand over. “Honroutou”
“Holy shitting Christ” Sanada said. “I’m glad I cashed out.”
A buzzer sounded overhead, signaling an all-hands meeting. Each soldier leapt up reflexively, suddenly straight-backed and ready for action. Quickly, the Mahjong players counted and shoved their chips over to Pavel’s side of the table and excused themselves. Sanada clapped him on the shoulder.
“I’ll make ‘em cash you out when we get back, Tomcat” He said.
“Look alive, Tomcat!” said another lance member as he leapt up and hustled out of the room.
“Don’t let those swingin’ nuts slow you down, Tomcat!”
There were a few more jeers thrown his way as the common room cleared out, until Pavel stood alone in bewilderment. After a moment he remembered himself and hurried out after them.
Finally, he had a callsign.