Chapter 7 – Debt Paid
The military base no longer stank of smoke and death. The foulness that had once clung to the soil — the reek of blood, cordite, and unwashed bodies — had been carried off by the rains. What lingered now was the cool trace of morning dew, the scent of wet stone drying under sunlight. The wet season was breaking. The air was cleaner, sharper, carrying with it the promise of a new chapter in the year.
The compound moved with urgency. Soldiers hauled crates into trucks, shouted orders across the yard, and tore down what days earlier had looked immovable. Sandbags were gutted and spilled into heaps, wire was rolled and stacked, masts toppled and bundled. Engines coughed and rumbled at the gates, ready to ferry men and equipment out. The fortress was being dismantled piece by piece, stripped back to a husk. What remained was only the skeleton of occupation — a few outposts left behind for minimal use, nothing of the heavy presence that had once weighed down the earth.
On the steps of the central building, three men stood together. Their uniforms marked them as senior brass of Gaule, the Federation, and the Southern Commonwealth. They spoke low, their words half-swallowed by the noise of engines and boots. Around them soldiers ran in tight streams, their commotion a curtain that concealed the tone of the officers' talk.
"The narrative has already turned," Gaule's man murmured, eyes following a line of trucks grinding through the gates. "The old and the young will grieve. But grief passes. And when it does, they'll come to us."
The Southern Commonwealth's representative gave a short nod. "Better to let them have their mourning. Time will do the rest. When the ground steadies, they'll knock on our doors."
The Federation general stood with his hands behind his back, posture rigid, gaze fixed on the yard. At their words he gave only a faint hum, more acknowledgment than reply.
The silence was enough. The other two caught it at once. Gaule's officer straightened his coat and tucked his papers beneath his arm. The Southern Commonwealth man checked his watch, then tipped his chin in a small farewell. Without further word, they both stepped away, their aides falling into stride, swallowed into the swirl of departing troops.
The Federation general remained. Alone at the edge of the steps, boots planted, he watched the dismantling with the stillness of habit. Soldiers shouted, crates slammed, engines coughed — the sounds of departure all around him.
Behind him the door opened.
The scarred veteran stepped into the sunlight, his coat buttoned against the cool air. He descended the steps slowly, each footfall steady, until he reached the bottom. There he paused, his gaze rising to the general who waited.
For a moment the two men stood in silence. Then the veteran raised his hand, not to his chest, nor to the sky, but directly toward the man before him.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
The Federation general turned at last, his eyes locking on the scarred figure. His voice was level, stripped of ceremony.
"The debt of blood has been paid. I owe you nothing now." He held the veteran's gaze, then added, with a finality that cut like steel: "Goodbye, V.P."
The veteran's hand lowered. He inclined his head once, gave no answer, and turned away, walking past the flow of soldiers as the compound emptied around him.
Above, the sky was unbroken, bright and clean. The season had turned. The land no longer reeked of war.
A chapter had ended.
Another was about to begin.