"Any other good news?" Garrett asks somewhat sarcastically. "We could use whatever you've got."
"You need to get back here more often, Garrett," Bauer replies. "All of you do, especially you, Major." He gives Hunter a look. "There's been a sea change in the last week. All that running around the last few weeks that you were trying to do? There'll be a lot less doors closed in your face now. I've had meetings with the command staff of every expeditionary force, and where before a good third of them were too afraid of the third that refused to believe you weren't all a load of traitors, now they're finding their balls and starting to stand up, and I'd imagine it's even moreso in the Army. Everyone that was just trying to keep their heads down as the bigots shot it out with the GRHDI are now picking sides." Bauer sighs. "It's too little, too late for the men and women that the Imperium have, but the change is coming - and if that's what it's like here, then I'd imagine Barnes' phone is ringing off the hook with Congressmen and Senators looking for a piece of what's going on." He nods to the group. "Good day, gentlemen, Corporal, Major."

Garrett watches him head out. "I sure fucking hope so, because if Botane doesn't convince people we're not the assholes in the room that I don't know what will."

Hugh doesn’t get to listen to the denouement inside; he’s said and heard enough. With his uniform jacket hanging from a chair near the conference room, Hugh’s a couple bends in the hallway away, having given up pacing around for just leaning against a pillar and staring at the opposite wall. If he was a smoker, this would be a good time to get pangs for a hit of nicotine.

Angel eventually joins Hugh in the hallway as the rest of the team, along with the panel, stream out into the corridor, joining him on the wall next to his pillar. “Bit of a clusterfuck that.”
That might have gotten a chuckle out of Hugh on any other day, but he’s not in the mood and it shows. “Putting it mildly,” he says. “Guess I’m not Captain America after all. Anything I missed?”

“Some harsh words. Arketta managed to talk Luis down. Zaef called them all idiots. I might have suggested some of them were nursing a grudge against humanity and throwing the game. Kroger and Brauer at least feel guilty - Russell mostly looks like a scolded puppy. Hamilton and Blake well...they were treating this whole thing like a dog-and-pony show from the get go. There’s some shit about the report getting sent to GRHDI for review, but we call know that one of their assistants is just going to click “Reject All” and send it off.” Angel sighs softly.

“Upside though, I don’t have to call you Sir...Sir”
Hugh nods. “It’s better this way,” he says. “I mean...this uniform, that’s not me anymore. And at least now they no longer have any leverage on me. I never want to say ‘Yes Sir’ through gritted teeth ever again. Doing what we think is right has gotten too important to let following orders get in the way.” He looks to Angel. “You could buy the whole outfit, Angel - or at least get a dozen lawyers taking your enlistment papers apart until they give you a Honorable and a slap on the back just to be rid of you. Why are you staying in?”

“Because up until today I was still laboring under the illusion they would come to their senses.” He shrugs. “We’ll see if that remains true, or if Uncle Sam holds onto me for another year or so. I could tie them up in some ugly legal battle but...tangling with DC has gotten distracting enough as it is. Speaking of buying the outfit though...I do believe you’re in need of a job Mr. Verrill.” Angel hands him a small stack of neatly stapled papers in a folder labeled ‘Exterran Security Articles of Incorporation’.

“I had even money between you, Garrett or Luis snapping first. So I had Erika draw up the paperwork with a couple fields blank. How would you feel about spending some time slumming it in the private sector?”
Hugh picks up the file folder and leafs through it, allowing himself a single whistle when he reads some of the figures. “That’s a lot of bread on my table, Angel,” he says. “Happens that I like the CEO, too. I’m in, where do I sign?”

“Good to hear. In the back, and like eight other places. Erika’s got them flagged with little green sticky notes. Though if you look on page...6 I think it is, you’ll find I’m not the CEO. I own a staggering number of shares, yes, but you’re in charge. I’ve got too many things to run as it is and...I want you there because you want to be there, and free to walk the day that stops being true.” He chuckles. “Though hopefully it’ll be less due to rank stupidity, and more wanting to spend more time with the wife and tiny bundles of fur.”
Hugh raises an eyebrow, then flips through the paperwork again. “CEO of a PMC,” he mutters, and there’s that old smirk. “Well, I guess I’ve survived one congressional hearing already.” He pauses for a moment. “You know, this is exactly what I thought I was joining the Army for, back in the day - go in, get skills, get cushy civilian job on the other side, and I’ll be honest, this is probably the best career move I’d make in my entire life - but I hope this offer doesn’t expire today, because I’d like to sleep on it. It’s too big a move to take a shot from the hip. I hope that’s all right with you.”

Angel nods once. “Take all the time you need Hugh, and I mean it when I say there’s no pressure either way. I put together a net figuring one of you high flying officer types would need it eventually and well…” he gives the hearing room a long glance. “Today could have done that to anyone. Think it over and let me know. But I do want you to remember something - even Captain America worked for an extra-governmental group. I want you for the shield too.”
“Shouldn’t that be the sword?” Hugh asks, smirking again.
“Sir,” Angel says, slipping into old habits, “any chance you got stuffed in a locker a lot in school?” He winks. “Think it over and let me know, one way or the other.”
“I will,” Hugh says. “Thanks, Angel.”

If you wanted to pick a spot for a vacation house, Bull Run Mountain Road on the outskirts of the small unincorporated town of Antioch, VA would be a prime location. A town too small to rate more than a mention on a map and a two-lane road and surrounded by forest and plains, it's none the less only an hour from downtown Washington DC, and Bull Run Mountain Road doesn't even rate two whole lanes. And yet, a very sizable convoy of US Department of State, Defense, and GRHDI vehicles, accompanied by select members of the press have made its way down the tiny goat-trail-esque road this morning. Military and GRHDI checkpoints go all the way back to the I-66 turnoff to Antioch, Humvees and Tahoes and sawhorses staffed by men and women in body armor with guns, all the way up to a freshly bushwhacked turnout through the trees by the road leading to the middle of a grassy field that's usually simply home to trees and deer.

Today, though, those many, many official government and press vehicles are meeting a small flotilla of skimmers, loaded to their max diameter with torn-down heavy construction equipment and materials, and one more - a streamlined gold and chrome bullet, four doors so perfectly integrated as to be invisible until opened, and costing roughly about as much as the Jonsaris Combine rapid services layer currently taking up two skimmers, or three of the Onar-Ibo Industries spraycrete processors (both wholly and clandestinely owned and operated subsidiaries of Faxom-Io). The press conference area is amusingly reflective of the somewhat jumbled state of the parties involved in this ceremony - a piece of fake plastic grass laid out over a lumpy field with folding chairs and a quick-erecting stage and podium, both provided by the GRHDI, backed up by holodisplays and the construction equipment and materials brought in by Kesh Holdings and Faxom-Io, emblazoned here and there with the symbol of the Bashakra’i resistance, and all surrounded and protected by the United States Marine Corps.

It’s been a good half-hour since the rush of press and officials for the event tapered off, and two minutes since the two-minute warning before the conference proper starts. GRHDI and Marines guards walk onto and next to the podium, followed by a line of dignitaries and officials both Narsai’i and Bashakra’i alike. GRHDI Director Samantha Barnes stands in front, flanked by Brinai Onlois, her hand-chosen ward manager, Abe Briis (a grey-haired man known only to 815 by reputation, but a good one), and Arlana and Ody Quis on one side, and by Assistant Director Garrett Davis, Section Chief Luis Stanhill, Corporal Arketta Quis, and Specialist/Interplanetary Mogul and CEO of Kesh Holdings Angel Kesh on the other.

Director Barnes steps up to the podium as the cameras and vox recorders dutifully point her way. "Thank you all for coming today," she starts, "because today, we inaugurate the beginning of something truly historic. Four thousand years ago was the last time before three years ago that Earth shared a connection with the rest of the galaxy, and over that immense span of time, our two cultures have grown in very different directions. However, underneath our differences we are all still human beings, who want success for our people and safety for our families. And now, we are allied with the Bashakra'i people, a people set adrift by the unbelievable cruelty of the Imperium. We cannot hope to replace their home planet, but we can provide at least some of them with the start of a safe place to call home."

The holodisplays behind Barnes now show the rough plans for the Bashakra'i village, alternating with a fly-through of the town's main drag - of hard compacted dirt. "Today, we found that fresh start here - a small, bustling city of 15,000 Bashakra'i, that will not only provide safety and stability for those that live here, but will be economically self-sustaining and a welcome contribution to the surrounding economy. It will be a chance for the Bashakra'i to experience life on the world from which we began, and a chance for us on Earth to see how life beyond our solar system goes about its daily business - but just as importantly, it will serve as a jumping-off point to the rest of the galaxy, through the construction of a brand new Gateport. Through security provided by both the United States military and the Bashakra'i themselves, this new portal to the galaxy will also be safe and secure."

The holodisplays shift back to GRHDI and Bashakra'i symbols. "Today, for the first time in four-thousand years, there will be true, solid ties between Earth and the rest of the galaxy - and hopefully, in time, this will be seen as just the first step towards a deep, meaningful, and important connection between Earth and the stars. Thank you, and now, with the details of the plan, project foreman Ody Quis."

Ody dresses up pretty well - his hair is slicked back and he's wearing a white and red suit that shimmers slightly in the morning sun on iridescent panels. His English still doesn't really extend beyond basic getting-along questions and answers, so a GRHDI translator stands next to him on the podium. "'Thank you, Director Barnes.'" He waggles a finger over his wrist to advance the slideshow. "'In this first stage of the project, scheduled to take roughly one month to complete, one team will be building housing, multi-use business and industrial structures, and civil structures such as schools and Kansatai annexes, along with the connecting infrastructure. Space and hookups for custom structures for business and industry is accounted for in the plan, and those structures will be built as demand requires.'" Behind Ody, 3D wireframe and basic models show the various permutations of hab block, office habs and industrial structures that are planned, including one particularly nice-looking office hab that Angel easily recognizes - he did help design his corporate headquarters, after all.

"'Concurrently, a second team will construct the Gateport, a single-Gateway design that satisfies both Narsai'i safety and security standards while keeping with Bashakra'i design. First occupancy is scheduled for two weeks from today, with full occupancy expected two weeks after the first stage is complete.'" Another swipe displays the Gateport's design, a beautiful open-air affair with water features, local wood framing and shade on top and spraycrete pathways through security and to the Gateway underneath a plant-covered living roof. All very attractive and in tune with the locale - but all also designed to direct traffic, impede invaders and security threats, allow clear fields of fire for defenders, and disguise the fact that the living roof weighs enough that when the explosive bolts holding it up blow, it will crush the Gateway and anything underneath it flat. "'Further stages can be constructed at a later date to expand the project, but this first stage is estimated to house between ten-thousand and fifteen-thousand individuals, along with the economy and infrastructure required.'" Ody bows quickly to the crowd. "'Thank you.'"

After a brief question-and-answer session, with most of the questions vaguely directed towards either subtle unease or less-subtle anticipation of what influence the village will have, the press event turns towards milling about and partaking of a free breakfast in the Virginia countryside.

On a grassy hillock overlooking the construction site, Hunter Brand and Commandant Bauer stand quietly chewing sausage-egg-and-cheese croissant sandwiches as Samantha Barnes walks over to say her hellos. “You wouldn’t think a ten-ton deadman’s switch would look so pretty,” the retired major remarks.
"That was actually part of the Bashakra'i design specs before we asked for it," Barnes says as she grabs a can of Diet Coke. "They liked the straight-forwardness of the fail-safe." She nods to Bauer and Hunter. "Thanks for coming here, gentlemen."
"Well, it's going to be my Marines standing guard next door," Bauer says.
“And it’s decent odds my son will be here taking language lessons before too long.” Hunter adds, before continuing. “But I do think it’s projects like these that’ll determine how the war will be going in five years.”
"What do you mean?" Barnes asks.
“Stealing a Needleship just to steal it is all well and good, but we’re years away from being able to match the Imperium in so many different ways. Protracted peoples’ war can get us a certain distance, and there’s a lot of fertile ground for flipping discontented planets, but ultimately there will be a phase when we need to mobilize a significant amount of global resources to fight open warfare. We’re going to need a dozen different crash programs, entire industries and infrastructures called into existence. Until we can get most of our seven billion on the same page, working as fast as we can towards catching up, we’re not going to be operating to our full potential," Hunter says. “We’ve got a lot of obstacles in front of us, but one of the bigger ones is the suspicion that the people on the other side of the gate are people just like us. That suspicion is harder to hold onto when you can visit a model city of Bashakra’i.”
Barnes nods. "That's the hope. Half of the job of the GRHDI office here will be arranging tours and visits for journalists, government offices and dignitaries, and business so they can see how things are done on the other side of the Gateway, and hopefully learn from that. There's a lot that we can adopt or adapt from the Bashakra'i."
"Hopefully, we won't need to get reminded of that the way we did on Botane," Bauer says.
"Yes," Barnes says. "I've got meetings for weeks with Congress and a half-dozen departments, none of which would have returned my calls last week." She shakes her head. "It's...ghoulish, and I want to scream at them that we might not have sent five thousand soldiers to the Arena if people had just listened to us, but...at least they are listening now."
“The British admiralty once executed one of its admirals for ‘failing to do his utmost.’ Not that that’s the answer here, but I wish there was a better way of clearing out the deadwood and getting traction in this town," Hunter says. "I know I’m going to be spending the next while here doing briefings, and that’s where I can do the most good, but I have to admit it doesn’t feel as clean as that field mission did.”
"Garrett won't admit it, but he's itching to get back out into the field," Barnes says. "The Afghanistan mission should be a good place for everyone to stretch their legs.
"Not that Afghanistan is some sort of cakewalk," Bauer interjects.
"No, of course," Barnes says. She looks around. "Well, I have a tour to lead of the construction equipment." She nods to Hunter and Bauer. "Gentlemen."
"Talk to you soon, Miss Barnes," Bauer says as he returns the nod.

“Don’t mind her talk about Afghanistan, sir.” Hunter quietly states. “I think she’s just happy not to deal with Turai, and to have air support within radio’s reach. In any case, the combined arms groups are coming together well. Not enough to get arrogant, but they’re starting to impress me.”
"Good, Sergeant Lee has written as much in his reports," Bauer says. "And how is your inbox, Major? Anyone contacted you about meetings?"
“I’m not the first name on the ‘find me someone at GRHDI’ list, but I’ve definitely had a lot of requests from some of the people I talked to last month," Hunter replies. "A lot of them really just want to know what happened, without the spin. There’s a lot of second-guessing going around the majority report they’re putting together.”
"Before it's even out," Bauer remarks. "Doesn't bode well for Hamilton and Blake."
“If it were an unbiased committee of inquiry, it might be different.” Hunter replies in a measured tone. “But there’s a certain built-in bias when the people running the inquiry are same people who would stand to lose the most from a different assessment. The ground beneath them is shifting quickly, and everyone’s trying to figure out by how much.”
Bauer nods, and gives Hunter a measured look. "How much do you anticipate things moving, Major?"
“Well, I’m not a betting man, but I have a feeling the ground would shift quite quickly if it seemed like they were throwing ‘our boys’ under the bus to save their own skins," Hunter says. "If they scapegoat the Bashakra’i, that would play fine at home, but would worsen relations and makes GRHDI’s turf control over off-world affairs even stronger. On the other hand, they can probably get by with a ‘no one’s really to blame’ report if it includes an accounting of tactical and strategic factors that caused it, and action to make sure it never happens again. And I would hope we’re all interested in making sure it never happens again.”
"Hm." Bauer nods. "And if that report you saw were to be buried deep in classification?"
“That would depend on what findings and doctrine get promulgated outside of classification,” Hunter replies. “‘Ye shall know them by their fruits,’ right? If there’s a good-faith effort to learn from this and honor our soldiers’ sacrifice by improving going forward, then it’d be a lot easier to engage and figure out how to work together. If there’s a significant percentage of rank-and-file who think that the judgment and biases of the men at the top unnecessarily endanger the men and women below them, that’s a problem, and not just a GRHDI one.”
"One that we are working to solve," Bauer agrees.
“If there’s anyone you’d want me to brief, or who you’d otherwise think would benefit from talking to me, don’t hesitate to let me know.“ Hunter says. ”Having had experience off-planet, and being able to explain the situation in ways that people can understand, I’m going to be spending more time in Washington for the next while, aside from the final exercises in Mesas Negras next month.”
Bauer nods. "Good to know." He extends his hand to shake Hunter's, but pauses after a moment. "You know, Marine to Marine - how were 815 in the field?"
“The phrase I’d use before anything else, Marine to Marine? ‘Balls of brass.’ I can’t put that in the field manual, but that’s where it all starts. There were a couple of moments where anything else would have gotten us all killed.”
"You think that they can keep it up, keep winning like that?" Bauer asks. It's a loaded question, coming from him - not just about survival, but a matter of tactics and strategy.
“Sir, I believe the reason Director Barnes hired me was because she knew they needed to go beyond that,” Hunter replies. “The Turai fear 815 for good reason, but they can’t do everything and they can’t be everywhere. And even if their missions seem suicidal to an outsider, they know their capabilities, and won’t do something outside of them. There’s a method to the madness. Tactically speaking, I see no reason why they won’t continue to have success, but strategically we’ll need more. So, the 81X teams, the combined-arms training, the doctrine development. It’s hard to think long-term while maintaining urgency, but I think GRHDI is doing a decent job of it.”
“Then I’ll keep pushing that with Garrett and Samantha,” Bauer says. He re-extends his hand. “Good talking with you, Major.”
“And you as well, sir. I’m glad you could come to this.” Bauer takes his leave, walking down the hill, and Hunter lingers for a bit, observing the grassy field that will soon host the most controversial city in America.

Hugh excuses himself from the trip to the inauguration of the Bashakra’i city; the elation at Angel’s job offer faded quickly when he thought about the path he had taken to get it. Instead, Hugh strikes out on his own. Much of what surrounds the Pentagon isn’t good for his state of mind, though: there’s the Arlington Cemetery to the northwest, the shopping mall that saw him walk right into an ambush to the south, and it seems like everywhere else you get signs pointing to memorials. Hugh ends up crossing the Potomac instead, but he’s not headed for the National Mall; instead, he veers south on the artificial island on the river, walking his way through East Potomac Park. The July heat takes its toll on Hugh, and he first loosens and then takes off his tie, stuffing it into the sacrosanct pockets of his uniform trousers. The upper buttons on his shirt go next. It’s like…

It’s a little like home, Hugh thinks, trying to close his eyes and go back to the jungles of Whiirr. But this isn’t like that - it may be hot and it may be sticky, but there’s nothing like the smell of the trees baking in the sun, the sounds of the forest, the feel of soft soil under his feet. Hugh feels himself smirk almost involuntarily. Of course, he’s homesick, that’s what it is, what it has to be, right? It’s like Cub Scouts all over again, except this time he’s trying to get back to the forest, which this...this park just isn’t. And the people, well, they’re too caught up in their own business, tourists and joggers who have no time for him. Wherever Hugh goes, the seem to be avoiding him, walking around him, stepping out of his way, breaking eye contact and politely ignoring him when he tries to have a chat. Hugh could even swear he hears them behind his back, telling their kids to go on and pay no attention to him.

On the way back, Hugh does get a little social interaction. A retirement-age gentleman with a scraggly beard and a leather jacket plastered with ‘nam-era patches makes his way down Ohio Drive, selling a variety of knick-knacks from a box he wears in front of his chest with a strap over his neck. Five dollars buys Hugh a yellow ribbon and a couple of words. “It’s a damn shame what happened to our boys,” the man opines as he hands Hugh the ribbon. “You ask me, we should send a couple nukes through the gateways. Teach those bastards who they’re messing with.” Hugh - in order - balls his fists, unclenches them and opens his mouth to speak, then finally thinks better of it and gives the vet a noncommittal nod before he walks away. Still hours to go until the others get back, and it’s getting harder to keep it all together by the minute.

---

Hugh doesn’t sleep through his flight from D.C. to Mesas Negras. His career was on life support before, but with his decision today, he took a pillow and smothered it once and for all. It’s added about a thousand fun new complications to his already complicated life, but much like taking the plunge with Rhea, it felt like the only choice he could make. No more *Captain* Verrill now. Just Hugh. And Hugh can tell he’s not welcome on Mesas Negras today - it is an Army base, after all. Where Hugh still gets friendly nods, the smiles are weak. Most look away. A select few lock eyes, and Hugh looks away. What can he tell them about the disaster on Botane, or about his resignation? The Wherren, at least, welcome him back - they may not understand why exactly he tells them that he’s now Mr. Verrill instead of Captain Verrill, but they can accept that. The rest, Hugh can’t talk about yet. He can read the worry all over Khodash, though, and when he walks out again, Rodirr stops him and gives him a short, wordless hug, like he already knows everything Hugh’s bottling up.

It gets worse on the ride to the gateway, and much worse waiting there for his transfer to Whiirr. Hugh’s used to feeling bad, he’s felt bad for a long time, but what he didn’t quite realize was how much he relied on his jadedness as a way to protect himself from it. 5000 lives lost and he couldn’t do anything; worse, he must have known some of them, but he still can’t bring himself to even look at the list, to face the possibility that he might put a face and voice to one of the soldiers that are now dead or worse. The cheap plastic seat feels more like a bed of hot coals that Hugh keeps fidgeting on, shivers running up his spine and goosebumps down his arms. The faces around him are hardened, seeming to betray very little, but Hugh’s learned to read the signs, or - more accurately - stopped trying to ignore them. He looks at them, and it’s like he can see their own pain and grief bubbling under the surface. They’re bottling it up, just like he used to do, and he wishes he had the strength to talk to them - but what can he say? With thirty minutes to go before the gateway opens, sitting still and waiting becomes hard work when all he wants to do is pull in his legs and bury his face in his knees. He listens to every breath he takes, trying to determine if he’s starting to sob and whether anyone can hear that. They all see it - Hugh knows they can see it - but there’s no comfort on offer here, nobody willing to take a minute to sit with him and ask what’s going on. It becomes a fight against the clock, Hugh trying not to be crushed under a whole battalion of guilt, his eyes darting from his watch to the big gateway departure board hanging over the waiting area, over and over again.

But finally the gateway does open and Hugh gets in line, shuffling forward best as he can towards the shimmering image of Village 815. He walks through with eyes closed, and for once the step really does feel like a few billion miles. The heat and humidity of Whiirr don’t slap him in the face now; it’s more like a clap on the shoulder from an old friend. Hugh starts to smile and opens his eyes again, scanning the crowd - no Rhea, no Torega. Somewhere down inside, Rational Hugh screams that they couldn’t know when he would get back, so why would they be waiting, but Rational Hugh hasn’t been in control of this for a while now. Hugh nearly falls forward, catching himself with a step, then he pushes through the crowd, blind to the annoyed colors and deaf to the barks of the Wherren he’s shoving aside. The gateport gives way to the plaza before it and Hugh explodes out of the crowd like a bullet, sprinting down the path to the school, tortured by a thousand horrible thoughts. He barely notices when he clips a rock and takes a sprawl, dirtying his clothes and getting a nice abrasion on the palm of his right hand from the impact. He almost breaks out in tears there, but he scrambles to his feet again and runs off once more, desperate and driven. When the school building comes into sight, Hugh gathers what little air is left in his lungs and lets out a heart-shaking bellow.

”Rhea!” he barks. ”Torega!”
A few seconds later, Rhea appears in the doorway of the hab, her fur blue with worry. ”Hugh!” She rushes forward and takes him in her hands, looking him over. ”What’s wrong? Are you all right?”
”Rhea…” Hugh mewls, then just draws her close and buries his face in her chest. ”I thought…I was so afraid. If anything ever happened to you...”
Rhea smiles as she strokes Hugh’s head. ”Nothing did, Hugh. I was fine,” she purrs. She picks him up and cradles the full-grown man in her arms as she carries him gingerly inside, gently grooming him while Hugh tries to hold on to her. She carries him into the kitchen and sits down, wrapping her arms around him. ”It’s okay, I’m here.” Unbeknownst to Hugh, Sijet pokes her head into the kitchen, her fur also blue with concern, but Rhea just nods her off.
Torega hustles into the kitchen behind her, and tries to climb up into the mix of the cradled hug between Rhea and Hugh.
Hugh’s sobs slowly turn back to breaths as he lies against her. ”Thank you,” he whispers. ”I...I just felt so awful...about everything.”
Rhea reaches down and picks up Torega, depositing her on Hugh’s chest where she instantly flattens herself and buries her face in Hugh’s chest and makes contented purring sounds. ”I heard about the Narsai’i. It was not your fault, bondmate.”
Hugh says nothing for a few seconds. ”They’re dead - and worse. It doesn’t matter whose fault it is now. Not to me. All I know is I’ve got this feeling that...no.” He finally manages to look up at her, and while there’s not much happiness on his face, there’s plenty of relief. ”I resigned my commission in the Army, Rhea. I can’t stand to wear that uniform anymore. Not after this. There’s no longer any good I can do from there.”
Rhea’s fur ruffles. ”What about the 815?”
”I will stand by them and keep fighting with them,” Hugh says. ”I’m not giving up on making this universe a little better. But I won’t be fighting for the Army anymore. I’ll fight for us. For my family and friends.”
”Good,” Rhea says. ”And you will go back for the training, yes?”
Hugh nods. ”I already told them. It’s just Mr. Verrill now.”
”Good.” Rhea leans over, squishing a slight mewl out of Torega as she nuzzles Hugh’s face with her own. Hugh closes his eyes as feels her soft tongue working its way up from his cheek to his scalp, while Torega scampers all over him before finally clinging to him and resting her head on his other shoulder. The last thought that goes through Hugh’s mind is how much he’s missed the two, but he’s already well on his way to drifting off to sleep.

Strategic Update - 0710 Imperial Time
Narsai Date - July 18th

"So, in conclusion, the Dantumi system is secure once more?" Ravilar Maaosa asks. Under the bright lighting of the ravilar studios in the heart of the Imperial capital, her nano-crystalline dress shimmers brightly, the shimmering just about all that's concealing about it. Underneath and crawling up one side of her neck is her signature feature - a nearly three-foot long kauka scar, straight and clean, caused by a terrorist's blade. Strategic Update might not have the largest viewership, but it was at least a captive one - the program is required viewing for all Turai ranked Samal and above, and many other Turai watch as well. They're the only ones that can; the program carries a clearance tag, and only voxes that have the proper access can bring it up. Maaosa herself is Samal, which is what gives her the clearance to be in the same room as her guest.
"If it was ever insecure in the first place," Rav-Odun Khawperni, the Hand that Shields Dantumi, the Hand that Holds the Course, and the Hand that Plots the Way replies. "The 815's method of infiltration was ludicrous in its brazenness, and with the Khala'bat patched and security reviews completed, it would be impossible for it to happen again."
"And the August Stalwart has already been replaced," Ravilar Maaosa adds.
"Indeed," Rav-Odun Khawperni nods. "The Scarlet Anvil has been diverted from shadowport interdiction patrols to patrols over Kamda, in the event that the theft was a lead-up to a strike against the Emperor's homeworld. Turai on Kamda will be receiving security updates shortly, and should expect limited leave for the next two weeks."
Ravilar Maaosa's eyes flick to the holodisplay next to the camera with her next question on it. "But are the fears of a second 815 attack founded in any sort of reality?"
Rav-Odun Khawperni sighs. "Before a week ago? I might have said no. But now, after the savagery of the attack on Botane - a pointless waste of life for both sides that truly shows the depth of the Narsai'i depravity - and the insane theft of the August Stalwart by the 815? I would not put anything past them. That is why Emperor Vikethan's increased security measures are so wise - if the Narsai'i can be expected to be so brazen and so willing to sacrifice their own for so little gained, and if the 815 continue to be so devious and deceitful, truly no place is safe."
Ravilar Maaosa nods and turns towards the sconces. "And that concludes this morning's Imperium-wide strategic update. Be aware that monthly inventory reports are due to your accounting offices by the end of week, and that the deadline for duty requests on Narsai'i demonstration and execution duty are due then as well. Don't forget to apply for the raffle to attend the first Narsai'i Arena widecasts live and in person, and your local system strategic updates are next."

The red light behind the wall of sconces turns off, indicating the widecast has concluded and the room is no longer under censorship protocols. Ravilar Maaosa stands up and bows to Rav-Odun Khawperni. "Thank you for presenting today's update in person, Rav-Odun."
Khawperni groans slightly as he stands up. "Have to show the troops that we're serious about addressing those problems, Samal." He brushes off his scarlet jacket. "How are your children, Anai?"
"They are well," Maaosa replies with a smile. "Now that the sconces are off, tell me, are we really expecting another Narsai'i attack so soon? Even the 815 wait a prudent amount of time between strikes, and the Narsai'i were just completely routed."
Khawperni chuckles. "No, of course not. That's all just the words we drafted to keep the Turai on edge and believing the rest of the ravilars. I would expect at least another six months before the Narsai'i try again. They learned what happens when they attack without orbital superiority - not that they would have needed to if they talked to the 815. That, I think, is what we learned more than anything."

"What do you mean?" Maaosa asks.
"That the Rav-Whetu was apparently not a complete idiot," Khawperni replies. "He recounted how the Narsai'i were already skeptical of what would eventually become the 815, concealing their mission and our existence from the rest of their planet. He predicted a rift between the 815 and the Narsai'i, and he has turned out to be right. The 815 planned and executed a simultaneous strike against Boranai, which succeeded in capturing two cities and two Needleships within minutes of each other, and infiltrating the very heart of the Imperial capital, stealing most of the Repository of Benevolent Spirits and surviving an escape through the Black Gate. These are people who know our weaknesses and how to exploit them, and what their strengths and weaknesses are. The attack on Botane played both into our largest strengths and against their worst weaknesses, and was obviously not touched by anyone who knew what they were doing at any point - which means the Narsai'i planned and executed a major operation at the very least without letting the 815 know about it, and quite possibly over their firm objections. There is friction between the 815 and the Narsai'i, Samal - and this will, at the very least, limit the power of the 815 for the time being and reduce the Narsai'i to barely a threat."
Maaosa nods. "And there are plans to exploit this?"
"Some," Khawperni replies. "We are cultivating some possibilities - but they are all beyond your place to be asking about, Samal. Even without the sconces, your clearance only goes so far."
"Apologies, Rav-Odun," Maaosa quickly replies with a bow.
"Do not worry, Anai. All is forgiven," Khawperni replies. "Shall we head to the bar for a drink and stims?"

----

"THIS WEEKEND - You've seen the holos, you've heard the legends, and you've heard the harrowing tales from Botane - and now, THE ARENA brings LIVE NARSAI'I DEATHMATCH CHAOS to voxes all across the galaxy! Why settle for executions in the public square when you can watch TEN MAN FREE-FOR-ALL SLAUGHTER not just once - not just twice - BUT TEN TIMES IN ONE DAY, every day, FOR A WEEK? That's right folks - we've got so many NARSAI'I that we almost have to start throwing them out the airlocks to make room! But instead, we're having TWO WEEKS of NARSAI'I FEATURED MATCHES! How quickly can we whittle down THREE THOUSAND DEPRAVED NARSAI'I SOLDIERS to the HARDEST OF THE HARDCORE? Find out, NEXT WEEK on THE ARENA!"

Emperor Thrax Vikethan paces the high-security underground waiting area beneath the Square of Eternal Remembrance, dressed in his flowing golden ceremonial robes. Impellers keep the folds suspended in the perfect position to look regal without making him look bloated, and the scarlet sash over his shoulder hangs just right. Thrax always liked the Emperor's Turai ceremonial gown, with its scarlet sash and golden gauntlets, but he would have preferred a more...dignified spectacle for his first time in it. The honor of executing the first Narsai'i prisoners from Botane would, of course, fall to his hand, and it just seems...rather a waste of his time. The Imperium, his people, suffer a grievous wound dealt at the hands of the Narsai'i and the 815 have delivered yet another embarrassment to the Turai - and to him personally - and yet instead of meeting with the Hand that Guides and his advisors, he has to spend hours preparing for and then decapitating five Narsai'i. It was an honor, naturally, to be the first, the start of the Narsai'i executions intended to show his people that they have nothing to fear, a day that will see a thousand Narsai'i executed across every world in the Imperium, and to allow him the chance to claim the lives of some of the Narsai'i that have threatened his beloved Imperium, but when he decreed the action, he didn't think it would require quite so much waiting around in a dusty basement, surrounded by Khiraba. He almost regrets dismissing the Alef-ka for a few moments, but then his vox pings from inside his ear.
"We are ready for you now, Emperor," the ravilar coordinating the event says.
"Very well," Thrax replies, and steps up the stairs into the midday Napai'i sun.

The Square of Eternal Remembrance measures exactly two kilometers in diameter, taking up a decent percentage of the southern and sun-facing side of the Imperial Palace complex, and is the site of not only the thousands of statues commemorating the Imperium's greatest heroes, but also the site of its most public executions of the most infamous villains. Paved in Napai'i sandstone, every statue is marked with a permanent stain of blood, the mark reminding the citizens of their sacrifice, while the dais at the center is soaked a deep scarlet from the many men and women executed there, their blood providing a very different reminder. As Thrax raises his arms and looks over the crowd of hundreds of thousands gathered in the square for the execution, the five simpering Narsai'i, bound shirtless and kneeling in chains on the platform as they weep and beg for mercy in their ugly tongue, have no idea the honor that being executed on this spot truly represents.

"Citizens!" Thrax shouts - truly unnecessary as his voice and image are carried not only to holodisplays placed in the square, but widecast on every official channel, but he does so anyway. "Citizens, today we see the myth of the invincible Narsai'i laid to rest once and for all. They came for Botane in their thousands, their fearsome weapons thundering and in their full suicidal ferocity. And not only did our brave Turai - our greatest protectors of stability, safety and peace - not only did they beat them back, they did so in a matter of hours! Before the night was out, the Narsai'i were routed and captured, and Botane returned to its rightful citizens! Rav-Odun Nia Lobsha's quick decisions saved the lives of billions on Botane alone, and showed us that the Narsai'i are not indestructible beasts! They are not all-powerful on the battlefield! In fact, they are weak! When they encounter a force that is their true equal, they crumble! Despair not for the Imperium, citizens! We will never stop protecting you and your loved ones! Your families will have food and water! We will protect you from the Narsai'i anarchists and their genocidal intent! The Imperium can - and will - defeat the Narsai'i!"

Thrax draws his sword from its hilt on his ceremonial robes, the articulation of his golden gauntlets locking into place in the sword. In an instant, it feels an organic part of his body, and he steps behind the first Narsai'i. "Look upon the fearsome Narsai'i!" he shouts. "And know fear no more!"

With one wave of his arm, Thrax slashes clean through the neck of the Narsai'i, dropping its head to the platform before him as blood bursts out of the neck, splashing on his robes before the body topples forward and pours the rest of its vital fluids onto the red-stained sandstone. The next Narsai'i screams in terror as a small puddle of a different sort forms underneath him; Thrax calmly strolls behind him and swiftly decapitates him as well. The third is wracked with sobbing cries for mercy, but the only mercy he receives is a swift end as Thrax removes his head as well. The fourth's head is bowed as he mumbles something to himself, some kind of primitive prayer to an imagined god.
"Lift his head," Thrax orders, and one of the Khiraba grabs the Narsai'i by the hair and pulls him upright, giving him the angle for one more clean decapitation.

Now, fully soaked in the blood of the Narsai'i, Thrax steps behind the last Narsai'i. This one kneels proud and tall, staring out over the cheering crowd. The nobility of this last Narsai'i makes Thrax pause and look out over the same vista: the seemingly endless crowd of cheering Imperial citizens, the vendors' flags waving around as they sell food and beverages, the holodisplays spaced throughout the crowd, and beyond that, the massive superstructures of the wealthy and powerful on Napai, each paying billions upon billions for the honor of having the Imperial Palace in their line of sight.
Thrax savors the moment, and then steps in front of the Narsai'i, silencing his vox as he does so. He stands in front of the Narsai'i, who glares with cold fury into the eyes of the People's Emperor. "'I salute your bravery, Narsai'i,'" Thrax tells him in his own tongue. "'It will be your face that will be immortalized today.'"
"'Better get used to looking at it,'" the Narsai'i replies. "'Because a lot more like it are coming to kick your ass real soon.'"
Thrax chuckles. "'Perhaps. But they will come too late for you.'" And with that, Thrax swings his sword one last time. This time, his position in front of his target sends the arterial burst splashing down his front, leaving Thrax literally dripping with the defiant Narsai'i soldier's blood. He turns around, and raises his arms to the rapturous cheering and ecstasy of the crowd before him.

It’s the tenth time Sergeant Alonzo Moralez has woken up in this giant fake-concrete tub, and it sure isn’t getting any prettier the more he can see of it. The day after the Botane fuckup, they were marched through a Gateway that some fucking beer keg assembled out of Goddamn rubble, and ended up in this giant septic tank with cots bolted to the floor. Judging by the open showers in the corner and the chrome-armored Imperials walking overhead, it's some sort of prison. The 24/7 lights have got to be their way of fucking with him, because he still can’t look at one without flinching. It’s not any easier to look at his fellow prisoners. At first, Moralez thought they made the right call surrendering - it kept everybody on the squad alive and together, but a couple - days? - ago, when he was sleeping, those bastards came in and took Miller with them. Took fifty or so soldiers, in fact. The hell of it was, Moralez wasn’t there to stand up and fight - he was curled up on his cot, trying to hate away the pain in his eyes and all over his body. He heard the shouting, but didn’t place it, didn’t piece it together - and from what LaRouche said, Miller didn’t get a chance to scream anyway, they got him third, just yanked him with them and the poor kid didn’t have it in him to shout or fight, he just looked over his shoulder when they dragged him away. LaRouche talks about it a lot, and how he would bash their faces in if he could walk right; sometimes, Moralez really wants to believe him. McKinsey, well, the smart guy’s doing what Moralez should be doing: talking to people, getting information, trying to figure out the Imp language so he knows what the guards are talking about. He still thinks his big brain will get him out of here, but Moralez is way past doubting that - he stone-cold knows they’re fucked, and good.

Not that McKinsey's close to that yet. "Hey, Sarge, I heard one of the guards talking on the wall about the Gateways, I think," he says as he walks over between the rows of bunks, nodding towards the two Gateways mounted in the wall. The rings themselves are covered in two-inch thick plastic, so all they've done so far is taunt the soldiers locked in here. "And they've been humming all day. I think something's about to go down. Maybe they're bringing Miller back from interrogation?"
“Maybe,” Moralez says. Some sadistic impulse in him wants to shout “He’s fucking dead and we’re next, you idiot!”, but what’s the point? Moralez has fucked this job up so well, the least he can do is leave his men - all two of them - some comfort in their delusions. “Why, you got a plan?”
"Maybe he learned something about this place?" McKinsey says as he paces the floor. "Or what they want? I mean, I read that you can learn a lot about what people want to know from the questions they ask in interrogation. Maybe they gave away something?"
“Yeah, they probably did,” Moralez says. “I mean, shit...three, four days? That’s a lot of questions, and a lot of answers for us - if the kid can keep it together.”
"Miller hardly says shit anyway," LaRouche jokes from the bunk under Moralez's. "He probably didn't say a damn thing."

"Yeah, then maybe we can -" McKinsey starts to say, but then is interrupted by an ear-splittingly loud horn blast from the still-unseen PA system in the cell - the Imperials' way of getting their attention.
"Narsai'i!" the lead Imperial - a lieutenant of some kind, Moralez has guessed, from the bars on his shoulder - shouts through the speaker mounted in his armor from the front of the room. Even the thickest of grunts have figured out what that word means by now. "Stand! Up! Here!"
The Imp's English might suck pretty fucking bad, but he knows enough to get his point across, and many of the soldiers still bear the burn marks from the turbocharged cattle prods the Imps use when you step out of line. Moralez is out of his bunk before he can think about it. Say what you will about the Imps, but they know how to make you jump through their hoops. McKinsey’s right next to him, while LaRouche needs an extra second or two to heave his half-numb leg over the side of the bed and pull himself to his feet, and they both help him hobble over to the front of the room.

Once the whole room is lined up in two neat rows - they might be prisoners but they're still US Army soldiers and proud of it - the lead Imp walks the rows and just starts pointing out people and saying the same thing over and over, probably whatever "this one" is in his language, because the Imps following behind him grab whoever he points at and shoves them forward towards the two Gateways at the head of the room. Moralez feels his hands tense into fists and his heart feels like someone’s really stepping on the throttle now. Do something, he thinks. Just fucking do something. But he wouldn’t be here now if he’d figured out what to do, so all that’s good for is standing around half-cocked, staring daggers at the nearest Imp. When the lead Imp comes around to him, Moralez stares him down too, but he just chuckles through his speaker and points at Moralez. The Imps behind him grab and haul him towards the Gateway, he looks over his shoulder in time to see the lead Imp skip LaRouche and pick McKinsey, who's quickly dragged behind Moralez towards the same Gateway.
Up at the Gateway, it looks like they're being divided into groups of ten, and before long there's eight groups, four per Gateway. Moralez and McKinsey ended up in the same group, and now they're just standing there with eight other grunts, wondering what the fuck is going to happen next.

After the last of whoever the lead Imp is going to pick is picked, he walks back up onto the walkways overhanging the Gateways and shouts something in Imperial. That triggers the machines inside the plastic to start punching in the code on the Gateways, and Moralez can hear McKinsey next to him, whispering the sequence to himself before the sudden bright flash of the Gateway opening nearly drives Moralez to his knees as it feels like his eyes might melt out of their sockets, and he feels McKinsey drag his ass through the portal and onto what feels like more cold Imperial concrete as Moralez blinks and shakes his head to try to get his fried eyeballs working again.

"What the fuck?" one of the other soldiers asks.
"Where the fuck are we?" another says.
"Hey, Sarge, you all right?" McKinsey asks.
"Yeah, just gimme a second," Moralez replies as the flashing dots blinding him start to fade. A few seconds later, he can see well enough to pick up that they're in some place very different than the holding area: instead of just a shitload of beige, the grey concrete walls have colored stripes along them, in fact, the whole area by the Gateway they just came out of is striped a bright green. The walls are twenty feet tall or so, and above their heads is some kind of bigass neon sign written in Imperial hangs above the Gateway, also in bright green, and beyond that…
"Holy shit, we're in outer space, Sarge," McKinsey says, looking up along with Moralez. "We're in motherfucking outer space! How the fuck are we going to get out of here now?"
A cheer rises from more invisible speakers that fills the whole massive space they've been zapped into, and an excited voice shouts something in Imperial, but whatever it is, it sounds like the announcer at a pro wrestling match.
"I think we got bigger problems than that, McKinsey," Moralez says. “Ever been to a dog fight, smart guy? Well, we’re the bitches.”
“Bullshit,” McKinsey says. “That’s just...that can’t be fucking right.”
Moralez looks at McKinsey for a moment. “So, you got nothing?”
“Nothing you wanna hear, Sarge,” McKinsey says.
“We gotta stick together and move out!” one of the other soldiers says. “Doesn’t matter where we are or what’s happening, we gotta move.”
“And you are?” Moralez asks.
“I’m Len Bukowsky, Sarge, and with all due respect - lead, follow or get the fuck out of our way!” the soldier says. “Come on, who’s with me?”
“Best idea I’ve heard so far,” McKinsey mutters to Moralez. “Hey, guys, we also have to find something to fight with - sticks, rebar, shives, something.”
“Yeah!” Bukowsky says. “Yeah! We’re gonna move and pick up anything that looks like it can cave Imp skulls! You guys ready to Ranger the fuck up?”

That actually gets a couple of Ho-ahs from the soldiers, but mostly it gets nods - peer vote succeeded, Private Bukowsky takes charge. Moralez is beyond giving a shit, but he’s got nothing to lose, so he shuts up and falls in as the small group starts to move through the maze of concrete walls. It's not long before they hear something around a corner - a loud hiss, like a really fucking big snake. The whole group pauses, and then leaps around the corner, chunks of rock and bits of steel in their hands - and it's pretty much like it sounds: a ten-foot long bigass lizard-looking thing, covered in scales and fur with six fucking legs. The group descends on it, beating and stabbing it, and before it even knows what hit it, the creature's bleeding all over the floor and is twitching its last.

"Fuck yeah!" Bukowsky shouts. "Ho-ah!" A few soldiers echo his shouts, and the crowd coming from the speakers cheers loudly.
"That's fucking right!" one of the others shouts. "You fucking love this shit!"
"Hey!" another voice shouts from a row thirty feet away. "Hold up, we're gonna link up with you guys!"
"Holy shit, we're not the only ones in here!" McKinsey shouts. "Fuck yeah, come on over!" He looks to Moralez. "I think we might be able to get the fuck out of here, Sarge. If we link up, maybe we can overpower some of the Imps, get some guns, and then organize a prison break."
Even with as shitty as things have gone so far, the high of combat and the fact that there doesn't seem to be any Imps around at the moment lets Moralez believe that just maybe McKinsey's not full of shit. When the ten other men in Army ACUs come around the corner and start jogging their way towards them, it seems like they might just make it out of here after all.

Even the crowd over the speakers starts to cheer and shout, as the announcer's voice starts jabbering faster and more excitedly. "Lieutenant Kerrick," the soldier at the front of the group says. "What's the situation?"
Moralez, McKinsey and the rest of the group salute the officer. "We're damn fucking glad to see you, Sir," McKinsey says. "We just killed this lizard thing -" he kicks the creature's dead body, "- and we're thinking we link up and figure out a way out of here."
After a few seconds of excited cheering, the invisible crowd starts to turn. The cheers turn to booing, which grows louder and louder by the moment, as the announcer continues to shout.
"Sounds like a good idea," Kerrick says. "We haven't seen an edge to this place yet, but maybe -"

Kerrick is cut off mid-sentence as a beamer shot comes from somewhere up above, and his head bursts open in a splash of blood and gore. The nineteen survivors all rush for the walls or the corpse of the dead lizard-thing and take what little cover there is as the crowd whoops and cheers with delight, but no more shots are fired.
"What the fuck!" McKinsey shouts from the wall, as he wipes Kerrick's blood from his face.
"It's some sort of fucking ambush!" Bukowsky shouts back.
"No fucking shit!" one of the new soldiers replies.
The crowd's cheers die down as the announcer's voice becomes louder. A few words of jibberish come over the speakers, and then one word, shouted by the crowd and announcer in unison and in English: "KILL!"
"No fucking shit, you cheap fuckers!" one of the soldiers that came in with Moralez and McKinsey shout.
"KILL!" the crowd shouts again. "KILL! KILL!" The booing reintensifies, and a moment later, a second beamer shot from nowhere takes out another soldier, this time blowing his chest apart and rolling him across the floor.

"Fuck this!" Bukowsky shouts. "Scatter! Get to fucking cover! They can't shoot us if we all split up!" He stands up and runs away - and isn't cut down immediately.
"I think he's got the right idea!" McKinsey shouts. "See you on the other side, Sarge!" he says, and runs off down a different corridor than Bukowsky. With the motion apparently seconded, the whole group splits off and runs down the different paths. Moralez figures, running, that’s something he can do, so he runs. The corridors are a maze of twisty little passages, all alike, and but after a few corners, things start looking a little too familiar - isn’t that spatter from the Lieutenant’s head on that wall? - and a few minutes later, Moralez is pretty sure he’s run a quarter mile and not gotten anyfuckingwhere. The way the walls are aligned, it can’t just be a labyrinth, because Moralez knows his landnav and he’s damn sure he wasn’t running in a circle - the directions just don’t add up.

Oh, fuck. The walls are moving. They have to be. Moralez almost breaks his hand punching one in frustration. There’s no escape, nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide. They’re just rats in a fancy maze, and the only winning move is to not get booed. Still, Moralez hurries on, trying to jog off the pain in his hand and his head and his chest, still holding on to a piece of steel that’s now cutting into his hand. He hears someone else huffing and puffing around the next corner, and stops. Linking up might keep them alive, but it also might make both of them dead.

That choice is made for him when the person he hears running rounds the corner - it's McKinsey, and he instantly breaks into a smile and slows down once he sees Moralez. "Holy shit, Sarge," he puffs. "You all right?"
“KILL!” the crowd shouts again.
McKinsey flinches back, turning around as he looks behind him. “Fuck! How many of those fucking lizards are there?”

And that’s when Moralez gets it. Oh, Lord, it’s so simple. It’s like they all just didn’t want to understand. But Moralez understands, and...he raises the steel rod in his hand. McKinsey never even turns around, doesn’t suspect, doesn’t see it coming when Moralez brings the hunk of metal down on the Private’s skull. McKinsey crumbles to the floor almost instantly, and by all rights, the cracked skull would already be enough, but they’re still shouting.

“KILL!”

Moralez stands over McKinsey, bloody steel in hand. What do those motherfuckers want? What do they want?

“KILL!”

McKinsey twists and moans at Moralez’s feet. The job isn’t done. The people aren’t entertained. And this is where Moralez realizes another thing: no matter how bad this is, no matter what they do? He’s still more afraid of dying than living. He needs to live. Because if he lives, then maybe one day he could...do something to fix this. But right now, for him to live, Private McKinsey must die.

“Die!” Moralez cries out in sync with the crowd’s “KILL!”, bowing over McKinsey and hitting him again and again. “DIE!”
“KILL!”
“DIE!” Moralez screams. “DIE DIE DIE YOU motherfucking piece of dickshitting asshole…” His voice levels off to a whisper as he drops the steel rod and looks at McKinsey, thinking about how easy it was to kill him - how fast he died. “...lucky fucking son of a bitch. Oh my God…”

The crowd goes fucking nuts. The announcer sounds like he’s having an orgasm. Moralez just stays there, kneeling over his dead, last friend. He’s still on his knees when they come in and drag him away, back to the Gateway.

Gate travel has gotten pretty routine for Luis. On top of missions, there’s been weeks of commuting to and from Mesas Negras every day or so for the training missions. This time, though, the minor differences in gravity and the air seem to pop into sharp relief as he steps through the Boronai-bound Gateway with a duffle under his arm and a suit bag slung over his shoulder. It’s strange to actually be here now, he thinks. The wedding and everything have been in planning so long, and now it’s here. But in a way with the move to Atea and talk of kids and everything else lately, it’s almost surprising to get here and realize they haven’t done it yet. It’s not that he isn’t ready, it’s more like he’s felt ready for so long it feels like he’s already done it--especially with Hugh’s bonding so recently. He turns to Arketta, trailing with her parents and their luggage, and smiles. All the more reason to do this and right, he thinks.
Arketta smiles back and squeezes Luis' hand, while Arlana and Ody are wrapped around each other, each smiling and simply enjoying the moment. Luis' parents were wisely scheduled to arrive five hours hence, plenty of time to get to the resort and set things up for their arrival, but before the group now stands the welcoming party: Onas Maloeph and Paul Sturgis, both dressed in appropriately loose-fitting desert-tan tactical-looking local clothing, and both looking pretty good. Sturgis, in particular, seems to have taken well to whatever passes for Top Secret Bashakra'i spy living, seeming a decent bit more fit and burly than before.
Sturgis is the first one to notice the group, and nods for Onas to look before waving a hand. "Luis! Arketta! Over here!"
Luis turns towards the calls and grins. “Onas! Paul! Good to see you guys!”
Sturgis and Onas both walk over and embrace Arketta and Luis in turn. "Ready for your big day?" Sturgis asks.
"More than ready," Arketta replies. "How are things here?"
"Quiet," Onas replies as he reaches to hug Luis. "A little too much so, but it might just turn out to be quiet."
“Anything major lately that’s making you nervous?” Luis asks.
"Just the quiet," Onas replies.
"Enough work, lahna," Sturgis interrupts with a laugh and a hand clasped to his husband's shoulder. "They're here to get married, not have a tactical briefing. Come on, the skimmer's this way."
Ody chuckles behind Luis and Arketta. "Finally, someone's talking sense."
“Just wanted to make sure we weren’t walking into anything,” Luis says with a smile. “I’m bringing my parents out here for their first time off-world.”
"Things are quiet," Sturgis replies with a wave of his hand. "Come on, I have Onas and me scheduled for a couple's strength training and massage that we are not missing," he says with a peck on Onas' cheek. Chuckling, Luis follows to the skimmer.

The skimmer was quickly loaded with luggage (Luis and Arketta's luggage being forcibly purloined and loaded by Onas, Paul, Arlana and Ody) and lifted off, quickly popping up above the normal in-town traffic in Gate City. Onas throttles the skimmer up and blasts north, skirting around the lower-speed airspace around Spire City, and heading further north at about one-hundred and fifty miles per hour. Desert washes, valleys and mountains slide past underneath, and it's a good hour before a particularly high ridge appears in the distance, small silvery-gold glints showing on the side and top of the highest peak.

Soon, the resort comes into full view below as the skimmer is steered into a slow orbit. Carved into the sides of the mountain ridge is an extensive series of decks and entrances into the rock, the sides all glistening in the early evening sunlight, the tops a more cool-looking stone quite possibly taken from the excavations of the resort itself. There are some structures on top - a sunroom, a greenhouse, an amphitheater, two large pools and three smaller ones, a few tables and firepits, and a brace of chairs both upright and reclined scattered about. The rest must be inside, and judging by how many layers of decks there are, it must be at least five stories deep. Make that six - below the lowest deck, a hangar door slides open. It looks big enough to maybe even admit the old Akamu, but it's certainly more than large enough for the skimmer. Inside, the rock facade gives way to burnished aluminum and steel, enough space for dozens of skimmers, but is now almost empty, a heritage of when this was the favored retreat of the most wealthy and powerful of the Imperial elite on planet. Now, the Keepers are either busy putting their research in order (or exploring new exciting avenues that Imperial censorship had denied), or long since gone. The workers here are all Boranai'i born and raised for the most part, and being exposed to the worst of the debauchery and excesses of the Imperial noble class might not have made them into rebel sympathizers, but when the Imperials were chased out, they were more concerned with keeping their jobs than keeping their loyalty. Business has gone down, but some Narsai'i business, combined with the increased interest of the Boranai'i in what they had all heard was an oasis of pleasure on their desert planet, has kept the doors open. Still, it's not nearly as expensive as it used to be, which helped Luis and Arketta secure it for their wedding.

As the skimmer sets down, a stocky, short (and by short, he stands only 5'8") man dressed in plain white but ornately designed clothes steps quickly towards the passenger door in his white slippers, trimmed with gold thread. He opens the door with a touch and stands aside, head bowed as he waits for the occupants to step out. "Master Stanhill, Mistress Quis, welcome to Virusa." Luis looks around as he steps out. Compared to the stark, slightly rustic feel of the exterior, the interior is impressive--even for a glorified garage it’s pretty swank. He ends up turning his head to take in the scene, and it takes a moment before he manages to turn to face their greeter.
“Thank you,” he says, bowing slightly. “It’s beautiful.”
Arketta's been starstruck ever since the resort first came into view, and her mouth is hanging wide open as she climbs out. "...wow," she whispers as she grabs on to Luis' shoulder. Inside the skimmer, Ody and Arlana are looking around, and even Onas and Paul look a little star-struck.
"My name is Tanalsa, I will be your personal attaché for the weekend," the man says. "Anything you need, anything at all, I will be at the ready during your entire stay."
"Is that normal?" Paul asks.
"It is for the happy couple being wed, sir," Tanalsa replies.
"Something special for an anniversary, maybe?" Arlana whispers to Ody.
“I think we might like to see our rooms and put away luggage, then a tour and seeing the venue for the ceremony,” Luis says. He turns to Arketta, “That sound right?”
"Uh huh," Arketta mumbles.
"Of course, sir." Tanalsa snaps his fingers, and two young men in slightly less ornate white uniforms spring from an alcove and hustle over to retrieve the party's bags.

"Follow me?" Tanalsa asks, gesturing inside.
"After you," Arketta says dramatically, looking to Luis with a goofy smile as she hooks her arm through his. Luis’ grin is a near match as they follow together in Tanalsa’s wake.

----

The tour doesn't take more than ten minutes, but it's plenty to show off exactly how impressive this place is. Far from being simply blocks hewn from the rock, the rounded hallways ebb and flow with the patterns in the sandstone hills, giving the impression that the whole resort was simply found this way, fully formed in the rock. A whole range of spa and relaxation treatments are presented - on top of conference rooms and business centers filled with cogitators. It's hard to imagine exactly why such a thing would be shown off if you’re all here for a wedding, but then Luis remembers that he’s also a member of the 815 and a high-ranking Narsai’i official, and it never hurts to pimp out your swank facilities to someone like him.

Still, Tanalsa eventually takes the lot to their rooms. Codes are uploaded to voxes for Ody and Arlana and Paul and Onas, who then are gently asked to take their leave before Tanalsa gestures for Luis and Arketta to follow him further down the hall and a concerning distance away from the others. At the end of the hallway stands a second lift with only one button - an actual physical button, like you’d find on a Narsai’i elevator.
“Your room codes, Master and Mistress,” Tanalsa says, and a notice of a transferred key code waiting for permission flashes at the periphery of Luis’ vision.
Luis accepts the code with a questioning look at the lift. “Is it on another floor?”
“That it is, Master,” Tanalsa replies. “A gift, from Master Kesh.”
Luis exchanges a look with Arketta--”Angel?”--before shrugging slightly and pressing the button for the lift. The button feels...different than anything Luis has pushed before. Cooler, more weighty; it simply recesses and a section that looked like solid metal lights up. A dozen seconds of utter silence later, the doors open just as inaudibly, and crystalline clear walls surrounded by red sandstone greet them.
“I will be nearby if you need me,” Tanalsa says as Arketta leans cautiously into the lift, and bows. “Master, Mistress.”
“Thank you,” Luis says slightly absently as he checks out the lift. Tanalsa withdraws into a small side room that Luis hadn’t even noticed was there, the door built in flush with the wall. Luis turns to Arketta.
“So, umm, should we see what Kesh money can buy in this place?” he asks.
“Uh huh,” Arketta nods, still in that mind-blown tone of voice. Luis leads the way into the lift. There’s two buttons on the wall with the door, one above the other. Pressing the top button triggers the same kind of light-from-metal trick as the external button, but this time forming the shape of an upward-pointing arrow, and up it goes.

The lift hovers up literally imperceptibly from the inside perspective; only the motion of the sandstone rock outside indicates any motion at all. For a brief moment, it moves past at a pretty decent clip while Arketta’s eyes continue to bug out of her head, but then it abruptly (but again without any sensation of motion or force) slows down to a near crawl. A razor thin line of light appears at the top of the transparent wall encircling the lift platform, and a moment later Arketta gasps and braces herself against Luis’ shoulder. Luis only has a moment to wonder what she can see that he can’t before the lift brings the room into view for him - and reveals a truly palatial space.

Luis’ augmented vision tells him that the room is 45 feet tall and about 100 feet by 100 feet, that the curved transparent crystal wall faces from roughly 225 degrees off true north to 150 degrees off true north, and that his optical processors aren’t needed to dim the sun’s light, as the window is doing it for him. Such base and technical descriptions fail to capture some important aspects: that the room seems to have been simply evaporated out of the mountainside, the contours of the hill replaced with one continuous and mammoth piece of perfectly clean and clear crystal that seamlessly flows from the ceiling to the floor. The stark beauty of the space also escapes his vox’s analysis. A communal area, seats upholstered in warm and inviting scarlet leather and sculpted into the floor around a small fire pit, in which flames already lick up towards...nothing, it seems - only a careful look at the ceiling reveals the vent, perfectly blended in. On the other side of the room, heavy and large wooden dining table, the scarlet leather dark brown wood of the chairs and table matched not only to the leather fire area but the stone of the room itself, next to the pool, heated just to the point where a slight haze floats in the setting sunlight. At forward center of the massive space - “room” seeming less and less appropriate by the moment - the centerpiece: a stone and wood platform literally floating in midair, each step similarly suspended unsupported in space, above which sits a truly massive bed wrapped in scarlet sheets that slightly shimmer an iridescent light, and flanked by two dressers crafted from the same dark wood from the table and chairs. Underneath, a full kitchen crafted from even more of the wood, with even the metal surfaces burnished to perfectly compliment the stone. Standing cubicles crafted from the same metal and wood flank both sides of the kitchen, those seem like the toilets and closets, and forward of the kitchen stands a clear crystal cubicle with a stone tub carved into the floor next to it - that would be the shower and bathtub.

Finally, the great crystal wall itself comes into focus - as Luis takes his first tentative step out of the lift, a golden shimmer echoes from both edges towards the middle, and a voice sounds out gently, seeming to issue from the walls themselves.
“Welcome, Master Stanhill and Mistress Quis,” the room says. “This is your virtual assistant. Do you need anything at this moment? A drink or bit of food? Dinner appointments can be made as well. Is the room temperature all right? Would you prefer the pool be closed or fire turned off?”
The room gets no answer. After a long moment, Luis turns back to Arketta, who’s still standing, agog, in the lift. “Okay, there’s still time to preserve some semblance of middle class pretensions,” he says with a grin. “We just tell them we couldn’t figure out how to work the lift, and crash in one of the conference rooms.”
“Fuck no,” Arketta whispers. “How much would it cost for us to just live here?”
“The monthly rate is 200,000 lats per month,” the room replies.
“Okay,” Arketta replies with a sheepish head bob. “Maybe we can’t just live here, but we’re definitely staying here.” She walks up behind Luis. “So, this is what Kesh money gets you in this place.”
“Master Kesh left you a gift in the kitchen,” the room helpfully responds.
“Thank you,” Luis says, then turns to Arketta. “Okay, you think we move in in force, or shall I hold down a beachhead here while you do forward recon?”
“I think that this a good place for one of the lessons I learned from the Narsai’i soldiers,” Arketta says with a smirk. “Who dares, wins.” She then whoops a cheer and charges headlong for the pool and jumps in, clothes and all. Luis laughs aloud, and follows.

----

After a quick swim around the pool and cuddling session in the shallow end, Luis and Arketta change out of their wet clothes, towel off, and look around the room for where their bags are for new ones. The bags are easily located in one of the closets below the sleeping area, but they're already empty, and it's a good few minutes before Luis thinks to check the drawers - sure enough, the bags were already unpacked and stowed away before they both even arrived.
“Found them,” Luis says, pointing Arketta’s attention to the drawer he’s pulled open. “They’re really committed to full service here, aren’t they?”
"The Virusa prides itself on customer service and total relaxation," the room intones.
"This is probably the nicest room they have," Arketta says as she pulls a light skinsuit out of a drawer. "I wouldn't be surprised if they would bring their best chef up here to cook for us if we paid them enough."
"Would you like to have Chef Tero Ipani join you for -" the room starts to ask.
"No, thank you," Arketta quickly replies.
Luis cracks a smile as he starts pulling out his own clothes, and takes a moment to admire the view before getting dressed. The window is nice, too, but that’s not where he’s looking.
"Is there some way we can maybe make this room a little less responsive?" Arketta asks as she pulls her skinsuit the rest of the way up.
"Setting verbal prompt sensitivity to 'Low'," the room replies. "Say 'Room, respond' to temporarily reactivate verbal prompting."
"Better!" Arketta pulls a pair of loose-fitting desert pants from her drawer and seals them to her skinsuit with a touch. "So! What now? Do we have time to do much before your parents get here?"
The thought is enough to bring the current time into focus thanks to Luis’ implants and he sighs. “Nope. Not really.”
"Damn," Arketta says.

"Holy shit, how well does GRHDI pay?" Paul's voice sounds from downstairs.
“Not nearly this well!” Luis calls back.
"It's a gift from a Mister Kesh!" Arketta shouts as she walks over to the edge. "Don't know which one. Supposedly, there's a gift in the chiller."
Two pairs of boots walk across the floor. "Oh, damn," Paul says.
"It is a...bottle, of sorts, of fermented atruga juice," Onas says.
"Looks like the fanciest fucking bottle of champagne I've ever seen," Paul adds. "That's a special kind of fermented fruit juice on Narsai," he adds for Onas' benefit. "It's one solid glass...thing. I think part of the challenge is figuring out how to open it."
“Intact, I guess?” Luis says as he finishes pulling on a shirt. “Because otherwise it sounds pretty solvable.”
"Perhaps," Onas replies.

By the time Arketta and Luis make their way back downstairs, the strange bottle has been put back in the chiller, and Onas and Paul are leaning against the counter.
"I see you have already tried out the pool," Onas says.
“Maybe,” Luis says with a grin. “How’re your rooms?”
"About the same size as our hab," Onas replies. "Sitting area and kitchen, and a bedroom."
"Just a lot nicer," Paul adds. "So, Onas and I want to give you an early wedding gift. We'll take the skimmer back to the Gateport and pick your parents up. You two get a massage or visit the healing center."
"Or stay in here," Onas adds with a small smirk.
Luis exchanges a look with Arketta. Should we?
Arketta shrugs. "If you want to go with them, I will join my mother and father for a while. It's just two hours, there's plenty of time for relaxation and the healing center tonight."
“I think I’d better go,” Luis says. “It’s their first Gate trip, and they could probably use a friendly face.”
Arketta gives Luis a peck on the cheek. "Do you want me to come? If you really do, I'll come."
“Nah,” Luis says. “You can stay here, it’ll be fine.”
"Go, then," Arketta says. "I'll see you when you get back." She gives him a hug. "I love you."
“I love you too, dear,” Luis says.

The flight back to Gate City is pretty uneventful, aside from one particularly incredible moment of the stark, stunning beauty of Boranai when the sun is silhouetted behind the Spire. Onas and Paul hold hands for a moment as Onas let go of the controls, and soon the skimmer hovers down to a stop in the pick-up and loading section of the Gateport. The holodisplay showing arrival and departure times (and the vastly more basic flatscreen TV showing those same times in Narsai'i) points the threesome in the right direction.

As Onas, Paul and Luis wait, the bright Boranai'i sun sets below the buildings surrounding the gateport, but the foot and skimmer traffic doesn't decrease. Luis can't help but notice that it's vastly increased and diversified since he was here just over a month ago: instead of military vehicles and soldiers, the preponderance of the traffic around the Gateport seems to be Boranai'i, or at least Naranai'i in nature. There's still a lot of Narsai'i, but all the shops are open, locals working nearby are walking to get dinner from street-level restaurants, and it seems like Gate City, at least, is fully open for business despite the blockade in orbit. He’s glad--both for what it means for the planet, and because he’d had a lurking fear of bringing his parents into a city that felt like an occupation zone.

The Gateway's opening flash refocuses Luis' attention. The first thing through is a few trucks of freight bound for the Narsai'i military, but after that it's all people walking through. Luis doesn't see his parents at first, until he notices that towards the back are two bored-looking Narsai'i soldiers standing next to a very overwhelmed-looking married couple. Don Stanhill is wearing a loud Hawaiian shirt over a white t-shirt and khakis, while Martha Stanhill has a yellow floral patterned sundress and a big floppy white hat. At the inaudible prodding of the two soldiers accompanying them, Don and Martha Stanhill walk slowly and cautiously towards the Gateway. They both pause at the threshold, and notice Luis standing on the other side for the first time. Luis grins, waves, and gestures them on through. They grab each other's hands, close their eyes, and step through. A moment later, they open their eyes again and let out their held breath.

"Oh my goodness," Martha says.
“Hey Mom, hi Dad,” Luis says. It’s pretty clear that they didn’t have a good first trip--Don looks a bit green about the gills, and Martha seems slightly worse.
“Here,” Luis says, and points to an area past the Gateway, out of the way of the traffic. “It’s rough the first time, why don’t you come have a seat?”
Don and Martha carefully make their way over and take a seat, but it's too late - a moment after sitting down, Luis' mom bends over, desperately grabs for the airsickness bag in her oversized purse, and pukes into it. A second later, his dad pulls a similar bag out of his pants pocket and does the same. Luis steps up to support them, setting a hand on his mom’s back to steady her, while Paul steadies Don and Onas takes care of the bags.
“It’s okay,” Luis says. “The adaption is always roughest the first time. Just give it a few minutes and you’ll feel better.”

Don and Martha both nod and sit there for a bit, gathering themselves up before speaking again. "I'm sorry, this is so embarrassing," Martha finally says.
“It gets everyone,” Luis says, taking the sick bags. “The first time we went through, the whole team was like this. Just take some breaths and sit, I’ll go deal with these.” He gives his parents a moment to compose themselves as he goes to pitch the bags, and grabs a bottle of water from one of the vendors on his way back. Don passes the bottle to his wife first, who takes a drink and gives it back to Don.
"I'm so sorry," Martha says. "Who are your friends, Luis?"
“Mom, Dad,” Luis says, turning and pointing. “This is Paul and his husband Onas. They’re with the local government.”
"Oh, that's nice," Martha replies.
"We're very supportive of gay marriage," Don adds.
"That's good to hear," Paul says, and even though they didn't look tense before, both Paul and Onas seem to relax a little.
"So, where is the car?" Don asks. "I'll get our bags."
"No need, Mr. Stanhill," Paul says. "Onas and I will get them, you just follow Luis to the skimmer when you feel ready." And with that, Paul and Onas did just that and walked off towards the skimmer.
Luis turns back to his parents. “Well, welcome to Boronai. Sorry about the trip,” he says apologetically.
"It's all right," Martha says, and looks around. "Well, this certainly is better looking than Manchester or Logan."
"What's this smell?" Don asks as he sniffs the air. "Smells like...gum. Is there some sort of gum factory?"
“It’s the air,” Luis says. “The whole planet smells like this. I dunno if it’s local plant life or something, but it’s always like this. Every planet has its little quirks.”
"Is it safe?" Martha asks.
“It’s completely safe,” Luis says reassuringly. “All the oxygen levels and everything are fine, it’s just some trace chemicals we don’t get on Earth, nothing harmful.”
"Well then, that sounds all right," Martha says.
Don stands up and helps his wife to her feet. "So, where's the car parked?"
“The skimmer’s over this way,” Luis says, and leads the way. The walk goes fine, until the three reach the edge of the Gateport. Don and Martha quietly talked between each other about the dirt roads and not seeing any cars on the way out, but once they reached the edge of the Gateport, they saw where most of the traffic was - in the air. They both stop cold and look up at the several dozen skimmers flying past in the traffic lanes in the sky.
Luis grins. “Hey, Dad, remember how you were always saying it couldn’t be the future if you didn’t have your flying cars yet?”
"I do," Don replies slowly.
“We found them,” Luis says. “You should see what’s under the hood.”
"Something amazing, I expect," Martha replies.
“Yup,” Luis says, and leads the way to where Paul and Onas wait at their skimmer. Opening the gull wing hatch into the rear area, he lets them in first, then follows to take a seat on one of the benches on the sides of the passenger compartment. After they get settled, he turns to Onas. “All right, we’re ready to go,” he says.
Onas nods and throttles the skimmer up into the air.
"Oh my," Martha says, and Don's eyes go wide.
“Check out the view,” Luis says with a smile as the skimmer lifts up into the traffic patterns over the city.
"Oh my," Martha says again.

That phrase - and Don Stanhill’s silence - is the refrain of the whole trip back to the resort. Luis’ parents seem impressed by each new view of the city or of the scenery, or the arrival to the resort, but he can also tell that it’s just kind of washing over them--there’s so much new at once their minds aren’t really processing it yet. For himself, Luis is kind of glad he could finally show them--maybe once they have some time to process what they’re seeing, they’ll get what it’s like on the other side of the Gate. He idly wonders if he can find time to swing through Atea on the way back to Mesas Negras.

Tanalsa is waiting in the garage when the group arrives back at the garage, and he bows respectfully to the group as Luis, Onas and Paul step out of the skimmer. “Welcome back, Master Stanhill. And these are your parents, I presume?”
Luis nods. “Tanalsa, these are my parents, Don and Martha Stanhill.” He turns to his parents. “'This is Tanalsa, he’s the hotel attache.'”
Don and Martha both cautiously step outside.
"Greetings, and welcome to the Virusa," Tanalsa says with a bow.
"'...what did he say?'" Martha asks.
“Greetings, and welcome to the Virusa,” Luis translates. He turns to Tanalsa for a moment, “Do you have translation staff available?”
"That we do, Master," Tanalsa replies. "Are your parents fluent in Imperial at all?"
“No,” Luis says, then he turns back to his parents and smiles. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think about the language. The hotel can provide an interpreter for the stay.”
"'Good, wouldn't want to have to have you stay with us the whole weekend,'" Don replies. He climbs out, and helps his wife out behind him. "'Tell him thanks, and ask him where our room is.'"
Luis nods. “They’d like to head to their rooms for now,” Luis says to Tanalsa. “Could you lead them there and then see about an interpreter?”
Tanalsa nods. "Of course. Your fiance has just finished time in the heat room with her parents. Should I alert her that you have arrived?"
“Sure,” Luis says, and then turns back to his parents. “'I’m going to check in with Arketta, but Tanalsa can get you settled in your room and see about an interpreter. Once you get settled, then we can see about dinner?'”
"'Sounds like a plan,'" Don says. "'Lead the way,'" he tells Tanalsa.

Tanalsa walks off with Luis' parents in tow as porters grab their bags from the skimmer, leaving Luis with Paul and Onas.
"Looked like their hair was on fire for a bit there," Paul says.
“Yeah,” Luis says. “First time through the Gate, I think we all felt like that. They’ll find their feet.”
"Well, we will see you at dinner," Onas says. "Come on, Paul." They both nod to Luis and head off into the hotel.

Luis walks out after them, and as the dinner hour approaches, the previously nearly empty halls of Virusa have a bit more activity in them, mostly other guests walking to and from their rooms or the various areas of the resort. There's a lot of Imperial brown skin, but here and there Luis spots someone of more Narsai'i build, probably GRHDI officials taking some time off. Some of the guests are wearing applied masks of fabric or chemicals, some carry vaporizer bowls of drugs, and one or two are being wheeled about on a table or even in a container like an iron lung. They seem to offer nearly everything here, and take it pretty seriously.

As Luis walks past the main entrance to the healing ward, he spots Arketta with her parents walking out. Arketta's skin seems to be glistening, almost polished and buffed to a bright shine. She smiles and rushes over to Luis and takes his hands. "You have to try the skin conditioners they have here, Luis." She takes his hand and runs it over her cheek and down her shoulder. "I have never felt like this in my life."
Luis’ eyebrows raise and for a moment he struggles to remember how to form words. “Uh...um...yes,” he finally stammers out dopily.
Arketta puts his arm around her back as she turns to look to her parents. “We’ll see you in a half-hour for dinner, all right?”
“And Luis’ parents?” Ody asks. Arketta looks to Luis for an answer.
He nods. “They’ll be there. They don’t speak Imperial, but the hotel said they can provide an interpreter, so I think it’ll work out one way or another.”
"'My Narsai'i is not too bad now,'" Arlana says, only somewhat haltingly. "We cannot wait to meet your parents, Luis." She looks to Arketta. "And later tonight?"
"Weights, I can't wait - but I have to leave some power in my cells," Arketta says, smirking and grabbing Luis' ass. Luis just chuckles, and so does Arlana.
"Of course, of course," Arlana says, and she and Ody walk off down the hall.

"How were your parents?" Arketta asks, now that her parents are out of earshot.
“They seemed overwhelmed,” Luis says. “They were wowing over everything but...I don’t know how much they took in.”
Arketta's face turns to concern. "Will they be all right for dinner?"
Luis shrugs. “We’ll see. I hope so--maybe the time to settle will have given them a chance to recover.”
"Do you want to check in on them before we change?" Arketta asks.
“Yeah,” Luis says, nodding. “I think I would.”
"Then let's do that," Arketta replies.

----

It takes a minute or two before there's any response at the door to Don and Martha Stanhill's room. The bustle to the rooms an hour before dinner has turned into bustle from the rooms as dinner rapidly approaches, driving Luis and Arketta against the opposite wall out of politeness to the sporadic individuals and pairs walking towards the restaurant.
"Do you think they are having problems with the door?" Arketta asks.
“I don’t know,” Luis says. After a moment, he crosses the hall and taps the page panel again. “'Mom? Dad? It’s Luis.'”
The holopanel goes blank as the door slides open to reveal Luis' parents - Don dressed in a nice, if slightly aged suit, and Martha in a blue dress and wearing her best pearls. "'Couldn't get this damn door open,'" Don grouses. "'I guess they don't have doorknobs in the future.'"
Luis grins. “'That wouldn’t be scifi enough, Dad.'”
"'You look lovely, Arketta,'" Martha says.
Arketta smiles and bows to her. "'Thank you, Mrs. Stanhill. Wait until we are dressed.'"
"'Oh, you're not ready?'" Martha asks Luis.
“'We just wanted to check how you were settling in first,'” Luis says.
"'Your friend was very nice and helped us figure out the door and everything in the room,'" Martha replies. "'The room is very nice.'"
"'But now, you and Arketta should go get ready,'" Don adds. "'Which way to the restaurant?'"
“That way,” Luis says, pointing the way the crowds have been flowing. “Basically just follow everyone else.”
"'Thanks, Luis,'" Don says.
"'We'll see you both at dinner,'" Martha says with a smile.
"'My parents will meet you there,'" Arketta says, and the Stanhills walk off down the hallway.

"I wonder how they will take Narsai'i dress in the restaurant," Arketta says as she watches them walk off.
“I don’t know,” Luis says. “I guess we’ll find out. Let’s go get changed.”

As it turns out, reasonably well. The Stanhills might look like they're wearing clothes from thousands of years in the past - which they technically are - but they still look formal-ish enough to the eyes of the matré d. Luis, dressed in a slim, high-collared Imperial jacket with layers of fabric forming a Moiré pattern of Bashakra'i blue and green and softly slick slacks grey slacks over shoes that glisten like auto-body kandy paint, and Arketta, her golden satin sleeveless top and tissue-thin see-through lace tan leggings over top of her Turai skinsuit - complete with Turai sword on her hip - fit in much better. The host at the front of the restaurant - Hothuarna, by the sign - doesn't bat an eye at Arketta's openly carried weaponry, and shows them to the table where their parents are waiting. Arlana and Ody, both dressed in tan and blue Hedion'i colors, smile and nod towards you both, while Don and Martha still look more than a little stunned. They look to Luis in an attempt to lock on to something familiar, and smile at him and Arketta.

"You look wonderful," Arlana says to both Luis and Arketta. "'We were talking about what we do for work,'" she continues in English.
"'Ody is working on that Imperial town in Virginia?'" Don asks.
“’Yeah,’” Luis says. “’The people on Atea where Arketta and I are living have a lot of hopes for that town.’”
“’And Arlana is a...soldier?’” Martha asks.
“’I was, but now I am just teaching,’” Arlana protests.
“’Teaching soldiers how to be better ones,’” Arketta says. “’And she is still stronger and faster than almost any of them.’”
“’I do what I can,’” Arlana replies bashfully. “’Well, stop standing around and take a seat!’” she orders.
Luis pulls out a chair for Arketta. "'Yes,' Samal," Arketta replies with a smile and bowed salute, then takes the offered chair. Luis pulls out a chair and sits himself.
Martha leans over to Luis. "'Is it normal for soldiers to wear decorative swords to meals?'"
“'It’s not decorative,'” Luis whispers back. “'But yeah. It’s a bit like dress swords in dress uniforms on Earth, but they do it more commonly.'"
"'Oh,'" Martha replies.
"'And Don is - was an...machine maker? I am sorry, my Narsai'i is not good,'" Ody says.
"'That's fine, Ody,'" Don replies.
"'And Martha was a nurse,'" Arlana finishes. "A medicae assistant," she says for Ody's sake. "'Both exciting jobs, Ody's work as a building leader is not that different from yours, Don. He lead building on many farms and towns.'"
"'And now, he's the lead contractor for the Imperial village,'" Don says. "'That's one Hell of a promotion.'"
Ody nods to Don. "'Thank you, it is very exciting.'"

"'Enough about us, we are here for our children,'" Arlana says. "'Martha, Don, we could not be more happy that Luis and Arketta are getting married. Your son has saved our lives, and we love him like our own son. It is so good to meet you, and I hope we meet again soon.'" Arketta beams and takes Luis' hand.
"'And your Arketta...she's the kind of woman we wanted our son to marry,'" Don says. "'Strong and independent. It's good to meet you too.'"
"'And you are both welcome to New Hampshire any time,'" Martha adds.
“Once they get the Gateport open at the village, that’ll be a much easier trip, too,” Luis says. “Actually, Mom and Dad, I was wondering if you’d like to swing back toAtea on your way back to Mesas Negras so I could show you where Arketta and I are living.“
There's an infinitesimal pause before Don and Martha respond - but still a pause. "'Of course, Luis,'" Martha says. "'We'd love to.'"
“Thank you,” Luis says. “I...I know it’s a lot to take in, but it’s important to me for you to see this.”
"'Of course, Luis,'" Martha says, and puts her hand on his and smiles. "'Anything for my boy.'"
“Thanks, Mom,” Luis says.

"'So!'" Arlana says. "'We should order food, I think.'" She looks around for someone who works at the restaurant, and flags the closest worker over.
Meanwhile, Arketta rubs her hand along Luis' thigh as she leans in next to him. "I think this is going pretty well," she whispers to him.
“I think so too,” Luis whispers back. He grins. “We’ll see what they think after the menu, though.”
Arketta smiles and steals a quick look in Luis' direction. "I hope this is how you wanted it."
“I’m not entirely sure how I wanted it,” Luis says. “But like you said, this seems to be going well.”
"Well, that's good enough, then," Arketta says. "But maybe I can make it a little better." She takes her hand off his thigh, cups it under his chin and presses her lips against his. Luis jerks back for a second in surprise, then leans into it and returns the kiss, which leads to Arketta and Luis fully committing to just a moment of actual making out before pulling back.

Luis turns back to his parents - who seem quite possibly more stunned about their son making out with his fiance at the table right in front of them than anything else they've seen so far. Arketta's parents are just beaming at their daughter and her husband-to-be.
"'Oh my,'" Martha says.
Luis blushes for a moment, then decides to just push through it. He turns to his parents. “All right, so..would you like me to give you a rundown of the menu?”

God these are nice sheets, Luis thinks. He takes a long breath, thinking if he wants to know what time it is, but his implant supplies it at the moment he thinks he might. 0945, he thinks. He blows the breath out. Might as well get up He opens his eyes, blinking away sleep in the dim light filtering through the partially opaqued glass as he lifts his head off the pillow. The sheets on the otherside of the bed are already thrown back, and he realizes that it was metal on china that woke him as he hears it again.

He hears Arketta whistling happily to herself downstairs, a tuneless tune that she's improvising as she goes. He takes another deep breath, rubs his face, then pulls back the covers. “How long have you been up?" he calls down as he pulls himself to sitting on the bed.
"Just a few minutes!" she shouts back up, and he hears her bound back up the stairs. Before he has time to do more than smile at her skinsuit-clad form, she launches herself into the air and full-on tackles Luis' prone form. She forces her tongue into his mouth as she wrestles with her husband-to-shortly-be, and after a bout of serious PDA, she pecks Luis on the nose and backs off enough to show him her blissful smile.
"Hey," Arketta says simply.
“Good morning,” he says, and reaches around to pull her close. “You have anything cooking downstairs that can’t wait a bit?”
"No, no," Arketta replies. She takes Luis' hands behind her back and puts them on her ass. "I want you begging for it tonight."
“Mmmmm,” Luis hums, and squeezes her ass. “All right, then.” He flips her over onto her side and kisses her again for a long moment, then pulls back. “In that case, any chance of some coffee? I need something to wake me up,” he says with a grin.
Arketta laughs. "Ask the room!"
“You sure you want the room’s attention right now?” Luis asks.
"Why, it's not like you're getting to fuck me right now," Arketta replies with an evil grin.
Luis scoffs. “Evil, woman, evil.” Shaking his head, he turns to the ceiling. “Room, does this place stock coffee?”
“At the request of the Narsai’i, yes,” the room responds. “Would you like me to have room service bring you a hot glass of coffee, or would you prefer to make it yourself?”
“I’d prefer to make it myself,” Luis says.
“Tanalsa will deliver it shortly, then,” the room replies.
“All right, then,” Luis says, turning back to Arketta with a smile. “Are we getting up, are were you just planning to lie here teasing me all morning?”
Arketta pretends to pout. “Well, I was going to put on a show for you, but I guess I can’t do that anymore…”
“No reason you can’t do it after,” Luis says. “Once I’m caffeinated and able to properly appreciate what I might otherwise miss.”
Arketta shakes her head. “Gotta pick up the team at the Gateport.” She slinks back off the bed and starts to unbind the top of her skinsuit from behind her neck. “Up to you…”
Luis jumps up after her, and takes the moment to pin the arm behind her back. “Tease,” he says. “Besides, if I have to wait, so do you.”
Arketta smiles at Luis over her shoulder. “There’s just enough time for one of those,” she says. The next moment, she spins down, underneath and through Luis’ half-hearted arm lock, reverses the wrist hold on him, and uses her momentum to flip Luis onto his back on the bed, her forearm in the most gentle and loving chokehold ever. “So, which will it be?” Arketta asks, a big grin on her face.
“I suppose I can trust the hotel to make the coffee just this once,” Luis says with a smile.
Arketta loosens her chokehold and gives Luis a peck. “Room, have the coffee delivered already made - and by robot,” she says, as she slides her skinsuit down past her shoulders. “We want some privacy.”

----

The sun beats down on the Boronai Gateport as Luis waits for the Gate arrivals with the other guests. The morning sun casts enough shadows that Luis can find someplace to take a bit of cover, though. Arketta stands next to him, still wearing a slight smile as she drapes an arm around Luis' shoulders.
"When are they scheduled to come?" she asks.
Luis’ implants have tied into the Gateport netwok. “Looks like another few minutes,” Luis says. “The first one’s due in at 1130.”
"Last chance to bail," Arketta whispers to Luis."Gateway's right there."
“What, when you just showed me what I’ve got to miss?” Luis says with a grin.
"Fair enough," Arketta replies. "I think I'll stick around too. You're worth it, I guess." She kisses his cheek. "I love you."
“I love you too,” Luis says, kisses her back, then turns as the Gate flashes open.

The first pair - or rather, trio - through the Gateway are Garrett, Ngawai and Naloni. In her first week of life, Naloni has basically done five things: eat, sleep, dirty diapers and test the already somewhat-tenuous sanity of her parents while also making them obnoxiously ecstatic and obsessive over their little daughter. At the moment, she's passed out and cradled against Garrett's chest in a sling as he holds her up against his chest with one arm (the better to drool on his shirt) and with the other carries the bag containing all of the materials necessary to keep Naloni alive and happy for the two days they will be there - which means it's nearly as heavy as one of the bags they packed for themselves. Ngawai has those bags - after months of being benched from more than mild cardio and weight, she's taken every opportunity to exert herself she can, which is why she's carrying three fully-loaded bags, one in each arm and one slung over her shoulder, one of which contains their wedding gift. Garrett's matte sheer reddish top shifts to a golden sheen as the light hits it, while Ngawai's tunic simply shifts to a lighter shade of grey over her own skinsuit. Across her front is a full-sized chamakana with her issue .45 sidearm strapped to her hip.

Out of the gateway steps Hugh Verrill as you’ve never seen him before. Sure the bushy beard is new, but the far bigger news is the tuxedo - a rental, but a nice rental at that. For the martially inclined observers, the wider cut on the jacket tells the story of the shoulder holster slung underneath, and in the more obvious armaments department, Hugh’s carrying a fancy (read: black) range bag in his left hand, with the shoulder strap dangling a little beneath it. Rhea’s left the handcrafted leather and intricate paint at home: this is a Narsai’i ceremony, after all, so a little blending in was required. On Hugh’s advice, she’s wearing a jade green dress with one shoulder strap, custom-built from breathable Imperial fiber with a subtle satin-esque sheen to it. Honoring another Narsai’i tradition, she’s also carrying the gift wrapped in colorful printed paper. Both are all smiles as they walk over to Arketta and Luis.

“Hello and congratulations!” Hugh says as he shakes their hands in turn. “Looks like you picked the perfect place and the perfect day.” He turns his head to Luis. “Any last-minute orders for your second?”
Ngawai and Garrett simply nod and smile. "You pack your armor?" Ngawai asks Arketta.

Luis smiles back as he and Arketta shake with their new arrivals. “Well, if you think this looks good, you should see the actual venue. Actually, I could use help with that--the staff keeps coming up with new things they want one of us to make a decision on, and frankly it’d be nice to delegate some of them.”
Meanwhile, Arketta nods and smiles to Ngawai. “You know it.”

Behind them, a familiar black hexapod robot tentatively walks through the Gateway, its little feet ticking away on the stone floor. “...is the coast clear?” Flynn tentatively asks, hiding behind Ngawai and Rhea’s legs.
“It’s fine, Flynn. Glad you could make it,” Luis says. “What’re you worried about?”
“Uh, Imperials, not really big fans of the Sheen,” Flynn replies. It doesn’t venture far from its hiding space. “Don’t want to get blasted with a scrambler, thanks.”
“We’ll make sure that doesn’t happen,” Luis says, looking around. The Boronai’i staff are on edge at the robot, while the Bashakrai’i are less fearful and more simply wary. “Look, don’t draw attention. Just be casual.”
Flynn bobs its sensors. “Right. Fly casual. Be cool. We’re all gonna be little Fonzies here. And what is Fonzie? He’s cool,” Flynn mutters to itself.

Several minutes after a non-chalant and very inconspicuous Sheen trundles off, Gorlan and Angel Kesh step through the Gateway. Angel continues to explore the potential of interplanetary tailoring, wearing a suit that fits in well both with more conventional Narsai attire and Imperial offerings. It is simultaneously Navy Blue and inexplicably not Blue, with a metallic sheen when the fabric catches light at particularly flattering angles.

Angel smiles, embracing Arketta for a moment and shaking Luis' hand. "You two ready? This one doesn't involve Luis stripping down to a loincloth and painting himself, does it?"

"Perhaps later tonight," Arketta says with a smile.

Zaef and Kitty are the next through the Gate, Zaef resplendent in his Narsai'i suit, new bright red shirt, and Ray-bans. The way the suit fits over his shoulder perfectly is the only indicator that he's armored, and it says a lot about Zaef that his teammates just assume he's carrying knives around wherever he goes, even if they can't see them. He's got a gift tucked under one arm.

Kitty comes out a little wobbly; Zaef glances over at her and squeezes her hand, but she's all right. They step forward to greet the happy couple, Zaef shaking their hands vigorously and with a smile. "How are you guys? Feeling nervous?"