NOVGO.NET Chapter 43: Call To Arms
Chapter 43: Call To Arms
Grey drizzle fell across the abandoned market lot, turning gravel tracks into slick pools of grit.
Fin stood near the rusted perimeter gate, tapping a metal clipboard against his thigh with quiet rhythm.
Seventy-four neighborhood draftees huddled under sagging canvas awnings, their mismatched armor rattling with nervous tremors.
’The Association gave a former warehouse packer an official command roster for an entire sector,’ he thought.
"Your clipboard makes you look like a logistics clerk auditing spoiled grain," Ruby said, leaning on her shield.
"I spent four years checking invoices, so managing seventy-four nervous draftees feels like ordinary warehouse inventory," he replied.
"Except crates of dried beans never panic when alarm sirens echo across the river," she countered with a smirk.
"Crates are predictable, but draftees can hold a perimeter if you teach them proper footing," he answered.
Bram walked across the gravel, his dented shield strapped across broad shoulders alongside Jax and Corin.
"We checked the barricades along the southern avenue," Bram reported, wiping rainwater from his bearded jaw.
"The Iron Dogs are ready to hold the front line whenever you give the word," Jax added.
"Keep the younger porters near the supply carts until we finish the morning roll call," Fin instructed.
Corin adjusted his flame focus ring, glancing at the crowd of unranked locals standing in crooked rows.
"Half these recruits look like they never held a spear in their entire lives," Corin muttered quietly.
"Then we will teach them how to stand before the first spatial alarm rings," Fin replied.
He raised the clipboard, scanning the handwritten names stamped under the red seal of the Auxiliary Reserve.
[ Unit: 4th district auxiliary reserve ]
[ Commander: Fin, grade-d independent ]
[ Authorized personnel: 74 draftees, 1 strike cell ]
[ Mission directive: establish secondary perimeter defense for sector four ]
"Front rank, step forward for roll call," Fin called out, his voice cutting through the falling rain.
Three young men shuffled out from the center group, their oversized breastplates clattering against loose greaves.
Fin paused, his gaze fixing on their pale faces as the market encounter returned to his mind.
One boy belonged to the group that bullied him; the other two were unfamiliar neighborhood recruits.
The youths recovered from the Genesis vats remained under medical care, absent from this muster.
The tallest boy swallowed hard, his knees knocking against his dented tin poleyns in stark terror.
"Fin?" the lead boy stammered, his knuckles turning white as he gripped a rusted short sword.
"That is Commander Fin while we stand inside this mobilization depot," Ruby stated, her voice sharp and stern.
’One familiar face among the recruits. Today he follows the same rules as everyone else,’ he thought.
"You three were assigned to the third frontline brigade squad," Fin said, reading their names off the parchment.
"Are you going to send us to the front line to die?" the second boy whispered fearfully.
"I do not waste manpower on personal grudges when monsters are knocking on our district gates," Fin replied.
"He told us what happened near the market. We thought you would punish the whole squad," the third boy admitted.
"Bandages cost sixty credits per roll, so I have no interest in cracking your ribs," Fin answered with a flat stare.
He dropped the clipboard onto an empty crate, stepping toward the three trembling recruits with steady balance.
"Your stance is wrong for holding a shield line," he said, tapping the lead boy’s boot.
"Widen your stance by six inches and keep your center of gravity low over your hips," he commanded.
The boy shifted his feet quickly, adjusting his posture while water dripped from his rusted helmet brim.
"If you lean backward when a beast charges, your spine will snap against the pavement," Fin explained.
"We only received two hours of basic instruction at the clinic," the second recruit stammered in defense.
"Two hours of clinic theory will get you killed before your first morning coffee," Fin retorted flatly.
He demonstrated the basic packing-line pivot, shifting his body weight with smooth kinetic poise across the gravel.
"Keep your left shoulder tucked behind your buckler and drive forward with your rear thigh," he ordered.
All seventy-four draftees watched in silence as the Grade-D commander broke down the mechanics of survival.
"If you die on my street, I will drag you back and dock your pay," Fin warned.
"Sir, yes sir!" the three recruits shouted together, their voices shaking with genuine relief and sudden focus.
’A quick drill costs nothing, but burying dead neighbors ruins the whole district,’ he thought.
"Practice that footwork fifty times before the supply wagons arrive," Ruby commanded, watching the recruits begin drilling.
Bram chuckled under his breath, leaning his thick forearms against the top rim of his kite shield.
"You handle nervous recruits better than the senior captains at the central barracks," Bram noted with approval.
"Warehouse foremen learn early that screaming at clumsy packers just breaks more glassware," Fin answered with a shrug.
The high-pitched whine of an approaching turbine engine echoed across the cloudy sky above the northern warehouses.
A sleek military transport descended toward the depot lot, its twin thrusters kicking up clouds of fine gravel.
The craft settled near the perimeter fence, its polished hull gleaming with the blue insignia of the Association.
A senior tactical auditor stepped down the loading ramp, adjusting his tailored wool coat with obvious disdain.
The auditor wrinkled his nose at the muddy lot, glancing down at his glowing digital data slate.
"This sector looks more like an illegal scrap market than an auxiliary military garrison," the auditor sneered.
A young woman followed behind the auditor, descending the ramp with light, predatory steps across the slick stones.
She wore a dark leather harness fitted with eight balance-weighted throwing daggers across her chest and thighs.
Her sharp grey eyes scanned the perimeter barricades, calculating angles and troop density within two quick seconds.
’That scout moves like someone who counts exit routes before entering any room,’ Fin observed internally.
"I am Senior Auditor Khol from the Regional Defense Directorate," the official announced, marching toward the command table.
"I am Commander Fin, in charge of the Fourth District Auxiliary Reserve," Fin replied, holding his clipboard steady.
"Your requisition file lists zero siege artillery and eighty percent unranked civilian labor," Khol said, scowling with irritation.
"We have solid barricades, disciplined footwork, and enough rations to hold this corner for two weeks," Fin answered.
"Discipline among gutter trash will not stop an outer-tier spatial surge," the auditor sneered with arrogant disdain.
The young scout stopped three paces behind the auditor, her fingers resting lightly on the hilt of a dagger.
She glanced at Fin’s worn jacket, her eyes lingering on the balanced weight of his twin black daggers.
’She noticed the daggers within three seconds of stepping off that transport,’ Fin noted with quiet interest.
"This is Corporal Maya, your assigned telemetry specialist from the central division," Khol said, gesturing behind him.
"I track spatial rifts and calculate survival margins for regional defense units," Maya said, her voice dry.
"Our unit calculates survival by keeping everyone behind the shields until the monsters drop," Ruby answered firmly.
"That sounds like an expensive strategy if your front line breaks under pressure," Maya observed with a smirk.
"Our front line does not break because our commander knows how to hold a gate," Bram growled.
Auditor Khol tapped his digital stylus against the slate screen, generating an official inspection file with a scowl.
"I will conduct a formal combat readiness evaluation before authorizing your squad’s daily ration allowance," Khol declared.
"Our draftees are ready for your inspection whenever you want to begin," Fin replied, meeting his gaze.
The auditor sneered, raising his stylus to mark the first administrative penalty on his glowing screen.
Beneath the muddy gravel of the market lot, a low vibration hummed through the soles of Fin’s boots.