Logistics had set up their little kingdom at the edge of the hardstand, close enough to the artillery park to be useful and far enough away that they could pretend they weren't part of the mess. Tents in neat rows. Pallets stacked with the kind of precision that suggested someone, somewhere, believed order could be imposed on entropy if you just labeled things hard enough.
Rus stood at the boundary line with his arms folded, watching a forklift struggle with a pallet that was clearly not meant to be lifted that way.
"That's going to break," Dan said.
"It already is," Gino added.
The forklift lurched. Someone shouted. The pallet tilted. Boxes slid, spilling rations and parts across the dirt like a slow-motion failure report.
Rus exhaled through his nose. "Every time."
Berta laughed. "You'd think after losing three pallets this week they'd learn."
"They learn," Foster said. "They just don't care."
One of the logistics NCOs waved frantically, trying to get the forklift operator to stop. The operator kept going. The pallet gave up completely and collapsed, scattering crates marked SENSITIVE and HANDLE WITH CARE.
Rus pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Alright," he said. "I'm going in."
"Try not to kill anyone," Stacy said.
"No promises," Rus replied, already walking.
The logistics officer spotted him halfway across the hardstand and visibly tensed. Rus didn't slow.
"Lieutenant," the officer said quickly, forcing a smile. "Didn't expect to see you."
"I didn't expect to see my spare barrel sitting in the dirt," Rus replied, gesturing at a crate that had cracked open. "Yet here we are."
"We're experiencing some delays—"
"You're experiencing incompetence," Rus cut in. "Delays are what happen when shells don't arrive on time. This is just you stacking shit wrong."
The officer bristled. "Sir, with respect—"
"Don't," Rus said flatly. "Don't 'with respect' me while my unit's gear is being used as a fucking stress test for gravity."
Behind him, Berta leaned against a crate and stage-whispered, "He's grumpy because you touched his toys."
Rus didn't turn. "Berta."
"I'm helping."
The logistics officer glanced past Rus at Cyma Squad, then back again. "We're under pressure too, Lieutenant. High tempo. Constant requests."
"Welcome to the war," Rus said. "Now fix it."
The officer swallowed. "We'll… reprioritize."
"You'll do better than that," Rus replied. "You'll inventory everything that fell. You'll replace anything damaged. And you'll stop stacking live parts under rations like you're daring the universe to make a point."
The officer nodded quickly. "Yes, sir."
Rus turned away before the man could say anything else.
"Ten minutes," he added over his shoulder. "If I see another pallet fall, I'm filing a report that includes names."
That got movement.
Back at the berm, the artillery crew was arguing over a firing solution like it was a philosophical debate instead of math.
"No, I'm telling you," the artillery lieutenant said, pointing at the map, "if we adjust five miles west, we risk overshoot."
Rus stopped beside him. "You're already overshooting."
The artillery lieutenant frowned. "We're within acceptable deviation."
"Acceptable for who?" Rus asked. "Because the greenhorns are about to sweep that sector."
The man hesitated. "Our data says—"
"I don't care what your data says," Rus snapped. "I care where the shells land."
Berta leaned in. "He really cares."
The artillery lieutenant shot her a look, then back to Rus. "Lieutenant, artillery doctrine—"
"—doesn't include friendly casualties," Rus finished. "Adjust your angle. Now."
The man clenched his jaw. "If we adjust, we lose coverage on the northern approach."
Rus tapped the map. "There is no northern approach anymore. It's a fucking crater. Anything coming through there will be crawling."
The artillery lieutenant stared at the map, then sighed. "Fine. Adjusting."
Rus watched until the new solution populated the display. "Good," he said. "Keep it that way."
He stepped back just in time to see a group of greenhorns at the edge of the sweep zone doing exactly what he'd told them not to do earlier.
One of them had a knife. Another had a pair of pliers.
Rus felt something in his neck twitch.
"Hey!" he shouted, voice carrying easily over the noise. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"
The greenhorns froze.
One of them, same kid as before, held up a tooth like it was evidence. "Sir, we were just—"
"Just stop," Rus said, striding toward them. "Right now."
He stopped a meter away, eyes hard. "You pull one more tooth out of a corpse and I swear I'll personally see you reassigned to waste processing."
The kid flushed. "Sir, it's just a souvenir—"
Rus cut him off. "It's contaminated. It's stupid. And it's how you end up with something growing where it shouldn't."
Berta chimed in cheerfully, "Also, it's gross."
The greenhorn looked at her, confused. "But you—"
"I get paid to be gross," Berta said. "You don't."
Rus pointed at the pliers. "Drop them."
They hit the dirt.
"Good," Rus said. "Now move along and finish your sweep like adults."
As they shuffled off, Dan muttered, "They're really committed to the tooth thing."
"It's a phase," Gino said. "Like helmets with tally marks."
"Except this phase involves biohazards," Rus replied.
Behind them, a logistics runner jogged up, clipboard in hand. "Lieutenant, we've updated the manifest—"
Rus held up a hand. "Not now."
The runner hesitated. "It's about the ammunition discrepancy—"
Berta groaned. "Oh my god, here we go."
Rus turned slowly. "What discrepancy."
"We're short two crates of 120mm—"
Rus stared at him. "No, you're not."
The runner blinked. "Sir?"
"You're not short," Rus said. "You miscounted. Again."
"We triple-checked—"
"And you triple-counted the same crate," Rus snapped. "Because you stacked them wrong and your numbering system is garbage."
The runner swallowed. "We'll… review."
"Do that," Rus said. "Before I review you."
The runner fled.
Berta laughed. "You're terrifying."
"I'm tired," Rus replied.
They watched as the greenhorns finally finished their sweep properly, rifles up, movements tighter. TRU hovered at the edges, waiting to pounce on anything that twitched or looked interesting.
One of the TRU techs glanced at the tooth still lying in the dirt and carefully added it to a sample bag.
Berta pointed. "See? Even the weirdos want it."
"At least they'll label it," Rus said.
The artillery guns boomed again, adjusted fire landing exactly where it should. The ground jumped. Dust rose.
Rus checked his tablet. The numbers were ugly but stable.
"Alright," he said to his squad. "If anyone needs me, I'll be arguing with someone else."
Berta clapped him on the shoulder. "You're living the dream, Boss."
He didn't respond.
* * *
Rus made the report standing up.
He preferred it that way, no chair to sink into, no illusion of comfort. The command tent was larger than most, reinforced walls, sound dampening panels, and a long table that looked like it had been dragged through three different wars and survived all of them out of spite. The air smelled cleaner here, filtered, scrubbed. It still couldn't quite kill the undertone of cordite.
The General appeared on the far wall as a projection, life-sized and crisp. Older than most of the men under him. Eyes sharp. Posture straight in the way that suggested his body hurt but his pride refused to acknowledge it.
"Lieutenant Rus," the General said. "Proceed."
Rus didn't salute. He didn't need to. Rank and context had already done that work for him.
"Operation status as follows," Rus began, voice even, clipped, and deliberately boring. "Primary and secondary warbands in Galves sector neutralized through coordinated artillery, air support, and ground confirmation. Command elements eliminated. Remaining hostile forces fragmented and non-cohesive."
The General nodded once. "Estimated enemy losses."
Rus glanced at his tablet. "Conservative estimates put enemy casualties at high five figures across the basin, ridge, and adjacent valleys. Survivors are scattered, lacking leadership, and currently incapable of coordinated assault."
The General raised an eyebrow. "And our losses?"
"Minimal," Rus replied. "Greenhorn injuries primarily stress-related. No significant fatalities during confirmation sweeps. Equipment losses limited to logistical mishandling, not enemy action."
There was a pause.
"Logistics mishandling," the General repeated.
"Yes, sir."
"Noted," the General said dryly.
Rus continued. "TRU assets successfully recovered live and mutated orc specimens per directive. Analysis ongoing. Chemical containment measures remain in place."
The General's expression didn't change. "Your assessment of TRU performance."
Rus chose his words carefully. "Efficient. Focused. Unconventional."
A faint smile touched the General's mouth. "That's one way to put it."
Silence stretched for a moment, heavy but not hostile. The General leaned back slightly, folding his hands.
"You've been very… effective, Lieutenant," he said. "Almost alarmingly so."
Rus didn't react. "We followed orders."
"Yes," the General said. "You always do."
He glanced off to the side, reading something only he could see. "Your reports note repeated elimination of leadership figures. Bannered orcs. Multi-clan identifiers."
"That's correct," Rus said. "Removing them accelerates collapse."
"And yet," the General said, eyes returning to Rus, "they keep coming."
Rus nodded. "Yes, sir."
The General exhaled slowly. "We've been killing them in numbers that would have broken any conventional force weeks ago."
"They're not conventional," Rus said.
"No," the General agreed. "They're not."
Another pause. This one felt heavier. Less procedural.
"Your commanding officer, Colonel Halberg," the General continued, "has expressed… frustration."
Rus said nothing.
"He suggested," the General went on, "that if Galves is to become uninhabitable, we might as well accelerate the process."
Rus kept his expression neutral. "Colonel Halberg speaks candidly."
"He does," the General said. "That's why I keep him where he is and not closer to strategic decision-making."
Rus inclined his head slightly. "Understood."
The General studied him for a long moment. "And you, Lieutenant? What do you think we're doing here?"
Rus didn't answer immediately. He stared at the projection, at the insignia on the General's collar, at the faint lines around his eyes.
"We're buying time," Rus said finally. "At cost."
The General's gaze sharpened. "Buying time for what?"
"For someone else to figure out what comes next," Rus replied. "Because this doesn't end with artillery."
"No," the General said quietly. "It doesn't."
He straightened. The moment of candor passed, replaced by command presence like a door slamming shut.
"For now," the General said, "your task remains unchanged. Continue suppression. Maintain perimeter integrity. Support TRU operations. Prevent reformation of hostile forces."
"Yes, sir."
"And Lieutenant?"
Rus waited.
"Ensure your greenhorns remember they are soldiers, not spectators," the General said. "I've seen the reports."
Rus's jaw tightened. "It's being addressed."
"I trust that it is," the General replied. "This isn't a slaughter to them. It's a duty. If they forget that distinction, they become a liability."
"Understood."
The General nodded once. "You're dismissed."
The projection flickered and vanished, leaving the tent quieter than before.
Rus stood there for a moment longer, tablet cooling in his hands. Outside, artillery thumped again, distant, methodical, indifferent.
He turned and stepped out of the command tent.
The air hit him immediately, FROM dust, smoke, metal. Real smells. Real noise. Berta was arguing with a logistics tech over something trivial. Dan and Gino were smoking. A group of greenhorns clustered around a crate, talking too loudly.
The war went on.
Rus walked back into it, report filed, numbers submitted, the word slaughter neatly translated into something acceptable for a general to read.
Nothing had changed.