Diversion in Raziel: Orphan Corps Shepherds, Lost Sheep, #1

Thank You:

Tim, Andrew, Nicole, Mike, Erin,

Trish, Megan

*****

And the Beta Readers!

Wendy

Tim

*****

For my wife and daughter.

*****

Never forgotten, Always Remembered.

Judy, my mom.

20 November 1943 – 14 March 2019

~

Max the Cat

October 2007 – 04 January 2021

01

Sgt Kori Eldersun sat in one of the hard plastic chairs outside Lieutenant Colonel Harris’s office, his mind focused. In his left hand, he held the end of an errant thread. He pulled on it to create just enough tension that the blade of his pocket knife sliced cleanly through, close to the seam from which the thread had foolishly exposed itself.

Satisfied with the completion of the task, Kori Eldersun folded the clip blade back into the body of the knife. He paused to examine the handle. There’d been a series of initials embossed on the side. Not his initials, but those of the planet and orphanage where he’d come of age. In the right light, the initials were still visible. He’d been told that when he couldn’t see them anymore, that was when he should request a new pocket knife.

Kori wasn’t sure he wanted to give up this knife. New was all right, but he’d had this one since the day he turned sixteen. Every Hospitaller had one. No matter where a person was in the second radial arm of the galaxy, if they met a Hospitaller and asked them to empty their pockets, they’d find a pocket knife. Except for the initials of planet and orphanage, they all looked the same.

It was one of the little things that bound all Hospitallers together. Not just that they were all orphans, or that they’d trained together since the age of ten. But that they were one radial-arm-wide family. If ever a Hospitaller needed shelter on a strange planet, any orphanage in the Hospitaller system would welcome them with open arms, a meal, and a cot. And if they stayed long enough, a company of orphans, future soldiers of the Orphan Corps, might just harangue the guest for stories.

Planet Glooscap to Sgt Eldersun.

What? Kori sat up, sliding his pocket knife away. Sorry?

Cpl Russell chuckled and then pointed with a thumb toward the door behind his right shoulder. The lieutenant colonel will see you, Sergeant.

Right. Kori stood and brushed down the front of his gray duty uniform. Thanks, Cpl Russell.

Anytime, Sarge.

With a nod to Cpl Russell, Kori marched to the door. He knocked on it and then entered.

The company commander, LtCol Harris, sat behind his desk. His eyes seemed to track Kori as he took four steps across the floor, stopping on a worn spot on the floor. His heels tapped together and then he performed a solid right face, touching his heels together once more as he finished his turn.

Sgt Eldersun reporting, LtCol Harris.

Eldersun, LtCol Harris said with a nod. Grab a chair, Sergeant.

Kori turned and grabbed a chair. There was a slight pause in his motions as he caught a glimpse of the wall behind the chair. Two hundred and fourteen names were etched into the wall. Ten were fresh, Kori could smell the dust and solvent from the work. He also knew the ten names by heart.

This office, like every office of every commanding officer across the Hospitallers’ Orphan Corps, had one wall where the names of the dead were carved. The commander’s desk always faced that wall. A constant reminder lest they forget the price of leadership.

Some walls only had a few names. Others, from some of the original companies formed almost two and a half centuries ago, had hundreds of names on them. The walkway into Hospitaller HQ had slabs for each year with all the names of those who died that year. Two hundred forty slabs carved with thousands of names. And the three years where no one had been lost, the slabs had been substituted with benches, places to rest. The supreme commander of the Hospitallers had to walk that path every day. Kori had only seen it in Orphan Corps history books. Even then it had been powerful symbol of the sacrifices the Orphan Corps had made.

You holding up okay, yeah? asked LtCol Harris.

I’m okay, Lieutenant Colonel, Kori said. It wasn’t a lie, but it was a softening of the truth.

I know you’ve heard it plenty, Eldersun, LtCol Harris said, but you did good, yeah? Your actions saved thirty-seven Hospitallers and the lives of nearly three hundred townies.

At the cost of ten Hospitallers’ lives, Kori said inside his head. To the lieutenant colonel, he said, Thank you, LtCol Harris.

The lieutenant colonel nodded and wiped the top of his desk with the palms of his hand, his eyes looking into the open space their passing created.

Why I brought you here, the lieutenant colonel said. Some people would see this as a reward. What it’s not, Sgt Eldersun, is punishment, yeah?

In the pause, LtCol Harris sat back and pulled a tablet with him. He tapped on it and then set it back on the desk. Kori wondered why the lieutenant colonel seemed so uncomfortable.

You’ve been through a lot, Sergeant. Your actions, you and the rest of your squad, were heroic. You deserve more than a medal and a pat on the back. I wish I could make you take a vacation, but I know how I feel about them and how pretty much every Hospitaller I know feels about them.

Kori could feel his heart rate start to spike. He didn’t want a vacation. When he’d been in the orphanage on Tagaloa, his house parents had taken him and the rest of his squad on a vacation. They’d gone someplace new and stayed in a hotel. But, they’d still been together. Vacations now, from what he heard, people went away from what they knew. He didn’t want to leave his platoon, what there was left of it, his company, his brother and sister Hospitallers. Could he refuse?

He looked up, prepared to do so, and saw LtCol Harris grinning.

I know what you’re thinking, yeah? said the lieutenant colonel. I panicked, too, the first time I thought one of my commanding officers was going to make me go and relax on a beach somewhere. I’d rather be taking artillery fire with my company than do that. Alone, yeah? No, Sgt Eldersun, that’s not how we do it.

But, it’s something like that, Lieutenant Colonel? Was he allowed to refuse?

Yes, and no, said LtCol Harris. Mostly no. Rather, this may be the most difficult assignment I’ve ever given you.

Kori felt lighter. This sounded much better. Not isolated on a beach or alone in a rustic cabin. Work. With a fireteam or a squad. I’m up for an assignment, LtCol Harris.

The lieutenant colonel pointed a finger in Kori’s direction. Careful what you wish for, yeah?

He slid the tablet across the desk, toward Kori. Kori leaned forward and looked at the tablet. He’d never been assigned temporary duties outside of his unit. Still, he recognized the format for TDY orders. He skimmed through the orders, trying to figure out where yonder was going to be. One word caught his attention more than all the others.

You want me to be a Shepherd?

LtCol Harris nodded. Normally, we’d just call in a Shepherd. Unfortunately, none are available that can get here in the next week. And we need to move some of the older kids, ASAP. The orphanage is running out of space. It’s an important duty, Sergeant. An honor, yeah?

Kori hadn’t been shepherded to the orphanage on Tagaloa. He’d arrived on a carrier with fifty other kids. On the carrier, they’d been matched up with their dorm parents the moment they’d stepped aboard. They’d been chaperoned by an entire squad while on the ship.

A Shepherd was something different. These were Hospitallers who had extra training and were given the hazardous duty of entering enemy territory to bring orphaned children to safety. They had a high attrition rate. Yet, there was always a waiting list of volunteers. But sometimes an orphanage was overcrowded and squads of orphans were transferred to a different world. When those orphans needed to be moved, a Shepherd was assigned to the task.

Yes, LtCol Harris, I know it is, Kori said. I’m not sure if I’m the right person for this kind of duty. I don’t have the requisite training to be a Shepherd.

The lieutenant colonel gave his desk a tap with the tips of his right-hand fingers. Here’s a secret for you, Eldersun. No one is ever ready. LtCol Harris laughed. When’s the last time any of us have been in charge of the little ones? Not since we were in the orphanages ourselves, right? You had the occasional squad duty, yeah?

Kori nodded. He did. Everyone did at one point or another. They might be assigned for the day to march the younger orphans to class or out to the parade ground. But that had been years ago and had only been for a half-day here or there. And if things went wrong, there was still a whole orphanage of adults to step in.

To be a Shepherd was to be the sole adult responsible for nine children. If it was a squad. Kori could feel the panic rising again.

Is it just a squad, Lieutenant Colonel? he asked.

Of course it’s just a squad. LtCol Harris rocked back in his chair. You’ve led squads in firefights, yeah? Before that, you controlled a fireteam. You’ve led before. This is just the same thing. But now your soldiers are smaller, yeah?

There was truth to what the lieutenant colonel was saying. These weren’t civilian children. These were Hospitaller children who’d been raised with military discipline. They’d learned early on to follow orders. He still had reservations.

I hate to leave the company, LtCol Harris.

You aren’t leaving, Eldersun. It’s TDY. You think I’d let one of my best squad leaders get away?

Kori smiled. He appreciated the lieutenant colonel’s comment.

So, this would be me just shepherding nine children to their new orphanage and then I’m back on the first carrier I can get a ride on?

Pretty much. And we promise not to get into any good dust-ups until you return, yeah?

Fair enough, Lieutenant Colonel, Kori said. Out and back, like a patrol in friendly territory. When do I leave?

Yesterday, Sgt Eldersun. The lieutenant colonel laughed as he slid a finger across the tablet, sending the TDY orders to Kori’s tablet. Yesterday.

The last twenty-four hours in Kori’s life had been a whirlwind of activity. His orders as he’d read them were for immediate action. He’d hurried back to his barracks to put his gear in order. Most of his possessions were stored with the company supplies. Then, he’d checked out with his platoon leader, who wanted to hear the whole story. Other members of the platoon had gathered outside the lieutenant’s office and they wanted to hear the story, too. Stories were contagious and soon enough, Kori had heard several stories from other members of the platoon who’d met or been escorted by a Shepherd.

The next train to the capital didn’t leave until the early hours of the morning, which meant a sleepless night, worrying over all the things that could go wrong. Soon enough, though, reveille had been called. Kori had a hurried breakfast with the NCOs in the platoon and then he was off to the train station to pick up his squad of orphans.

Off the train in the capital, he’d switched to a street trolley. When Kori stepped off the trolley and set his duffel bag on the pavement, he was meters from his destination. The sun, slightly orange as seen from Glooscap, was almost directly overhead. It wasn’t warm, though. Kori wasn’t sure it ever got warm enough on Glooscap to make him shed his jacket. Yet, he was sweating all the same. He took a moment to unbutton the top two buttons on his jacket. The action was only temporary as he needed to extract the packet of orders and instructions he’d put there. As he buttoned his jacket once more, he scanned the facility before him.

Every orphanage was different. Some were like old mansions in the hearts of cities. Some were renovated apartment buildings in suburbs. Phagmo orphanage was a converted industrial building, with a second one turned into an indoor playground and training facility. And Wopeh, where Kori grew up, had been a farm.

Devenanda orphanage, which Kori now stood outside of, was a converted house with wings to left and right that dwarfed the original building. A picket fence, about a meter tall, ran the breadth of the facility and then turned in to hug the sides of the property.

When he had been a child, playing on the pasture or just running wild on a Saturday morning, he’d had no clue as to the level of security wrapped around each orphanage. So, although Devenanda had a white picket fence, Kori knew that there were monitoring systems that would alert the Grand Parent in charge of the orphanage as well as every adult on the grounds. Every adult had grown up in an orphanage and had the basics of military training. Many of those adults had spent twenty years or more in the Orphan Corps delivering aid, comfort, and defense. Only a fool or a highly trained military unit would dare breach an orphanage perimeter.

Kori used the entrance walkway, lugging his duffel up the four wide stairs and through the open door.

The whispers of noise he’d heard on the sidewalk exploded into a modest cacophony inside the house. Kori tapped his throat mike and asked for a time check before he realized he wasn’t wearing his comm system. He pulled out his tablet and checked local time. It was just after noon.

Kori laughed to himself. Lunch and then free time. That explained the chaos.

Remember it? an approaching man asked.

Didn’t, Kori said. Not until I stepped inside.

The man who’d inquired into Kori’s memory stopped next to him. Which were you? Running full tilt down the hall, using the oncoming wall as a brake so you can then run left or right down the other hall? Or would we have found you in a window nook, tablet on your knees, reading some far-fetched adventure?

I would have been either one, depending on the weather and the day’s earlier activities. He held out his hand as saluting wasn’t protocol in the orphanage. Sgt Kori Eldersun.

Roy Borders, the man said.

His handshake was firm and polite. Kori guessed Borders was in his sixties, but he was never very good at that sort of observation. Borders had gray-flecked hair and was several centimeters shorter than Kori who was considered tall at 1.6 meters.

You’re here for Septus squad, Borders said. East company.

Borders had pointed to the left wing of the house which was more east-northeast. But ‘East’ was easier on the tongue. Every orphanage adapted nomenclature to their needs. As the children grew older, they were trained in the proper terminology of the Hospitallers.

Kori took a brief look at the orders packet in his hand.