Autumn had settled in on Dirigent City by the time Second Battalion of Seventh Regiment returned from Norbank. Shuttles landed the men at the public spaceport late on a Tuesday morning. Buses were waiting to carry the returnees through the capital to the main entrance to the DMC’s home base.
Lon looked out the window of the coach, watching the people they passed. Few of the civilians gave the military vehicles more than a passing glance. Lon assumed that the men out there who did stop walking to stare were in the Corps themselves, or had been. Some brought themselves to attention.
When the caravan reached base, the Corps was waiting to welcome them. It took three buses to carry the dead of Second Battalion. Those passed in review first, followed by the rest of the battalion. The men of the Corps stood at attention. The officers saluted. Regimental flags were dipped to honor the men coming home.
Tomorrow would see another formation, this time just Seventh Regiment. Lon would stand before the entire regiment while Colonel Arnold Gaffney pinned the red enamel and gold pips of a lieutenant on his shoulders.
But first—tonight—Lon was going to town. He planned to drink until he could no longer remember the blood rite that had earned those diamond-shaped pips for him.