Luis grins. "Not too much, no. We're doing all right." He turns to Kitty and nods. "Glad to see you both," he says.

Luis is waiting for it as he gets dressed--that last burst of nerves as the realization that this is actually happening sinks in. It doesn’t come when he puts on his skinsuit, nor does panic strike when he tops it with his light green tunic and silver-blue billowing slacks, and he’s not overcome with questions when he pulls on his jacket - a light blue affair covered with a gorgeous golden pattern of stars glittering in a yellow-tinged array of constellations, with a built-in sash encircling him from shoulder to hip. He’s got a tendency to overthink and freak out, he knows he does. But as he grabs his boots and stands there and in front of the mirror to check his collar, he’s not this time. He takes a breath, and blows it out. He’s just ready. And excited. Let’s do this, he thinks, and steps out of the dressing/green room the hotel conference centers provide.

Outside, Hugh’s waiting by himself. With the Bond Tuxedo look, it feels like he should be smoking to pass the time, but as it is, the Ex-Captain can only stand around (and discreetly play some Angry Birds on his vox). When he hears the door open, he looks up, greeting Luis with a smile and a handshake.
“Looking damn good,” he says, giving the outfit an appreciative nod. “Are you ready, Luis?”
Luis nods resolutely. “Yeah,” he says. “Feels like it’s been a long time getting here, but I’m ready.” He shakes his head and chuckles a bit. “You ever think we’d be here like this when this all started?”
“Absolutely not,” Hugh says. His voice grows serious. “I thought I’d be dead by now.”
“I thought that once or twice myself,” Luis says, a bit distantly. “Whirr, Napai, the other side of the Black Gate...kind of makes me a bit surprised we’re all still here.” He pauses. “You know what that angle beast thing said to try to get to me?”
“No, I don’t,” Hugh says. “You don’t talk a lot about that.”
“It was scary,” Luis says. “That thing, in my head. ‘She’ll die first,’ something like that. And that was before,” Luis waves his hands to indicate the wedding, “All of this. Make you wonder what it knew. I swear I’m going to prove it wrong, though.” Luis pauses. “You’ll have my back when I do, right? If anything happens to me, make sure she gets out?”
“I will, Luis,” Hugh says. “And about what the beast said to you...you already know that was bullshit. Listen, this is a big universe, I’ve had my mind blown so often it’s a wonder I still have a skull...but if there’s one thing I still believe in, one thing I absolutely know is true, it’s that nobody can predict the future. It’s not written, it’s not planned, it’s not chiseled into some stone tablet. We build the future, one day at a time.” After a moment, he adds “No fate but what we make.” He grins at that. “Always wanted to say that.”
Luis grins, too. “It’s a good line, but I think I’ve got a better one I want to go do.” He nods to the hallway ramp that slopes up to the surface amphitheatre. “I’m going to go make some future, you cover my back, right?”
Hugh nods. “Right behind you, pointman.”

----

Arketta jumped up and down a couple more times, trying to get the fit just right on her outfit. The nano-engineered slick surface of the skinsuit, such an asset in hand-to-hand combat, means that getting the rattle and shake out of her Narsai’i armor has the added difficulty of the whole setup sliding around on her torso ever so slightly whenever she shakes or turns.

“This, I do not miss about Narsai’i armor,” Arketta grouses. She looks at Ngawai, standing next to her in the mirror. “How do you do it?”
Ngawai looks up from arranging her double-load of flashbangs the correct way around. “I inserted a few magnets in the bottom of the carrier in the right spots.”
“Ah! I’ll have to do that,” Arketta replies. She pauses and sighs. “As soon as I learn how to do that.”
Ngawai paused for a moment, uncertain about where the line is for the two of them, but then she put an arm around her teammate’s shoulder. “Hey. You’re ready for this. It’s not like we’re supposed to know how Narsai’i clothes work, and you and Luis...I know can do it. You just have to stick together.”
“Not like you and Garrett, though,” Arketta replies. She sighs. “What you two have gone through...I don’t know if I could be as strong as the two of you.”
Ngawai gives Arketta’s shoulder a shake. “We just found out how much we need each other. Before…what happened, we knew that we loved each other, that we could trust each other, but we couldn’t say how or why, even to ourselves. But now, everything’s out in the open, and we both know that we literally cannot keep going without each other. He’s the only one who understands me well enough to keep me going, and he needs me to help him take that next step.”

Ngawai gives her friend’s shoulder a squeeze. “And you and Luis, you have that. I think we both know Luis wouldn’t have made half the steps he has if you weren’t there giving him a good firm shove first.”
Arketta smirks at that. “Maybe.”
“And Luis, he brings out the best in you, right?” Ngawai asks.
“Maybe,” Arketta repeats, wiping a bit of a tear.
“Then there you go,” Ngawai says. “Pretty soon, you’ll be where I am - happy, with children and too fat to fit in your old armor setup.”
Arketta laughs. “You’d never know.” She fiddles with her sidearm a bit. “Do you think I’ll be a good mother?”
“Absolutely,” Ngawai nods. “You’re that right mix of stubborn and caring that Garrett is. You’ll be fine.”
“We want to have kids as soon as we can,” Arketta says. “I’m just worried about...all of that.”
“Well, from a woman who’s had an infant daughter for a month?” Ngawai replies with a smirk. “How well have you slept during artillery bombardments? That’s a good skill to have.”
Arketta laughs again. “Thanks.”

She keeps fiddling with her armor, this time triple-checking her vox on her ear and turning that into checking her straps one more time.
Ngawai picks up her XM-10 and slings it over her shoulder. “Time to go, Arketta.”
Arketta looks back up and stares at herself in the mirror. She looks over the blend of Imperial weaponry and undersuit and Narsai’i armor, gear and boots, and smirks at the look. She takes one more deep breath, and shoulders her own beamer. “I guess it is.” She taps on her ear. “Secure channel check.”
Ngawai taps on her own vox. “Check.” She grabs Arketta’s armor and gives it a good shake - no rattle this time. “Armor check.”
Arketta returns the favor. “Check. Weapons?”
Ngawai hits the charge indicator on her beamer. “Full charge, full rod.”
“Same here,” Arketta says. She looks at the door that leads to the hallway up to the roof. “That’s the scariest fucking door I’ve ever gone through.”
“We’re all right behind you,” Ngawai replies with a smile.
Arketta closes her eyes, draws in a slow breath, and holds it for a moment, before her eyes snap back open and she strides quickly towards the door. “I’m on point,” she says with a smile.
“Right behind you,” Ngawai replies with a slap on her shoulder.

----

The rooftop amphitheatre is, without a doubt, the best view in the whole of the Virusa. Carved straight out of the top of the mountain, the raw sandstone of the amphitheatre tiers down five levels to the base of the stage, which is backed by a simple low wall and lit by small flickering flames - actual ones, to boot, kept in small glass cylinders. The sun is setting directly behind the amphitheatre, the reddening light highlights the natural tones of the sandstone and casting long shadows on the people seated on cushions in the bowl. Up on the stage is the Bashakra’i Turai honor guard quad, in freshly polished chrome carapaces, standing at parade rest, and Onas Maloeph, also in his carapace but without the helmet, his role as officiant not exactly aided by having his face obscured. He’s the first one to see Arketta and Luis and their seconds take their places at the top of the outer approaches down into the bowl, and once he gets the nod from them, he stands up straight.

“Atten-tion!” he barks, and the honor guard snaps straight up. “Honor guard, to your posts!”
The two trins of men and women turn on their heels towards their respective charges and transition smoothly into a march towards Luis and Arketta, and take up a protective position around the happy couple and their seconds, beamers held low and ready.
Onas nods, and then looks towards the assembled group - Task Force 815 members, GRHDI officials, Bashakra’i soldiers and leaders, and parents on both sides. “Today, we are assembled here on this mountaintop to celebrate two of our own making it to a peak of their own, and joining together in the social contract of marriage. Luis Stanhill and Arketta Quis are two of the best soldiers I have ever had the benefit of knowing, and it is my great honor as their superior officer to officiate this ceremony. Now that they are committing to each putting the other’s well-being above all else, they will become far more formidable than either ever was alone.” He returns to attention. “Honor guard, escort your charges forward.”

Luis and Arketta step forward, flanked by their seconds a step behind and in turn by the honor guard, the setting sunlight flashing off their carapaces. Matching step, the two parties move to Onas at the center of the stage. Luis and Arketta turn, and face one another. Luis can see fear in her eyes--the first time he can remember seeing her actually look afraid, but she’s smiling the smile he’s loves to see. He gives her a reassuring grin of his own as they both come to attention in front of Onas.

“Samal Stanhill, Corporal Quis,” Onas says with a nod to each of them. “I have been doing some reading and talking with my husband about how the Narsai’i view marriage. And while they put a mystical quality to it that we do not, both cultures share the concept that this is a joining of two people and families into one, that it is a statement that the couple are committing to a lifetime of service, protection and support to each other, to put the needs of the other above their own. This is no easy task, and it is a lifelong mission.” He looks between them. “Are you willing to volunteer for it?”
“Yes!” Arketta excitedly shouts, then sheepishly smiles as she blushes in her nearly invisible way.
“Yes,” Luis says, slightly more quietly but just as assuredly.
“Then we shall let your seconds have their say,” Onas says, and looks to Hugh. “Mr. Verrill, what do you have to say or ask of Corporal Quis to satisfy your duty here?”
“Thank you, Onas,” Hugh says. “Before I ask my questions, I just want to say that I fought side by side with Luis Stanhill before we even knew there was more in this universe than Narsai. He is my brother in arms, and I am honored and humbled to serve as his second - a duty I intend to carry out to the best of my ability.” He turns to Arketta. “Corporal Quis, I know you are an honorable soldier and that you love Luis. But becoming his wife requires more than that. It requires that you speak your mind, let him speak his, and allow yourselves to fight precisely because you care. It requires that you seek what is best for both of you - and, when you have children, what is best for them. Perhaps hardest of all, after many years of happiness, it requires that you hold his hand on his last day - or let him hold your hand on yours. Answer me honestly, Arketta: are you willing to do all this?”
Arketta is all smiles for Hugh's speech, until the end. She loses it more than a bit there, unable to stop herself for reaching for Luis' hand and holding it as tight as she can as she tries to get her sudden sobbing under control. "Yes," she nods to Hugh. "I am." She looks back to Luis, and he can see the fear return to her eyes as she crushes his hand. "Don't let go," she whispers.
“Of course I won’t,” Luis whispers back, and returns the squeeze.
Hugh smiles at her. “I could not imagine a better union than you two,” he says. “You have my blessings.”
Onas nods. “And Miss Holoni? What do you have to say?”
Ngawai looks Luis over. “I have not had a chance to see Luis and Arketta out in the field yet,” she says. “But I have read the reports and seen the footage, and they are every bit as formidable as I would expect. Together, both on and off the battlefield, nothing can stop them.” Arketta and Luis both smile at that. “But, Luis, I also know you from before, and I think we all know how long it took you to talk yourself into asking this very attractive and brave warrior to agree to go out with you. I know you are brave and decisive in combat, but I have seen you hesitate and agonize over your own life - and Arketta will not always be able to help you with that. She can support your decisions and try to get you to see what she sees, but…” Ngawai sighs. “As I well know, sometimes what keeps two people together is their ability to stand against yourself, in your own head, and that is a battle that must be fought alone. Do you think you can do this, Luis?”
“I know I can,” Luis says resolutely, and squeezes Arketta’s hand.
Ngawai gives a quick nod. “Then I don’t have any problems.”

Onas nods as well. “Then, Samal Stanhill, Corporal Quis, your request for formal marriage recognition is approved.”
Luis and Arketta, grinning widely, both bow to Onas, then Luis steps over and kisses her. Arketta throws her arms around Luis and lifts him up in the air as she takes the kiss up a couple notches. Finally, Luis and Arketta pull apart and face the crowd.
“Honor guard, Samal Stanhill and Corporal Quis, dismissed!” Onas barks, and side-by-side, they leave down the center aisle of the amphitheater, their seconds following behind as the honor guard flanks them on both sides and the audience applauds.

----

The ceremony moves downstairs to one of the smaller banquet halls, where a setting so familiar to the Narsai’i in attendance as to be something of a reverse culture shock - folding tables, covered with flatware on top of tablecloths, complete with centerpieces and filled glasses of ice water, while a row of longer tables holds an array of food kept hot over steam trays. It’s a spitting image of banquet halls on the other side of the Gateway, even if the centerpieces are hovering a few inches above the table on impeller fields and the steam trays are induction-heated, not seated over small cans of Sterno. A few resort staff dressed in the light blue/off-white uniforms of the Virusa scurry around, finishing setting places and standing by the food to serve or carve if needed.

Having been detained by pictures up at the amphitheatre, Luis and Arketta enter the hall together a few minutes after most of the guests filter in, arm in arm and grinning. Arketta, still in her full battle setup, cuts an interesting contrast to everyone that isn’t the honor guard or Onas - it seems weddings and body armor do, in fact, mix in the Imperium. The couple start circulating as the wedding guests start to mingle and converge on the buffet and drinks. Don and Martha are comfortable being seated at a table (after Arketta helpfully points out what food on the buffet is most like what they’re used to), while most of the guests - Brinai, Onas, Bello, Gorlan, Tei, Barnes, Flynn - walk around and chat. If it wasn’t a wedding, it’d be easy to confuse the reception with a meeting for a summit of high officers of the anti-Imperium rebellion. As it is, Luis and Arketta slowly work their way around the room, talking with people who seek them out and generally mingling while they eat.

Making their way around the room with only slightly less commotion are Hugh and Rhea. Hugh in particular catches several people off-guard with his open smile and handshakes and, God forbid, hugs. The once acerbic loner now seems to have something interesting to talk about with everyone, and while Rhea doesn’t look exactly embarrassed, she does note that he’s rather more forward than most of the other guests expect of him. The Hughnami eventually reaches the happy couple’s table, where both Arketta’s and Luis’s parents have their reserved seats, but only the Stanhills are currently seated, carefully nipping on their drinks while surveilling the larger festivities around them. Martha’s the first to notice Hugh’s approach and stands up to greet him, with Don a few seconds behind. Hugh gives them a big smile, grabs Martha’s offered hand and draws her into a hug.

“It’s so nice to finally meet you both!” he gushes; Don looks worried for a moment, but Hugh does not hug him; instead, he gives a shake with both hands. “Oh, excuse me,” Hugh adds. “I’m Hubert Verrill, this is my bondmate Rhea.” He turns to face her. ”Rhea, these are Martha and Don Stanhill, Luis’s parents.” Martha and Don both stare up at the wherren towering over them in utter shock.
”It’s very good to meet you both,” Rhea says, ruffling her fur in a green wave of greeting and eliciting a surprised “Oh!” from Martha. Both of them look to Hugh, confusion and shock the only expressions they’re capable of at the moment.
Hugh smiles and casually falls into his usual translation shpiel for Rhea before turning to his own words again. “Please, sit down,” he says. “I imagine all of this must be a little overwhelming, coming at you all at once. And I don’t mean to keep you; I just wanted to say that it’s been an absolute honor and privilege fighting with your son at my side. I know he and Arketta are perfect for each other, and I’m just...I’m so glad it’s all working out.”
It takes a good few seconds for a response to rattle out of Martha’s mouth. “...and it’s good to finally meet you, too,” she replies. “Luis has said many kind things about you.” Her eyes flick momentarily to Rhea. “And this is your...husband?”
Hugh gives a good-natured smile. “She’s my wife,” he says.
“Oh!” Martha says again. “I’m sorry, I just couldn’t tell.” She realizes what she’s said a second later. “Oh! Oh my, I’m very sorry,” she says to Hugh.
“Mrs. Stanhill, please, it’s nothing,” Hugh says, squeezing Rhea’s hand. “Far more importantly: are you enjoying yourselves?” He looks at their plates. “I see you had the scrofa, how did you like it?”
“It was very good,” Martha says.
“Is that what the man carving it said it was?” Don asks. “Tastes like roast beef to me.”
”Hugh has said the same thing,” Rhea adds. ”The times he has brought beef to the village to cook, it has tasted very similar to Imperial-raised scrofa.” Don and Martha both look Rhea’s way - Don quickly averting his eyes again, and Martha unable to stop staring. Rhea’s fur adds a fringe of blue. ”What did I say?”
”It’s not what you said, it’s just you’re the first Wherren they’ve met,” Hugh reassures her. “Mrs. Stanhill?”
Martha quickly looks back to Hugh. “Oh! I’m so sorry. Tell her that I’m very sorry.”
”It’s all right,” Rhea says, but her fur keeps the blue fringe, and she can’t quite keep orange from bleeding in.
“It’s all right,” Hugh repeats for himself. “If you have any questions, we’d be happy to answer them.”
Martha looks like she wants to say something, but then stops and looks to Don, who says nothing. She looks back to Hugh. “That’s very kind of you,” she says. “How did you and Luis first meet?”
Hugh smiles. “During the war in Iraq,” he says. “Our unit deployed just two weeks after I’d taken over as platoon commander. I was just a fresh-faced Lieutenant, I guess your son and I were learning the ropes at the same time. We’d been working alongside each other for a while, but I can’t say I really met him until we started patrols outside the wire; your son was our medic. I knew he was smart, a little quiet, he did his job well and...I don’t know if you know, but as a platoon leader you’re more liable to know the faces of your troublemakers, the guys who mess it up bad enough that they need to be officially punished. Your son wasn’t in that crowd, so again I didn’t get to know him that well. However…” Hugh pauses for a moment. “Well, I’ll spare you the details, but the gist of it is that one of our patrols rolled over an IED. Luis and I were in the Humvee that got the worst of it, the blast flipped the truck and threw me right out of the window. When I came to, my ears were ringing, my leg was broken in three places and the first thing I saw was your son rallying the team and directing fire. He got us out of that jam - certainly saved my butt!” Hugh chuckles.
Don seems to be taking the story in stride - not exactly pleased to hear it, but certainly much better than Martha, who looks both horrified and terrified in equal measure, and is trying desperately to hide it. “...oh,” is all she manages to say.
“My point is,” Hugh says, “your son saved my life that day. I know he doesn’t like to talk about it. But whenever we’re in a jam, whenever we need a save, he comes through. Everyone in 815 feels safer knowing we’ve got Luis with us watching our backs.” He nods. “He’s a good man. You raised him well.”
Hugh’s words, however well-meaning, don’t seem to land quite squarely. Martha still manages to nod and give Hugh a polite smile. “Thank you,” she says.
“We’re very proud of our son,” Don says. “And glad he’s found a place where he feels at home. Arketta’s quite a woman.”
“Indeed,” Hugh says. “Well, thank you for the chance to talk to you both. We’ve got a few more hands to shake, so if you’ll please excuse us…”
“Go ahead,” Don says.
“It was good to finally meet you,” Martha adds with a polite smile.
”And it was good to meet you as well,” Rhea says, and gives the Stanhills a slight bow.

Hugh similarly bows, then casually strolls away, arm-in-arm with Rhea.
”I think it’s time for a drink to go with this tuxedo,” Hugh says.
”Could you get me one too, bondmate?” Rhea asks. ”I heard that the male that did the bonding is a hunter, and I’d like hear about what game there is outside of Whiirr.”
”Of course, anything in particular I can get you?” Hugh asks.
”Swims-the-Black mentioned that the Narsai’i have a great herbal beverage, if they have one of those that would be perfect,” Rhea replies, and gives Hugh a lick. ”Thanks, bondmate.”
Hugh gently licks her face. ”One beer, coming right up.”

Zaef and Kitty take their seat respectfully close to the front, Zaef being a member of 815 and all. They smile and clap along with the proceedings, and Zaef doesn’t seem to have any problems letting go and enjoying himself as the ceremony goes on. Kitty seems happy to just sit arm-in-arm next to Zaef, leaning against him. Once the ceremony concludes, they join the party for the reception. Zaef attempts small talk with some familiar faces - Onas, Ody and Arlana, occasionally Brinai, and Kitty awkwardly tries to start up conversations with Barnes, and then once that falls apart, just stands next to Zaef and tries to contribute now and then.

Still, neither Zaef nor Kitty are particularly comfortable in this kind of social settings, and before long they’ve slowly drifted away from the others and are standing on their own, half-eaten slices of delicious cake in hand.
“This cake is really nice,” Kitty says to no one in particular.
“Yes,” Zaef replies before attempting to finish what cake he has left.
Kitty sighs, and looks up at the ceiling. “The skies must be beautiful out here.”
Zaef chews thoughtfully for a bit, then swallows. “Yes, actually, it is.” He looks at Kitty with a smile. “How about we grab some more cake to go?”
Kitty smiles back. “Maybe they have some binoculars we could borrow - or maybe a telescope.”
“Rich places like this have damn near everything,” Zaef says, smirking. “I’ll ask for a top model and some cushions.”

----

It turns out that a super-luxe high-end resort that primarily caters to scientists and researchers has not just a telescope, but actually a small enclosed observatory on the edge of the mountaintop property with a more than four-foot diameter telescope. Kitty gasps and practically dances around the inside of the observatory at the sight of it as the staff astronomer starts to retract the dome.

“It’s a fifty inch equatorial mount reflector!” Kitty gushes. “I mean, obviously, they might not call it that, but…” She looks over to Zaef with a big smile on her face. “Wow.”
Zaef grins. “Could you explain it to me, so I can be suitably impressed as well?”
“Well, the reflector telescope design uses curved mirrors to focus light instead of glass lenses,” Kitty explains breathlessly. “Light comes in at the top -” she points to the opening, “- reflects off a concave mirror at the bottom -” she hustles down to the bottom of the trusses, “- and then off another final focusing mirror...here!” She points to a small mirror suspended towards the bottom. “And from there to the eyepiece, or the camera, or the sensors. And the equatorial mount is...all of this!” Kitty waves at the big metal assembly. “It moves the telescope around, and in a way that keeps it tracking even with the motion of the...well, planet! It’s the best mount for observational astronomy and astrophotography. It’s not cheap, though.”
The hotel astronomer gives Zaef a confused look, Kitty’s excited speech blocked by the Imperial language barrier.
“She likes it,” Zaef says. “Thank you for your assistance.”
The astronomer nods, and once the dome is open, demonstrates the controls and then leaves.

Kitty sighs happily and leans against Zaef. "So, do you know the sky here too?" she asks, staring up at the many, many stars visible beyond the lights of Spire City.
Zaef put his arm around her as she leans against him. “It’s been a while, but yeah, I do.”
She nods towards the two lounge chairs that were brought out. "Do you want to lay down while we wait for the mirror to soak?"
Zaef nods. Kitty leads Zaef down onto one of the lounge chairs and snuggles up close to him. He pulls her close and kisses her, tenderly. She returns the kiss, and usually this is where it has stopped, but this time Kitty puts a hand up and inside Zaef's shirt as she rolls over to straddle him, rubbing gently. Zaef sits up a little, but doesn’t open his eyes, doesn’t break the kiss, sure as hell doesn’t stop his own hand from drifting down Kitty’s spine, pressing to a stop at the small of her back.

Kitty slides both her hands onto Zaef's muscular chest, pulls up his shirt, and backs her lips off just enough to ask, "Are you sure? I don't want to push you..."
“Believe me,” Zaef breathes, “I’m sure.”
Kitty smiles and yanks his shirt off over his head before running her finger along his waist to detach his pants. Zaef, meanwhile, unbuttons Kitty’s blouse and unzips her skirt, before drifting back up to her chest, managing to unhook her bra without fumbling as Kitty presses her lips and tongue against Zaef's, despite his shaking fingers.
"I love you, Zaef," Kitty breathlessly murmurs into Zaef's ear as her hands return below Zaef's beltline. She can’t see Zaef look at her as he whispers “I love you too,” one arm wrapped around her, pressing them together as his other hand slides her panties down.

It seems like it's going to take longer than usual to cold soak the observatory tonight.

Hunter arrives for the ceremony proper, with no hotel stay-overs; he's up to his ears with business in Washington. But he made the time, and given the martial cast of the event he's broken out the dress uniform, complete with a panoply of service ribbons. It's reasonably impressive, though even with a sword it's less overt than the fully-loaded bridal party. He mostly hangs back, occupied with thoughts of how to follow up with the latest curious senator, an earnest fellow from the Great Plains.

Wonder what they'd think of this back on the farm, Hunter muses. How might they see it? You've got a gay chaplain officiating, the groom being ragdolled around by a rather butch bride, the best man exchanging face-licks with his sasquatch wife, and an utter absence of religious mumbo jumbo. So much transgression here, from a traditionalist perspective. Thank god Fox News isn't here. Not to mention our friend the senator. They don't get it. Not until their teenage daughter wants genemods. Then again, it's not like they got the internet either.

Hunter exchanges his pleasantries with the team and imparts his wishes to the bride and groom. He stays for the reception, making idle conversation and practicing his now-conversational Imperial when one of the trins from the honor guard walks over to him. They’re moving purposefully, but they have their helms snapped to their hips instead of on their heads and don’t seem to be carrying “threat” in their body language.

“That’s a fuckin’ fancy uniform you’ve got there, Narsai’i,” one of them says. Hunter thinks the holographic rank markings on his chest mark him out as a Rav-Turai - an NCO, in other words.

“And here I am all dressed up for the occasion. They hadn’t told me I was allowed to be obvious about expecting a firefight.” Hunter rejoins, falling a bit into the grunts-sussing-each-other-out routine from his pre-OCS days.
“Aah, it’s tradition,” the Rav-Turai replies. “Only really need the honor guard sometimes - some noble objects to their daughter marrying down, shit like that.”
“Of course they would,” Hunter replies, smiling with a slight shake of his head.
The Rav-Turai raises his glass and gives a slight bow. “Rav-Turai Aklo Raaksakhaim. This is Turai Ikini Varona and Nghan Okius.” The two women in armor with him raise their glasses as well and contribute a slightly deeper bow each.
Hunter returns the raised glass and the bow. “Hunter Brand, United States Marine Corps, retired. I was more or less a a Rav-Samal, but now I work with the GRHDI.” Without being too obvious about it, Hunter looks for their reactions to each part of his introduction in turn.
The name gets an acknowledging nod, which is interrupted by the lack of recognition of his branch, followed by a bit of distancing at finding out that he was an officer and now works for GRHDI. “That’s good,” Raaksakhaim replies judiciously. He nods towards Hunter. “Is that what that fancy uniform is about?”
“More or less,” Hunter replies. “I fought in a war years ago as a Rav-Turai--that’s what these ribbons here mean, then jumped myself up into being an officer, and ended up in another war in the same place, which is what these mean. We wouldn’t wear these uniforms every day, just on special occasions like weddings, funerals, ceremonies of honor, that kind of thing. That’s part of the reason the dress uniform really hasn’t changed much since the Corps were founded..”
“Is that a sword?” Turai Varona asks, an interested glimmer in her eyes.
“It is, actually,” Hunter says. ”It goes back to the first days of the Corps. They traveled to a distant land and marched many miles across a desert to attack a fortress. One of the local leaders was so impressed, he gave their officer a special sword to show his respect. Over time, all the officers came to carry the Mam’luk sword, though today it is not part of the combat loadout the way Bahkhar are for the Turai.”
“Can I see it?” Varona asks eagerly.
“Easy there, Turai,” Raaksakhaim says. “Sorry, Sir, she’s just into Bahkhar techniques.”
“It’s all right,” Hunter replies, easing the blade out of its scabbard. “Ordinarily the blade isn’t sharpened, being as it’s for ceremony, but since the capitol attack I’ve taken a few extra precautions.” He holds it horizontally and presents it for inspection with short crisp movements. “Most bladed weapon instruction at present revolves around knives. Probably a matter of weight and freedom of movement on a rifle-ruled battlefield.”
The rest of the honor guard quad starts to gather around at the glint of a unsheathed bladed weapon being put on display. They may not speak English, but the “ooh”s and “aah”s are universal in meaning. “Looks like you could still get underneath the carapace plates with that,” Varona says. “But the metal doesn’t look like it could withstand much.” She stands back upright. “You considered getting one made in a real alloy?”
Hunter raises an eyebrow. “That is an idea worth considering.”
“If you get me the 3D scan, I have a friend who can put together a mock-up in a few days,” Varona replies.
“That’s enough, Turai,” Raaksakhaim says. “I apologize, Sir.”
“Actually, I’m interested in the idea,” Hunter adds with a bit of sympathy in his tone. “It might be a good symbol for service off-world. We’d need to work through official channels eventually, but send me a message. I’m curious to see what a prototype would feel like.”
Varona smiles. “Can do, Sir.”
“Anyone else want to take up Mr. Brand’s time?” another Turai asks - this one with the symbol of a Samal on his chest. “Mr. Brand’s a busy man, I’m sure he has better things to do than answer all of your dumb questions.”
“Well, people were willing to answer my dumb questions when I was learning about the Bashakrai’i, so I understand the value of talking to an actual person instead of reading an intelligence report,” Hunter says. “Given that the Marines are going to be working more closely with GRHDI these days, I can spare a few more minutes for questions...”
The Samal nods appreciatively. “Well then. Thank you for your time, Mr. Brand.”
“Why do you have two uniforms?” Turai Okius asks.
“Originally, there was only one uniform,” Hunter replies. “But we have gone through many different ways of making war, especially over the past few generations. I expect that the next generation’s uniforms will be different as well. The uniform for ceremonies is very close to our original uniform. It helps us remember that we are all one in the service, even if our tools have changed.”
Okius and the other Turai in the honor guard all give a respectful nod to that. “Maybe one that can do both,” Raaksakhaim replies, and flips through a hand haptic. An instant later, the polished chrome of the carapace shifts to a sharp green and blue pattern, complete with rank and award insignia hovering above its surface on holos.
“Well, that’s quite a trick. I reckon that saves on laundry bills, too. We’ll need to have the new recruits polish something, though, otherwise they might get ahead of themselves.”
“Believe me, getting these lazy scrofa to polish their carapaces is work enough,” Raaksakhaim replies.
“What are all those pins for?” one of the other Turai ask, pointing to the ribbons pinned to Hunter’s uniform.
“Each one stands for a particular training, or a place I served, or a citation for distinguished service. They all have stories behind them, even if some of them are just, ‘I was in the service during a time of war.’ This purple one, for instance, means I was wounded in battle. I suppose that might mean more when you don’t have kakuas. But this one here...”
And like that, Hunter is off to the races, spinning stories of hard tours, unit citations and the occasional absurdities that were his life for twenty years. While he had expected to be staying for the sake of politeness before getting back to DC, he’s now genuinely enjoying being an article of interest from genuinely curious counterparts. The spiced fruit-brandies (or whatever they call them here) don’t hurt, either.

When, after many false starts, he begins making his way on back to catch the gate, he’s a little sad to go back to dealing with so many petty, small-minded people. But I have promises to keep and idiots to persuade, and miles to go before I sleep. Duty calls.

Arketta is already sitting down with poor Martha and Donald Stanhill by the time Luis comes back around. Her parents still up and about discussing their various projects - Ody, in particular, more than occupied discussing the details of his massive construction project, with Arlana content to be the one who stands by his side and gives support for a change - she’s settled down for some time with the in-laws. Luis walks over with two plates of food--busily making the rounds of the guests, this is the first chance the wedding couple has had to do more than grab snacks--and sets one down in front of Arketta before pulling out his own chair. He nods to his parents as his sits down, relief to be off his feet showing clearly as Arketta wraps an arm around her new husband and pulls him in for a brief kiss. “Mom, Dad. How’re you liking the party?”
“It’s nice, Luis,” Martha says.
Don nods his assent. “The cake is very good.”
“Thanks, I’m glad you like it,” Luis says. “With all the running around between Atea and Mesas Negras, it was mostly the hotel that handled a lot of the details.”
Martha nods. “That’s nice.”

There’s an awkward silence that Arketta takes as an opportunity to scoot Luis’ chair right next to hers, and drape herself against his shoulder, her cheek resting against his forehead. Luis smiles absently and wraps an across her back.
“So, when are you going to come on by and visit us again?” Martha asks.
“When we get a little time off,” Luis says. “We’re a bit in the middle of things at the moment, so it might be a couple months, though.”
“Oh,” Martha says.
“Where are you living that’s got you so far away from home?” Don asks. “Your mother misses you, Luis.”
“We’ve got a place on Atea,” Luis says. “That’s the worldship the Bashakra’i live on. We’re right in the center of things, and we can Gate to where we need to pretty quickly. It’s amazing, like a whole city in space. Hundreds of thousands of people, and in a lot of it you’d never know you were aboard a ship.”
“Oh,” Martha says. “Well, when are you moving back...to home?”
Luis blinks. “Pardon?”
“Your mother means when you’re moving back to living on Earth,” Don says.
“Oh!” Luis says. “I don’t think we will, we’re very happy aboard Atea. We might move berths if we need more room for kids, but the people are very nice, and...well, you saw on the news what we went through in DC lately? It’s nice to not have to worry about defending who we are.”
“Your mother would really appreciate it if you lived closer to home, though,” Don says. “We had hoped to see you more often after you left the Army, Luis.”
“Well, just because I’m out of the Army doesn’t mean I’m out of the war,” Luis says. “Really, we’re even more in it now than we were.”
“That’s no reason to move so far away from us, though,” Martha says.
Under the table, Arketta takes Luis’ hand and gently rubs her thumb against the back of his hand.
“I’m not trying to move away from you, Mom,” Luis says carefully. “We’re just looking for a place that’s accepting us for who we are, and right now that’s not anywhere on Earth. Maybe once the town opens and people get a bit more used to the facts of the Imperium a bit, we might move there. That’s only a few hours by train away, and less by skimmer.”
“New Hampshire isn’t so bad,” Martha says. “The Harolds wouldn’t mind you.”
“You’re from Earth,” Don says. “That’s reason enough to stay home, for your mother’s sake at least.”
“I’ve been seeing a lot of what’s out there,” Luis says. “And Earth’s going to change because of it. Until it does, Arketta and I can’t handle the kind of defense of ourselves we’d have to be doing on Earth -”
“But it’s your home, Luis,” Martha pleads, finally expressing an emotion other than stunned overwhelm. “And being in space is too strange and far away for you. You belong at home, with me and Don.”
“It’s not strange in space anymore, Mom,” Luis says. “It’s strange being on Earth. We got shot at in the street multiple times just for being us, and I can’t belong anyplace that happens and may continue happening.”
“But then you’ll come home in...a few weeks? After this thing you’re doing in the desert?” Martha asks.
“We can come visit,” Luis says. “But I can’t be at home anywhere I’m being shot for who I am now. The Bashakra’i get who we are and accept us. Earth doesn’t yet. So for now, Atea is home.”
“See, Martha, it’s not permanent,” Don says, putting a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Luis will be back on Earth before you know it.”
Martha smiles and takes Luis’ other hand. “Let us know when you’re moving back, we’ll come and visit you.”
“Why not come and visit us on Atea in the meantime,?” Luis asks. “You’d really like the city, I think. The transit is amazing, it’s got a lot of character, and some great parks.”
“...is it like here?” Martha asks.
“It’s like this a bit, but it feels more like Boston,” Luis says, clearly excited to be talking about his city. “Tight little neighborhoods in a big city, lots of culture, and good people.”
Martha lets Luis’ hand go and leans back towards Don. “We’ll see,” she says with a smile.
“Why don’t you come to Boston?” Don asks. “It’s a good New England city, none of the problems you’d have further south.”
“I just feel more at home with the Bashakra’i these days, “ Luis says. “We might be able to make Boston work with our work and travel and all that, but...why bother when we fit so well on Atea?”

“Because it’s your home, Luis,” Don says. “It’s where you belong.”
“No, Dad, Atea’s my home. I belong with the Bashakra’i.”
Don and Martha both sit in silence for a moment. “For now,” Martha says. “You mean for now, until these problems go away.”
“Maybe, that’s what I thought when we moved there,” Luis shrugs. “But the more I’m there, and the more people on Earth try to do anything they can to resist changing, the more I think it might be for a long time, and the less I’m looking forward to it changing--I’m fine if it’s always my home.”
Don and Martha fall silent, Martha clasping her husband’s hands tightly. Luis falls silent too when he sees they’re not going to respond. It’s the first time he’s really said that out loud, and it just sort of hangs over the table. “So, you are...staying out here, then?” Martha asks.
“Yeah,” Luis says. “We are.”
“...but what if things get better?” Martha asks.
“We’ll see,” Luis says. “Once the town is set up, we might move there, but it could take years or longer for Earth to get to the point where I’d feel at home there again.”
Martha says nothing, but Don nods. “All right, Luis. If that’s what you feel you have to do.”

Arketta wraps her arms around Luis as his parents fall silent and recede from the conversation together, the hard ballistic plate in her armor carrier against his back a sharp contrast to the warm comfort she’s trying to send his way. Luis relaxes into it as the party continues around them.

The awkward silence seems to be cementing itself fairly strongly when a woman with golden skin and sculpted features steps stiffly over and takes a seat - Yisai, dressed in a flowing white outfit, white jacket and slacks and black vest trimmed with gold, decorated with an array of colored metal and crystal pins around the lapel, and on her chest, a Turai crest, and on the other side a simple rank marking - that of Rav-Odun.

“’Hello, Luis, Arketta,’” Yisai says with a stiff nod to each in turn. She turns her whole body in her chair to face Don and Martha. “’And are these your parents?’”
Don and Martha must not have noticed Yisai before, or thought she was part of the help, because even though they seem incapable of further shock, neither one can take their eyes off of Yisai’s gold skin and the faux shunt lines and access panels carved in her cheeks.
Luis nods, and gestures. “’Yes, they are. Yisai, this is my mother and father, Don and Martha.’” Turning to his parents and switching to English, he continues the introductions. “Mom, Dad, this is Yisai, the commander of the Atea fighter patrol squadrons, including the one I’m in.”
“Oh,” Martha says.
“Pleased to meet you,” Don says, but doesn’t offer a hand to shake.
Yisai folds her hands in a deliberate manner in her lap as she looks down - she doesn’t seem to have remembered that Luis’ parents might not speak Imperial. “’...what did they say? I am sorry.’”
“’They said they’re pleased to meet you,’” Luis says.
Yisai nods and turns back to Don and Martha. “’It is good to meet you as well,’” Yisai says, her hands still in her lap as she bows to them. “’Luis is one of the better Interceptors I have flown with, and we are lucky to have him.’”
Don and Martha both look to Luis.
“She says it’s good to meet you as well, and that she’s glad to have me flying with them,” Luis translates.
“Good,” Don says. Yisai simply looks their way nervously.
Luis turns Yisai after a moment, when it becomes clear his parents don’t have more to say for the moment. “’Did you want Arketta or me?’” he asks.
Yisai visibly untenses as she looks away from the Stanhills. “’I would first like to give Arketta her gift, if that is all right with you,’” she says.
“’That’s fine with me,’” Luis says and smiles.
Yisai looks at Arketta. “’Arketta, we are banner sisters, and that means -’” she stops cold and takes a deep breath, “’That means a great deal to me. I have not had someone that I can talk about what happened - and what I did - in the service of the Imperial Turai. That I was able to put on my Imperial uniform for today...I have not looked at this uniform since I deserted my post. I could not…’” Yisai takes another deep breath. “’I simply could not. And you have helped me with that. And in honor of that, and our friendship, I have had this commissioned for you.’” She reaches behind her and pulls up a familiar looking case - it’s a carapace armor case, but instead of the usual grey plastic, it’s covered in platinum and gold and inscribed with ornate patterns and glistening inlays of gems.
Arketta gasps as she accepts the case from Yisai. “’Is this…’” she asks. She stops as she sees a crest carved into the center of the case’s lid. “’Vidas Lam, Yisai, this is...this is too much.’”
“’I was well-compensated as Rav-Odun, money that I did not spend before my defection because I was too busy with my work, and was too ashamed to look at afterwards,’” Yisai replies. “’You were the one who has helped me come to terms with my past, it is only fair that you reap some of the rewards. A set of Yara Honawai armor seemed appropriate, as you have been my protector.’”

Arketta opens the case, and she draws in another breath and covers her mouth with one hand. Inside is a set of Turai carapace armor, but instead of the usual mirror-smooth chrome surface, the armor pieces are all engraved with patterns and tableau - all starring Arketta. The escape from Botane, sneaking through the streets of Aikoro, assaulting the Repository of Benevolent Spirits and escaping through the Black Gate, they’re all there - even an obviously fictionalized version of her assaulting Mesas Negras through the Whiirr Gateway and the epiphany that lead her to join the Narsai’i. There’s others too, heroic deeds of saving lives and slaying the bad guys that Luis doesn’t recognize and must predate their meeting. A glistening coating of what must be synthetic ruby decorates Arketta’s armor in each image, and other precious gems are placed strategically in the murals and designs engraved in the armor. Even the armor itself looks different - usually it’s just reflective like polished chrome, but here the chrome is replaced with yet more gold, platinum and other rare metals. There’s a few areas left blank, as well - spaces for future additions to Arketta’s legend to be written in armor. It’s a work of art commemorating her career and adventures to date and yet to come, on both sides of the war - and it looks like it cost a fucking fortune.

Luis’ jaw drops, and he find himself reaching out to turn a piece over before he stops his hands short and turns to Arketta, then back to Yisai, then wordlessly back to Arketta, who’s tearing up looking at the armor. “’I...I don’t...’” she stutters as she looks to Yisai.
“’I know that we both carry the same guilt about what we did under Imperial service. I suspected that Rav-Turai Honawai did the same from his service, and he was indeed very receptive of this concept when I contacted him via clandestine vox address, and was glad to have a commission that was celebrating heroism rather than subjugation. He was very glad to have the version of your Turai record from before the Imperium rewrote you as a monster, as well,’” Yisai says. “’As you have helped me accept that I am more than what the Imperial Turai demanded that I do, I want to help you do the same, banner sister.’”
Arketta carefully sets the case on the floor before standing up and walking to Yisai. “’Can I give you a hug?’ she asks between sniffles.
Yisai nods. “’Yes, I think that would be appropriate.’” She quickly stands up and waits for Arketta to wrap her arms around her, which doesn’t take long. Arketta gives Yisai a good strong embrace before letting her go again.

“’Thank you,’” Arketta says.
“’You are welcome, Arketta,’” Yisai says, and waits for her to return to her seat before looking to Luis. “’My gift to you is more complicated, Luis. You have flown twenty-two sorties with us, and though none of them were in combat, you have developed very quickly into a skilled Interceptor. But more than that, you have been accepted into our squadron. All of those that fly with you were those that left with me from Imperial service - they have given much to be where they are, and they - we do not trust easily. But you have proven yourself to be more than an able ship. Your time spent with us outside of the ship has been agreed to be positive all around. It is the consensus of the squadron that we would be greatly lessened by your absence. And so, I have nothing to present to you tonight - but when your schedule allows, I would like to pay for whatever sigils, tattoos, or implants you wish to signify your belonging to our squadron.’”
Luis, still recovering from Arketta’s armor, takes a moment to grasp Yisai’s words. However, even as he grins at the compliments and requested belonging, he pauses. “’Thank you, Yisai, I’m honored. I hope I’m not supposed to have an idea yet, I’d never given much thought of getting it myself and I’ll need some time to think about what to get.’”
Yisai nods. “’Of course. Changes to your body are not to be made lightly, and there are many different options to choose from. Might I make a recommendation?’”
Luis nods. “’Sure, I’d be happy to hear your thoughts,’” he says.
“’Consider something that can be turned off for when you are dealing with Narsai’i,’” Yisai says. “’Many Imperials react negatively to work like I have had done, and if your parents are any predictor, the Narsai’i will have a much stronger reaction still. Even though it is a chance to show who you are inside to the world, I suspect the Narsai’i will not see it the same way.’”
“’That’s a good thought,’” Luis says, “’Do you have any recommendations on where to look for options or research?’”
“’Isabo is the best modification artist I have ever seen, and he has many options,’” Yisai says. “’Visit his shop in Marokina Ward to try on whatever you want.’”
“’Thank you,’” Luis says again, not really sure what else to say. It’s something he’d never have considered, and he’s still not sure what he’d want, but it’s a place to start thinking at least.

Yisai stands up and bows again. “’Thank you for the invitation to your wedding. It means a great deal to me that you allowed me to be present for this.’”
“’We didn’t ‘allow’ anything,’” Luis says with a smile. “’We wanted to have you here to celebrate this moment with us. Thank you for that, and for the wonderful gifts.’”
“’You are welcome,’” Yisai says. She bows one more time, and then turns on her heel and steps away.
Arketta looks down at the ornate case containing her gift, and then back to Luis. “’It’s...wow. And you...I’m very proud of you, Luis. They still barely talk to me.’”
“’Who?’” Luis asks.
“’Your squadron,’” Arketta says. “’But they want you to be one of them for good. You must be very proud.’”
“’Oh!’” Luis says. “’Yeah, I am. I was just worried you meant my folks.’”
Arketta smirks. “’We’ll see after tonight. They might not come out of their house for a week, it looks like. I’m sorry they’re so scared, but...this is us now, right?’” She gives him a peck on the lips. “’And I think tonight has been perfect so far. I love you, Luis.’”
“’I love you too,’” Luis says happily. “’I can really only think of one way it could be better.’” He smirks a bit too and gives Arketta a leer. “’And the night’s still young.’”
Arketta’s smile curls a little more, and she leans back into Luis with a much more passionate kiss, as Don and Martha shift uncomfortably in their seats across the table.


edited by punkey on 2013-12-16 13:12:12

The morning sun shining through the dimmed glass wall finally conspires with his bladder to pull Luis to wakefulness. Carefully disentangling himself from Arketta, who is worn enough from last night still that she barely stirs, Luis pads downstairs to the room’s bathroom. Once the urgent business is dealt with, he heads to the kitchen to sets about a cup of coffee. As he works at the counter, he finds himself drifting over the ceremony, the reception, the last few days...the last few months, the last few years. It’s hard to believe how much has changed. It took trying to explain it to his parents to realize how little Narsai means as home these days; it’s just an ally in the war, with little more emotionally binding it to him as he’s bound here to Boronai. And Botane...as much anger and remorse as he feels about the willful waste of so many fine Narsai’i soldiers, he did realize that he doesn’t feel like just a soldier of Narsai anymore. He’s just a fighting refugee, a man without a planet, like the other Bashakrai’i. He ponders that for a few minutes while he finishes brewing and takes the first few sips of his coffee.

As the hot, bitter warmth chases down his throat, he muses on what he does have...he has an amazing wife--that word trips his thoughts for a moment as he smiles absently. He has a beautiful, courageous, strong wife by his side, and someday soon there’ll be a kid too. And he’s sure about the war--if he’s not tethered to Narsai anymore, he’s also not tethered with the Narsai’i view of how to fight it. And with everything he does have…he takes a long, deep breath and blows it out. He feels ready for anything. Bringing the coffee with him, he heads back upstairs--maybe he can take advantage of his vox and review some paperwork for the Sheen exercises lying down on the bed. However, his weight returning to the mattress is finally enough to stir Arketta, and the other half of his coffee cup has plenty of time to cool down to nothing before it’s attended to again.

The tower above the practice ranges serving the Mesas Negras training facility has seen a lot of use over its short life so far. Cloudy layers of tape decorate one wall from the series of memos that had been taped there and later removed, the beginnings of a well-worn path etched with desert sand lodged in boots is appearing on the floor, and there’s even a hole in the ceiling from when a Sheen accelerator shot went wild. And now, a further indignity visited upon its humble structure: a series of self-tapping screws bored into its metal exterior by Garrett Davis, all part of his erecting a large sunshade over the westerly exposure of the tower’s observation deck, for the comfort of one very specific little soldier.

“‘Is this good enough?’” Garrett asks.
Ngawai sticks her head outside of the interior, then steps outside with Naloni held safely in her sling. “’Looks like it to me.’” She gives Garrett a peck on the cheek. “‘Thanks for doing this.’”
“‘Hey, what the DoD doesn’t know won’t hurt them,’” Garrett replies as he tosses the screwdriver back into his tool bag. “‘And it’s not like anyone here is going to complain about a little more shade.’”
Ngawai shushes Garrett. “‘She finally got to sleep,’” she whispers as she sinks into a chair.
“‘Just in time for my turn with her,’” Garrett replies. “‘You’re very generous, lahna.’”

Naloni’s slumber is immediately tested by a rattling coming up the stairs. Lt. Matthew Decker looks like he’s having a bad day, which is a step up from the very bad days he’s been having since Botane. His patrol cap stays on his head despite the shade and his hands seem tightened around a clipboard, which he holds out to Garrett after a moment’s hesitation. “Today’s roster updates, Agent Davis,” Decker says. He turns his head toward Ngawai and tips his cap with his free hand. “Ma’am.”
“Thanks, Lieutenant,” Garrett replies. He’d been careful to stay formal and proper with the Army training officer since his blow-up with him when the news on Botane broke. He looks over the clipboard before looking back at Decker. “Is there something else? I remember from my time that you have sergeants for this, usually.”
“That’s right, but they can’t deliver this,” Decker says, then holds out his now free right hand for Garrett to shake. “I said some nasty things to you the other day. I’m here to apologize.”
Garrett shakes his hand readily while Ngawai looks on from her chair. “It was a hard day for all of us, but you and the other Army men here, especially. I understand.”
“Nevertheless, I was out of line and I’m sorry for that,” Decker says. “I just wish there was something we could do. Lee tells me you’re on the horn with the Bashakra’i every day, but there’s nothing to report.” He shakes his head. “The troops are itching to go out there, too. They don’t want this sacrifice to be for nothing. I keep telling myself that it’s a war, and you don’t get to pick which battles you win and which you lose, but...I don’t know. I knew a lot of those guys, Davis, and they’re not coming back. That’s just not something you leave at the office.”
Garrett nods. “That’s why we fought so hard to stop it - why we spoke out of line in the days before. We didn’t want this.” He sighs. “One day, we’ll get to the Arena. And we just have to hope that some of them will still be alive.”
“Hope’s something we could all use,” Decker says. “I still hope you guys can pull a rabbit out of the hat. Other than that, I figure the best we can wish for our boys is that it ends soon.” Decker shakes his head slowly, trying to disperse the dark clouds forming in his mind. “Anyway, I don’t want to keep you and your wife. I’ll see you at the debrief, Davis.”
Garrett nods. “See you there, Lieutenant.”

As Decker makes his way back down the stairs, Garrett walks to the railing and looks out over the training grounds. Below him, Bashakra’i and Narsai’i alike practice with Narsai’i XM-10 beamers and throw practice spearbombs under Arlana’s watchful eyes (the Narsai’i having just recently figured out how to set a target for the self-guiding weapon), and further away, the occasional sharp crack of a rifle can be heard - Arketta’s sharpshooting training for the select Bashakra’i that scored well enough with the M16s to qualify for additional training. And somewhere out in the desert, other off-worlders are being taught to drive Narsai’i vehicles by Zaef - a realization that still makes Garrett smirk and shake his head a bit at.

It’s warm morning of a hot day in the sprawling sands of Mesas Negras, and Hugh’s spending it in the shade of a canvas tarp, sitting hunched over on a folding camping stool. His elbows rest on the top of the waist-high sandbag barrier in front of him, but even so, it’s getting to be pretty tiring holding the pair of binocs to his face for minutes at a time. Then he thinks that he brought this on himself. He couldn’t just use one of the premade sim areas with their watch towers and A/C’d briefing tents, noooo, Mr. Verrill was too good for that Army shit, and thought he’d combine some of the fire & maneuver training with basic combat engineering, i.e. how to build observation posts, foxholes and so on. Soon, Hugh’s chosen area of operations looked not unlike the ring of defenses around the old research station on Whiirr, with Wherren-sized trenches and tarps everywhere. But, Hugh would argue, the real meat of this part of training is the use of space and flanking movements, which the pre-built sim spaces are in fairness too small for.

Khodash has gotten better at signalling, Hugh observes through the glasses. Her whole little fireteam has - even Hulor’s getting into the groove of handsigns, which may be clumsier than the subtle color pattern shifts the team already uses, but is also more understandable to non-Wherren allies. Kurr’s covering fire on the “target” is also textbook, trading off suppression with Tarl and Khodash while Hulor circles around the sandbox, darting from sandbagged position to trench to small dune hill in the combination of stealth and speed unique to Wherren hunters. Then - and this is some kind of small miracle - Hulor does not attempt to get clever and infiltrate the enemy position for some sort of commando melee raid; instead, he unclips a grenade sim from his harness, pulls the pin and lets the spoon fly, cooking it for a second before tossing it right into the middle of the target area. The sim goes off with a small flash powder bang that sounds more like a mouse fart by the time it gets to Hugh, but the kicked-up plume of sand shows the impact zone. Hulor readies his rifle and goes over the top of his trench to finish up the poor mistreated paper targets - Hugh’s about to dock him points for yet another solo run when he sees movement at the edge of the binocs. Khodash and her litter-brothers have been doing some circling of their own, and join the melee with short bursts of blanks before introducing their bayonets into the paper.

”Yes!” Hugh says, almost fistpumping at the sight.
”They’re getting quite good,” Rodirr says. Hugh turns to the old Wherren mercenary vet leaning in his own, more comfortable camping chair, looking like he forgot what having a fuck to give means before Hugh learned to walk. In short, perfectly qualified to be Hugh’s platoon sergeant.
”Are you getting anything out of this besides a few laughs?” Hugh asks. ”You look a little bored, Rodirr.”
”It is interesting,” Rodirr says with a faint orange tint of disdain. ”But in cities and spaceships, we will not have the room to fight like this. Your people’s methods of warfare are as one can expect from a culture that has only ever known a planet’s surface as its home.”
”I suppose,” Hugh says. ”Watch it when we get to joint operations and have more teams moving at once. You’ll learn some tricks a killhouse can’t teach you.”
”I will pay attention, then,” Rodirr says. ”The Narsai’i still scorn you, Hugh. Perhaps you should not have given up your position of influence with them.”
Hugh snorts at that. ”Right, position of influence...Rodirr, an Army Captain is a far cry from a ship’s master in power. I couldn’t influence anything - couldn’t stop...you know.” He hunches forward and looks down at the sand.

As he does so, there’s scraping next to him - Rodirr’s bringing his chair in closer, and when he’s next to Hugh, he wraps his arm over the shoulders of the much smaller human. Hugh puts his hand on Rodirr’s back, just below his hump.
”You have not changed that by leaving their service,” Rodirr says. ”While I find it loathsome to put loyalty to another above loyalty to yourself, enough humans regard such loyalty - such duty - as desirable that I have learned to speak of it as a virtue. In abandoning their cause, you have done naught but draw the ire of those who still champion it, while not enough has been done to show the flaws of the cause itself.” Rodirr gives Hugh a conciliatory flash of green. ”I am merely speaking of our convenience in this, of course. I cannot judge your personal reasons, just observe that it would be of advantage to us if you still had the support of your Army.”
”I can’t exactly go back and change it now,” Hugh says.
”Indeed,” Rodirr says. ”How is the family?”
”Well,” Hugh replies.

The conversation dries up for a few seconds, and Rodirr settles back into his chair. Hugh watches Khodash’s team walk back towards the rest area through his binocs, then sets them down and leans into Rodirr.

”I never asked about your family,” Hugh says.
”There is no need for that question,” Rodirr says, ”as there is nothing I am willing to tell anyone else about that.”
”...I’m sorry,” Hugh says.
Rodirr’s posture slumps for a second, letting some violet into the fringes of his fur. ”I was born a slave. I became a mercenary. Now I serve here. I trust you have heard enough Wherren tragedies to fill in the blank spots between these to a satisfying degree of accuracy.”
”Ever thought about retiring on Whiirr?” Hugh asks.
Rodirr chuckles, ”Do I look that old to you, Hugh?”
Hugh nods to that. ”Yeah, you do.”
”I have considered many things,” Rodirr says. ”But retirement must wait until the Imperium’s flag flies no longer. You imagine age as tiredness and exhaustion, a search for a place to rest one’s limbs, but in truth it is determination. Once you understand that you will not have endless years to accomplish something, you begin to pursue your aims more fervently. I may be old, but I will see this war to its end. And I would turn the same question to you: you have family now, and are freed from your duty to another. If nobody can order you to fight anymore, is it not time to consider a less dangerous path?”
”I could be a teacher,” Hugh says. ”After we win this war.”
”So you fight, even if you have forgone the Army’s cause?” Rodirr asks with a bemused smile.
”It’s my cause now,” Hugh says. ”I value loyalty to myself, too, Rodirr. It’s why I have chosen to live on Whiirr, why I am still here to help you train, and why I will finish the fight. My children deserve a better world than this - they deserve what we’re fighting for.”
”Spoken like a true recruiter,” Rodirr says. ”Shall we go tell Khodash’s team their scores, then?”

Hugh nods and rises from his stool, stretching his arms and back again. ”Let’s go,” he barks.

Zaef’s smirk is palpable over the radios: “C’mon, you spinks! This is an old scrap heap even by Narsai standards! You gotta go faster than that if you want to win! Over!” There’s a sharp click from the comms, and the lead MRAP starts zigging and zagging around the desert shrubs. The other vehicles make their way over: some in fits and starts trying to fight the clutch(and losing), some moving steadily but with deliberate caution. No one except the lead MRAP is feeling confident enough to try going above 30 miles per hour.

Zaef shakes his head after a glance in the rearview, and pulls the MRAP up to a stop on top of the closest thing to a dune in what seems to be miles. He sticks his head out of the top hatch and makes some quick notes on his vox, before surveying of the surrounding desert and jotting some preliminary ideas on a map. After a few minutes, his “students” still haven’t gotten very far, so he picks up the radio.

“Hey, Four,” he says, wincing as the straggler jerks to a sudden stop yet again, “Four, listen. You gotta treat the clutch like a lover. You speed up until you hear that engine purr, push that pedal in deep and slow, and then yank that handle down a notch, alright?” He tries not to smile as a crackle of curses and snickers blare out of the receiver. “Okay, shift into first, then press the accelerator.” The MRAP shudders a little, then starts moving forward slowly. Zaef nods, then speaks: “Okay, doing good. Now, stay quiet, and wait until you hear the engine noise start to loop back on itself, then push the pedal in slow and steady, alright?” The MRAP stays steady for about half a minute, then starts speeding up with a fresh howl. “There ya go,” Zaef says evenly, a ghost of a smile on his face. “Try it on your own now, Four.”

Four charges ahead of the rest of the pack in a few seconds, and manages to stay there for a bit, and then the MRAP shudders and grinds to a stop with a noise audible from Zaef’s position. Zaef frowns and takes a deep breath. Then another. Then he presses down the button and says, evenly, “Alright, Four, let’s try it again from the beginning.”

When all you have is sand and dirt - and Mesas Negras has a lot of both - your rifle range is gonna be a lot of brown. Sand, sandbags for structures, tarps, berms to both sides and a backstop way the hell in the back, and as if that wasn’t enough, Coyote Tan guns, too. The Marksman Range isn’t really much fancier than the smaller assault ranges, just longer and more of a PITA to get the targets out to their positions - but it doesn’t have to support as many shooters as the other ranges, either. Out here, only a few handpicked Bashakra’i get to learn the art of the rifle. Leaj’s one of those so favored, which means she’s down on the ground, dirt under her belly and her very own Narsai’i-inspired slugthrower pressed against her shoulder, trying to pick out a little speck of white in the distance through the magnified optics. Sitting next to her on a folding stool is Sergeant Alexander Danielsson, who’s arguably gotten the better end of the stick - more comfortable position, easier job, and the tripod-mounted field glasses he’s using for target observation make it much easier to tell what’s going on 500 meters downrange, too.

“Wind?” Leaj asks.
“Light breeze from your left to your right,” Danielsson says.
Leaj twists the knob on her optics - digital, with sub-millimeter adjustments, naturally. “On target.”
“Take the shot,” Danielsson says.
Leaj exhales her breath, and holds her lungs at empty for a few brief seconds - and then the rifle cracks, jerking her head up in surprise. “’Fuck!’” she curses.
“8 ring, 9 o’clock,” Danielsson says. “What are you cussing about?”
“Not...I don’t get the noise,” Leaj explains in her busted English.
“But you’re good on earpro?” Danielsson asks. “Not hurting, or anything?”
“No, I am fine,” Leaj replies. “Just loud and strong. What’s next?”
“Well, we’re done with this table,” Danielsson says. “Unload and make safe, we’ll take a break while they reset the range.”
Leaj pulls back the electromagnetic bolt on her rifle, locking it full-back with a click. “Open, clear.” She stands up and stretches her back. “Have you...err…’Have you been questioned about what you said? To your sister?’”
Danielsson blows a short raspberry. ”’Please. Like they even know about that. You’ve seen how we plan a war, do you really think we’re suddenly good when it comes to finding leaks?’”
Leaj chuckles for a moment before the smile drops off her face. “’And how are Boyd and the others? I haven’t asked because...I didn’t think it was my place.’”
“’Boyd’s fine, I think,’” Danielsson says, “’but you should ask his new best buddy Shen about that. The others...I won’t say they’re angry, but they’d feel better if they had some asses to kick right now. We need a victory.’”
“’Well, hopefully we’ll get one soon,’” Leaj says, and takes a drink of water. “’That’s one of the nice parts about the Imperium, there’s always a soft underbelly to strike at. Lots of bases and outposts with Turai that get off on making people suffer that need a beamer stuck up their asses.’”
Danielsson’s eyebrow rises of its own volition. “’You didn’t actually...’”
Leaj sighs. “’No. But only because I haven’t found the right one, yet.’”
Danielsson chuckles at that. “’You’re fucked up, Leaj. That’s what I like about you. But take it from our Marine friends, if not me - don’t film stupid shit like that. I mean, even better, don’t do it, but honestly, I feel you on this one.’”
Leaj shrugs. “’As long as it’s not worse than the Arena, I don’t think anyone would give a shit. But point taken.’”
“’If you fight monsters, watch out that you don’t become a monster,’” Danielsson says. “’Some smart guy said...something like that once. I think that’s good advice.’” He looks into the distance. “’We’re gonna have to kill a shitton of people to win this war. I’ll try to keep it professional.’” He looks to Leaj for an answer.
Leaj gives Danielsson a hard glare - until she breaks into a smile and laughs. “’Relax, Alex. I know where the line is - and the Turai are firmly on the other side of it, believe me. That’s what I like about you - always making sure everyone does the right thing, and fuck everyone else.’” She gives him a playful shove. “’I’ll have to introduce you to my unit, you’d fit right in.’”
“’And that’s a good thing?’” Danielsson chuckles.
“’I think it is,” Leaj replies. “’In the Bashakra’i, you’d be a hero for what you did.’”
Danielsson gives her an uncomfortable smile. “’That’s the last thing I want to be,’” he says. “’Heroes get themselves killed. I plan to survive this mess.’”
Leaj turns her head. "Is this some Narsai'i definition of hero I don't know about? To us, we all want to be heroes, something to look up to. Without heroes, what hope do we have?'"
Danielsson chuckles again. “’I don’t want to inspire people, Leaj. The nobles can try their hand at that. The Army has my ass for three more years. I’m gonna do what they tell me to do - until I get out. It’s a job, not a higher calling. Around here, when you see the ones who want to be heroes, you better stay the hell away from those guys.’”
"’And then you can come fight with us!’" Leaj says with a smile. "’No more Narsai'i spinkshit, just doing what needs to be done and kicking Imperial ass.’"
“’Not happening, Leaj,’” Danielsson says, leaving it at that.
"’But...the Imperium will still be coming for you,’" Leaj says. "’Are you just going to...let them come and kill your friends and family, burn your planet?’"
“’There’s seven billion people on this planet, Leaj,’” Danielsson says. “There’ll be plenty of assholes as good or better than me serving out a couple years in the military. They can’t keep us all in the fight. If it ever comes to where they need to put a gun in my hand and send me to fight again, we’ll already be fucked. And no offense, but I like living. Hooking up with you guys might be good for a few laughs but it’s gonna kill me, like it’ll kill you and Shen and everyone. I want to die in bed, Leaj, when I’m...like, shit, 80? Definitely before I start shitting myself, but not much sooner than that.’”
Leaj goes through a few expressions as Danielsson talks, mostly disappointed ones. When he finishes, she thinks for a second. "’How old are you now?’"
“’25,’” Danielsson says.
"’Then you will be...53 when the Imperium arrives,’” Leaj says. "’They will pull you out of your home, and either execute you and your family on the spot, or sell you into slavery - or you will be vaporized from orbit.’” She gives him a sympathetic look. "’That is why we all fight in our own way, the Bashakra'i. Because they are coming for all of us.’”
Danielsson nods. “’Yeah, I get that. I’m saying I won’t make a difference. We can bring X guys to the fight. Whether I’m in that number or not, it doesn’t matter. If it’s not me, there’s some other dumb kid. You guys, you’re all there is, you fight to the last man, I get it. But that’s not us. That’s not me. I’m doing what I said I’d do and then I’m out of this gig. Understood?’”
Leaj frowns, but nods. “’I understand,’” she says, the disappointment on her face deepening a bit. “’But then, if you aren’t willing to commit to this fight, then why did you volunteer to come here?’”
Danielsson nods. “’Because while I’m here, I’m all the way here,’” he says. “’I’m no motivator, but I’m not gonna spend the next three years at Fort Polk with my thumb up my ass. I signed up for eight years of asskicking and I aim to deliver.’”
Leaj nods at that. “’I get that,’” she says, but her expression tells Danielsson otherwise. “’So, another round?’” she asks as she stands up.
“’Looks like,’” Danielsson says, checking through his optics for a fresh target, “’Load her up, we’re taking this one from the top.’”

The main firing range lacks some of the creature comforts of the marksmanship range: adequate cover from the blazing sun, for a start. In trenches dug just behind the baking hot concrete pad for prone position, Boyd “pulls the pin” on yet another practice spearbomb, popping its plastic guidance fins open. Shenloma sits on the edge of the trench, watching downrange with the mouthpiece to his water bag firmly lodged in his mouth.

Boyd pops his head over the edge of the trench, taking a moment to point the spearbomb lifted over his shoulder at its intended target. “Spear out!” he calls, doing his best javelin hurl into the sky. The spearbomb flies a few meters before its own engine kicks in, zipping downrange past the target and straight into the backstop. The lack of even a small boom from the practice warhead brings Boyd up again to inspect his handiwork; all he can muster is a frown and a muttered “Darn.”
“You are letting go the target button early,” Shenloma comments. “Or late.”
“Well, it’s got to be one or the other,” Boyd says. “Any tips?”
“It is a time problem,” Shenloma says. He hops down into the trench and pops his own spearbomb. “You must keep it pointed at target until you release button. You can release button early and throw, but it is slower.” He points the spearbomb at the target - an old broken-down truck - and lets go of the button, then heaves the spearbomb into the air. A second later, the rockets catch and carry the weapon on a high arc that ends with it bouncing off of the truck’s roof with a CLANG.
“I’ll take slow over not at all,” Boyd says. He grabs a new spearbomb, then hoists it up and takes his time aiming it like Shenloma. “Spear out!” he calls again, throwing it skywards. The spearbomb wobbles a bit before it sorts its trajectory out and rockets down towards the truck, impacting with another CLANG. “Not too shabby,” Boyd says. “And you said this can take out an armored vehicle?”
Shenloma nods. “One or two of them.”
“It’s lighter than a SRAW, I’ll give you that,” Boyd says. “Would have been nice to have in the ‘stan.”
“What?” Shenloma asks.
“Afghanistan,” Boyd says. “It’s a country. Most of it is mountains, the rest is desert. We fought there for a couple of years, hunting terrorists and insurgents. Anyway, it’s big and lonely and a lot of the time, when you got into a fight, there was no backup in range. Would have been nice to have something smart like a spearbomb to dig out enemies from cover.”
“It also…” Shenloma pauses as his English fails him. “’You can also set it to airburst above a target or inside a structure. And, when you’re really fucked, you can always stab someone with it,’” he says with a smirk as he mimes sticking the business end of his spearbomb into someone’s gut.
Boyd smirks. “’And blow up then?’” he says, his own Imperial not quite up to the task, either.
“’The rocket pushes them away, usually,’” Shenloma replies with a laugh. He leans against the back of the trench as Boyd picks up another training spearbomb. “’So...we will be going to this’ Afghanistan ’place soon, yes?’”
“’Yes,’” Boyd says. “’When we go there, be careful. There are many traps and ambushes. The people can be friendly but it is hard to trust them. When fighting starts, you can only rely on the soldiers next to you.’”
Shenloma nods. “’That sounds like when I was stationed on Vouskiano after they opened up to us. The people did not know who we were, only that we were not the Turai and that they were told we were trying to starve them to death. It was a hard posting.’”
“’Where else have you been?’” Boyd asks.
“’Mostly shadowports and Atea,’” Shenloma replies. “’We have a few small independent colonies that pretend as much as they need to for the local Stewards, but until Boranai, we didn’t have a world that was truly free. Leaj and I were not sent out on patrols much anyway. Our quad is more about precision strikes in Imperial territory and raids.’” He smiles. “’Once, we hijacked an entire convoy of chamakana, spearbombs and supplies - snuck inside as maintenance techs and took all three ships in minutes.’”
“’Nice!’” Boyd says with a smile. “’But you can’t sneak all the time. What happens when you have to fight? How does that work out there?’”
“’We work in trins, mostly,’” Shenloma replies. “’Lets us move more quietly. Fights with the Turai are all about speed, stealth and smarts - there’s more of them then there are us, so we have to hit them fast, cut off reinforcements, and stick to cover. If we fight on open ground, we will lose, but in cities or forests or mountains, we’re deadly.’”
“’Open ground is for idiots,’” Boyd agrees. “’It sounds awesome. That was what I wanted when I signed up, but even the Marines have to do garrison now. And that’s why I’m here now - it looked like a chance to get into the action.’” He pauses for a moment. “’Like my grandpa. He was a real hero.’”
Shenloma tilts his head. “’What did he do?’”
“’There was a great war in his time,’” Boyd explains. “’Our enemies had conquered many islands. Marines were the first to reach many of them, and they fought bitterly for every island, sometimes for months. My grandpa was one of them. He fought for three years, and was honored for his bravery twice with medals. He led his squad through many fights. I remember, when I was young, his old comrades would show up sometimes, and they would drink and talk about old times deep into the night. I do not know anyone in our town who did not respect him.’” Boyd pauses for a moment. “’Since I was a small boy, I have wanted to be like him.’”
Shenloma nods. “’There is a lot of fighting out there, that’s for sure. Don’t know how much of a hero you’ll be back here, though.’” He looks over his shoulder back at the Narsai’i training officers walking back and forth behind them. “’Or how long will your leaders let you hang around. It seems to me like there’s a lot of them that think we’re gonna brainwash you or some spink-shit like that.’”
Boyd nods. “’I’ve heard that. I don’t care. Someone has to win this war while our leaders squabble. I’ll go wherever I can be useful. And when we win and come back, the people will cheer us. I am sure of that.’”
Shenloma claps a hand on Boyd’s shoulder. “’That’s the kind of shit we need, Boyd.’” He cracks a smile. “’As long as you figure out how to throw a spearbomb.’”
“’No time like the present,’” Boyd replies with a smile, then goes to grab another practice spearbomb for his next attempt.

Luis slams the small human-sized door cut into the massive airplane-sized door of the Sheen hangar open as he steps in out of the beating sun, letting the sound of it slamming shut behind him announce his presence as he strides into the hangar the local Sheen have set up in. Inside, the dozen-odd initial Sheen consoles have been dwarfed by the multi-level Sheen docking gantry arrayed against the back wall. Like a crazy next-next-next-gen version of a multistory automated parking garage, the gantry is filled with the various combat shells each of the fifty Sheen brought to Narsai traveled with, all accessible via a rotating storage locker and robotic arms that can pluck them down for delivery to a skimmer - or the back of a larger Sheen - or can simply be jumped straight into. The fifty combat Sheen in question are all sitting in their usual quadrupedal shells, resting on their chassis as they...well, Sheen don’t sleep, but they’re not exactly paying rapt attention to the outside world, either. There’s no reaction as he crosses the room towards them and comes to a halt facing them. Looking around at the unmoving shells, he draws a breath.
“Atteeen-SHUN!” he calls out loud enough to bounce off the back wall of the hanger in a slight echo. That gets the Sheen’s attention well enough; they start to amble to their feet.
“New orders,” Luis continues in a carrying voice as the Sheen finish assembling and optics turn his way. “You’ve done formations, you’ve handled room clearing, you’ve practiced assaulting. We’re being given a simulated target to put all of that together.” With a gesture, he pushes an aerial photograph out onto the Sheen network.
“Some dirt hole in the middle of the desert?” I’ve Got Your Nose grumbles.
“I believe if you look at it,” Luis says, “what you’ll see is an enemy-held village that we’ve been assigned to take.” What it is, in fact, is a few dozen spraycrete habs thrown up in the middle of the desert, arranged over half a mile or so to form a loose village. “There’s a dozen or so hostiles in there from the intel we’ve been provided, along with a few hundred non-combatants. Our assignment is to take the village and secure the location.”
“So, what’s the plan?” Hallelujah It’s Raining Blood asks.
“Right now, that image, local topographic maps, and those estimates are what we’ve got as far as intel,” Luis says. “First step is fixing that--get some shells over the village for a better sitrep, find the enemy and fix their positions. After that, we move in, take out those positions out according to rules of engagement--minimize non-combatant casualties, take any prisoners we can for further intel, and secure the site. Within the non-lethal training arsenal, you have freedom of selecting weapons loadout and maneuvers to meet those goals, provided I approve them. For this exercise, our performance will be graded by outside umpires. Any questions?”
“Where are you and the other bosses gonna be?” Orphan Grinder asks.
“I’m commanding you for this exercise, so I’ll be out in the field with you,” Luis says. “Try not to let me get ‘killed’. The umpires will be observing from the air and the ground to judge kills and mission success. Any failure to hold to rules of engagement, and they call the exercise is over.” He puts his hands on his hips and looks around, making eye contact with the optics of the Sheen. “This is your final exam, and you either pass or fail.”
“Yeah, but what’s the points?” Nose jokes.
“Just the one,” Luis says with a grin. “But it’s a big one.” He pulls out a data chip from his pocket. “This is the rest of the map package you’ve got to start. I’ll be here to review your plans and answer questions, but I want to see initial movement plans to flesh out that intel by the time this puny human needs to get lunch. Got it?”
“Got it,” the Sheen all say as one.
“All right,” Luis says, and flips the package to one of the Sheen near him. “Let’s get to work.”

*Wheeeeeeee!* Orphan Grinder shouts over the Sheen vox link as it barrell rolls fifteen-thousand feet over the target village in the Sheen flying observation shell. No bigger than a large dinner table, the tandem wing drone is kept aloft and propelled by impellers and a body positively crammed with batteries where the Sheen circuitry and observation sconces aren’t needed. It’s not the fastest thing, but it is literally completely silent and has a loiter time measured in weeks, making it a drone of the kind that the CIA would drool over - if the Sheen had told the Narsai’i they had it.
*Hold fucking still, Grinder,* Hal grouses as it rests on the shell’s haunches on the outskirts of the target area. *You’re making my sensors spin.*
*Stop your bitching, you can’t get sick,* Grinder replies.
*You’re testing that theory,* Grey Goo Scenario adds, sunning itself on the roof of the command truck. *What do you see?*
*Situation hasn’t changed, bad guys still on checkpoints at the four main roads through the town, walking around. Three buildings with them are highlighted on the tactical map,* Grinder replies, sending the update wide to all of the Sheen in the exercise.
*The dataspace tuned in to this shit?* Nose asks.
*Yep,* Grey replies. *I think we’ll spare the meatsacks the stress of knowing they’ve got the whole dataspace tuned in. I’ll let Stanhill know we’re ready.*

Luis is waiting in the force’s command truck, parked out in the desert just outside the assigned training area as he monitors the incoming picture on his implants and sweats in spite of the truck’s air conditioning.
“Luis, do you have the image from Orphan Grinder?” Grey asks in his ear.
“Just a moment,” Luis says, flickering through the various windows clouding his virtual vision until he locates it. “Got it. What do you have?”
“We’ve got the known hostiles marked, and three buildings that they’re going in and out of targeted,” Grey says. “The plan is to approach on all four sides, and press in from three of four with ten instance teams, and have the remaining twenty sheen backstopping their escape from the fourth side. The clearing teams push in and squeeze them towards the fourth. I believe you Narsai’i call it ‘hammer-and-anvil’.”
Luis sizes up the marked positions for a moment, and nods. “Looks like a plan. How long before you can be in position to execute?”
There’s actually a minute pause before Grey responds - just long enough for it to poll all fifty Sheen for precise to-the-second estimates. “Twenty-six minutes, forty seconds.”
“Excellent,” Luis says. “All units to move in per that operational plan, execution in 27 minutes.”
“What will we do with the other twenty seconds? Knit a sweater?” Nose jokes over the open vox channel.
“Whatever floats your boat,” Luis says. “Just take the time you need to do it right. This one’s for real.”
“Yeah, yeah, we get it,” Nose replies. “Pull your head out of the...inside of your gross meats.”
“Smooth,” Hal cracks.
“Humans are gross, we all know this,” Nose says.
“And Sheen are wasting time,” Luis says. “Let’s get moving.”

And get moving they do. From Grinder’s sky-high perspective - and from there to Luis’ ocular implants - the Sheen platoon moves with, well, military precision. Two lines of twenty-five Sheen in various combat shells gallop, run and lope towards the village, and then at precisely five miles out, split into the four fireteams: two three-shell trins of accelerator-armed man-sized shells, three smaller stealthy shells with adaptive optical camouflage, suppressed accelerators and nano-sharp cutting blades, and one moose-sized heavy-weapons shell loaded with specialized accelerator shells ranging from crowd control to armor-piercing penetrators, with the “anvil” team taking a double dose of all three shells. The “hammer” teams spread out to circle around, while the anvil team holds position beyond the range of easy sight - but not in concealment either, Luis notes.

“Team Snap, in position,” one of the Sheen “NCO”s reports - one of the Sheen that got the program early on.
“Team Crackle, in position,” the second Sheen NCO radios in.
“Team Pop?” Grey asks, still clinging onto the roof of Luis’ command vehicle.
“Stopping for a lube job?” the first Sheen NCO jokes.
“We’ve got twice as far to go, dumbasses,” the Sheen NCO in charge of Pop shoots back. “Ten seconds out.” There’s a pause over the vox, followed by the Pop NCO coming back on. “In position. Fuckers.”
“Team Spoon is in position,” Grey adds. “Waiting on your go, Stanhill.”
Luis takes a moment to check the positions marked on the map against the tactical map’s marked positions, then nods. “You’ve got it. Execute as ordered.”
“You heard the meatbag!” Grey radios out. “Hit it!”
“AAAW YEAAAAH!” the Crackle NCO bellows over the vox, and Luis’ vox pings the registers on its aural outputs as the Sheen vox channel fills with bellows, shouts and more digital proclamations of war.

Dialing down the gain on the vox, Luis tries to focus on the feeds being sent in from the fireteams as they move in, trying to keep a handle on the picture of the situation as the fireteams make contact. The perimeter guards are hit with simulated accelerator shots before they even have a chance to lay eyes on the attacking Sheen, taken down with precise long-range shots by the stealthy Sheen riding on the back of the faster heavy weapons shell. Some of them are merely wounded, they shout for reinforcements and to signal the attack just before they’re overrun.

Luis can feel himself tense up as he zooms in feeds on the wounded, waiting to make sure that the Sheen won’t forget their lessons in the heat of (simulated) combat. And indeed, they do not - one or two shells from each fireteam stop long enough to fire a glob of adhesive on the hands and legs of each “disabled” pretend hostile, immobilizing them. As they check their prisoners are down and move to rejoin the rest of their teams with more digital whooping cries, Luis lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding as the exercise moves past its first major chance to fail by default.

The Sheen attack barrels straight on into the village, black machines shouting and whooping as they rush on in. Two Sheen pause momentarily to stage up before kicking down the doors of the first target building and rushing inside, flashes and blasts of accelerators and gunfire shining through the windows. Luis tunes in through the optical feed of one of the entry teams; each Sheen takes a couple “bullets” but doesn’t go down, but the four hostiles inside are quickly shot “dead”. He gets a first-person view of the Sheen briefly high-fiving their accelerators together before rushing back out into the street to, quote, “get some more action”.

Back in the street, the “citizens” - really Bashakra’i and Narsai’i military volunteers - are scattering and screaming, desperately trying to get to cover away from the rampaging killbots. Here and there another “hostile” runs out of a building, simulated weapon in hand, or rushes out of the crowd, and all are brought down with precision single bursts of accelerator fire. No civilians are hit - Luis has to give them credit for one thing, they certainly have learned their lesson on shooting unarmed civilians.

However, the downside of the Sheen’s plan is becoming obvious - both the “civilians” and the “hostiles” are all being pushed in the same direction, right towards the “anvil”. Most of the civilians have dodged into cover or otherwise gotten out of the way, but in the face of such a fast and brutal sweep through the village - and by large black robots bristling with guns and shouting “GET SOME” and “FUCK YOU” as they light up their targets - the animal brain is taking over even in this fake exercise and many of them are just riding the wave of the crowd.
Luis activates the channel. “Watch the civilians!” he says.”You’re driving them with everything else, and if you don’t watch out you’re going to end up with everyone riled up and mixed together when you hit the anvil!”
“Relax, meatbag,” one of the Sheen - Ten Tons of Fun, according to Luis’ HUD - calls back. “We got this.”

And before Luis can put together a reply, it becomes a moot point: the onrushing crowd hits the edge of the village. Luis’ eyes flicker on his internal display to the two heavy-weapons shells - they’ve put away their heavy accelerator cannons and replaced them with smaller quad-linked rapid-rate accelerators - exactly the kind of thing you’d need if you were going to mow down a whole crowd. Luis winces, waiting for the simulated bloodbath, when the remote feed into his eyes is virtually hijacked - probably by Grey Goo Scenario - and he suddenly sees from the perspective of one of the heavy weapons shells. The pursuing Sheen all upload their targeting telemetry at once - the precise location of every single hostile in the crowd, pinpointed to the millimeter - and then, with a hissing whine of their accelerators, sweep the crowd twice with a blast of training accelerator rounds in a syncopated staccato of high-tech violence. Each “hostile” hits the ground in pain as their simulated combat vests - and the harsh sting of the training rounds - tell them that they were hit, but no civilians show up on Luis’ hit counter. Some have holes in their fake Imperial civilian clothes, but the combination of ultra-tech targeting information and millisecond-precise weapons fire enabled the Sheen to fire what seemed like one continuous burst, but only hit the bad guys.

“Get down on the ground, and put your hands on your heads,” the heavy weapons shells bellow, and even these trained and battle-hardened Bashakra’i and Narsai’i are stunned into silence as they get down on their stomachs.
“Job done, town is secure,” Grey reports from its perch on the roof.
“Impressive shooting,” Luis says after a moment spent waiting in semi-stunned silence, partly in shock from the lightning-fast resolution, and partly waiting for any last minute updates in the umpire’s kill counts. When they don’t, he nods. “All right. Mop up and keep a lid on the situation while I inform Command.”

The mopping up is actually fairly sedate - after seeing what the Sheen are capable of, neither “civilian” nor “hostile” are in any mood to resist the Sheen platoon’s orders, and the few that are scripted to do so are quickly goo’d into submission. In fact, the most concerning thing is the grumbling over the Sheen’s open vox channel about the exercise’s stubborn refusal to tick over the points from “0” to “1”, indicating the exercise is complete.
Even Luis, waiting in the command truck as it pulls into town, is growing a little annoyed by the delay--and he knows the reason the exercise end hasn’t been signalled. “Command, this is platoon lead, repeat again town is secure and mopping up in progress. Awaiting further orders, over.”
Back at the main Mesas Negras base, Angel is monitoring the whole exercise and gets on the radio. “Relax, Luis. All in good time.”

Five minutes after that, Hallelujah It’s Raining Blood, aka Team Spoon NCO, gets on the open vox channel. “We’ve been all mopped up here for ten minutes, Stanhill. Where’s our point?”
“Fucking yeah!” I’ve Got Your Nose shouts. “We kicked ass, we deserve our point!”
There’s a slight click in Luis’ ear as Angel comes onto the open channel. “Attention Sheen platoon, this is command. You have done well in capturing this village, but the situation has changed. Events to the east have made this village a strategic waypoint in the theater of battle. You must now hold this village until relieved, and then you will get your point. Understood?”
Insofar as a silence could sound frustrated, unsatisfied and depressed, this one does.
“...but...but...” Nose sputters.
“Great, how fucking long is that?” Grinder moans.
“Unknown, but we’ll keep you informed,” Angel replies. “Until then, secure the village and protect the villagers. There might be more insurgents living in the village, so keep your...sensors on and be careful - but remember, this is where these people live, so keep that in mind. Understood?”
The morose and frustrated silence returns.
“Understood,” Grey finally says, even it sounding pissy and unsatisfied.
Luis gives it a moment before chiming in on the general channel. “All right, shells. You heard command, looks like we’re going to have to dig in for the moment. I want power and ammunition status, and we need a plan for keeping the village secured and keeping this sector of the greater theatre under control. Understood?”
There’s another petulant silence, before a chorus of confirmed from the four Sheen NCOs. The vox channel Luis can hear might be silent, but one can only imagine what the Sheen are saying in their burst transmissions.
“Good,” Luis says. “You performed impressively out there today, and I know you can keep it up. Report any supply situations that need addressing, and let’s try and track down somebody we can liaise with from the villagers.”

He clicks off the channel and sit back in the command truck chair. While he knew this was coming, this is the part he wasn’t sure he’d be ready for--at least with the initial assault it was mostly challenges they’d had before, just put together differently in one package. The hold phase, though, has him worried, communications and other “soft skills” not being one Sheen combat shells are known for. Sighing, he shakes his head to clear his thoughts. The only way to get through it is going to be by focusing on the job that needs to be done, not by worrying about how hard it is. Instead, he opens the door and steps out to see his new command site in person instead of ride-along view feeds. The Southwestern summer afternoon is hot and dry, but Luis tries to make the most of it - he’s going to be out here for a long time.

Kitty and Zaef are walking arm-in-arm down the concrete and desert landscaping quad that runs down the middle of the new Mesas Negras office buildings. Kitty rests her chin on Zaef’s shoulder as they walk down the path, and it’s a very nice and comfortable moment between the two of them as they head down to the food court for lunch.

Parked up in front in the lot is something that catches Zaef’s eye and drags him - and by extension Kitty - to a halt. It’s not a car Zaef had ever really seen before - then again, most Narsai’i vehicles Zaef had seen were military. But this one was clearly not military.

The car hung low to the ground, lean with soft curves - something made to fly along the ground. It had a wide fore to start and tapered as it drew back towards the aft. The all-chrome fender juts out from under the sleek, smooth hood. Two vents flare out of the hood like beastly nostrils. The cab is not the usual blocky affair, but curved back and aerodynamic, with comfortable seating for two (Zaef squeezes Kitty’s hand and smiles in relief when she squeezes back) and slightly tight seating for four. Tires were not as wide as what Zaef was used to; this was a machine made for blazing down a long road with nothing and no one to get in the way. The car isn’t even close to perfect condition, something even Zaef with his relative inexperience can tell. The paint - a bright purple with a white stripe running down the side and “R/T” in Narsai’i glyphs - is dull, scuffed in parts and missing almost entirely in others, the wheels are dirty and rusty, the interior is cracked and split, and surely there’s more hiding underneath the surface.

But, then again, the old girl wasn’t much when Zaef had found her all those years before - and, if only by scale, this was nowhere near as complex a problem. He could fix it. It certainly deserved better; it was made to fly, or glide along the ground at least, and here it was. Grounded. At rest.

Anyway, there weren’t any ships to work on here on Narsai, and it was driving him insane. He’d taken to wistfully examining old ship blueprints during his lunch breaks when Kitty wasn’t able to accompany him.
“That’s a Dodge Challenger,” Kitty speaks up.
“Looks challenged, all right,” Zaef growls. “Someone hasn’t used it in a while. Not right, anyway.”
Kitty walks around the car. "Looks like the suspension is collapsed, too."
Zaef’s frown deepens. “So, it’s not supposed to ride this low?”
Kitty shakes her head and keeps walking. She comes to a stop and looks up at Zaef. "Twelve grand!"
Zaef arches an eyebrow and looks back at the car, running some numbers through his head. He looks back at Kitty with a little smirk. “Alright, then.”
Kitty gets down on her knees and looks underneath. "Yeah, but what else is wrong with it?"
“Well, there’s a couple ways we can find out.” Zaef walks around towards the back, looking at the “For Sale” sign for contact information. “I like starting simple, and just asking.”

Hugh’s first week as a civilian blows past in a daze. Living on Narsai’i time to keep training the Wherren at Mesas Negras, Hugh makes a second home in the Wherren quarters for when the time differential matches Whiirr nights to Narsai afternoons. When he does go home, there’s plenty to do at the school, helping out Piugash and Sijet and of course Rhea wherever he can, and when he’s around the cubs, drunk on their energy and in the center of attention, it’s a feeling like nothing else in the world - but inevitably, the evenings away from home come where the Wherren go out to have some fun without him, and with those evenings comes the loneliness. These are the hours that stretch on forever, where Hugh feels more like part of the furniture than himself, and they wear him down. After a few days, it gets bad enough that he figures he can either become legitimately depressed over it or get on with his life - getting on with his life here meaning that he musters the energy to actually explore his new home in his free time. Hugh’s been through the village plenty of times, of course, but he only looked at it as backdrop on the way to where he wanted to go - now it’s a place in itself, something to be appreciated on its own merits. Within a couple of days of these evening strolls, he’s got names to put to all the faces in the village, Wherren and human, and that crushing feeling of loneliness fades away with the slow realization that he’s very much not alone in the village.

Over the next weeks, Hugh practically lives off the goodwill accumulated through his defense of the village and bonding to Rhea - plenty of villagers want him over for “dinner”, which lets Hugh become familiar with the kitchens of most of the huts. Hugh wouldn’t be Hugh if he didn’t find something gnawing at him in this, though: one, he has no home of his own to invite people to (the school doesn’t - yet - count), and two, he’s being fed like a cub that’s too young to hunt. And while Hugh isn’t exactly chomping at the bit to trade his Multicam for Realtree camo, the notion that he should at least learn how to provide for himself proves hard to dislodge. Rhea, of course, is all ears at Hugh’s offer to join one of her hunting trips, and Torega - well, she’s five and doesn’t need a lot of convincing to go on a big adventure.

As it turns out, 7.62x51mm is at the lower end of effective grawhl hunting calibers - or maybe it’s that Hugh doesn’t know where the heart is - but Hugh’s first shot is one of those beginner’s mistakes only made up for by combat-honed second shot reflexes that drills the fleeing animal right through its left shoulder. Even then, it still crashes through fifty feet of jungle before it collapses; Torega sits on Rhea’s shoulders as they both watch Hugh dispatch the beast with a third and final shot to the neck, and then comes the matter of actually getting the carcass back home. Rhea walks Hugh through the basics of dressing his first kill for about an hour while Torega circles around them, alternating between trying to catch what’s going on and chasing a small Pie’re through the thicket with a giggle until Rhea admonishes her to be quiet. Instead, Torega is conscripted to gather vines while Rhea shows Hugh how to build a sled to drag the carcass with him.

Although afternoon swiftly gives way to evening before they’re underway, they do make it back to the village before the day is technically over. Hugh tucks a tired Torega into her cot and grooms her to sleep, but although his bed looks inviting, he’s not done yet. Making his way back to the kitchen, he gets a night course in parting grawhl and preparing the parts for storage. Pieces of meat and spice rubs bring Hugh back into his comfort zone, but this isn’t like a plate of spare ribs from the PX - Hugh hunted and killed this, and it doesn’t feel nearly as weird as he thought it would when he considers eating it - in a week, of course, to give the meat time to become palatable. This is also when Hugh realizes he’s totally forgotten the lyrics to Circle of Life, sparing Rhea from that particular aural assault. Consequently, it’s almost rooster o’clock (by Connecticut reckoning, not that that’s worth a damn here) when the two lovebirds finally hit the hay. It doesn’t take a lot of mutual grooming to fall asleep after that.

----

For the next few days, Hugh’s thoughts occasionally return to his sister and his parents: is he leaving them behind by choosing to live here, how much does he still want them in his life, are they ever gonna be one family instead of two that just happen to both include him...it weighs on him, and Rhea doesn’t miss that her bondmate is worried about it. But there is much to be done around the school and the village, taking up most of their time. Still, the warmth of his new family and a few wise words from Rhea keep Hugh from obsessing too much over it. If he’s learned one thing here, it’s that family is just another word for “love and acceptance”.

A different topic shoots to the top of his mind when Hiigra calls for the village’s elders to assemble one evening: the construction plans. Rhea is called, of course, but Hiigra asks for Hugh, too. The message reaches Hugh in a slightly roundabout fashion: the incessant beeping from Hugh’s office brings Lt. Decker to investigate, where he finds Hugh’s vox sitting on his desk. Decker’s investigation into Hugh’s location soon leads him into the Wherren barracks, where the inhabitants have done some redecorating: all the bunks shoved together closer to the door, forming two almost seamless very long beds, while the now freed floorspace sports new floor mats and frequently has the whole contingent of Wherren sitting huddled on it. Decker’s shout of “Verrill!” has the Wherren on the outside of the huddle snap their heads around to look at him, with a flash of color rippling through the fur of the whole group, until Hugh stands up from the middle of the proverbial furball and climbs out to accept the vox from Decker and view the message.

Hugh figures the chief wants his insight into the “business deals with humans” aspect of the endeavour, maybe to check the translation of a few documents. He quickly excuses himself from the training group and heads for the gateway annex, rushing to make the next transfer for Torega’s bedtime. With Torega tucked in at home, Rhea and Hugh make their way to the administrative building, where the elders of Village 815 have assembled in a large downstairs room for the discussion. Hugh can’t help but think back to his first meeting with Hiigra, before the liberation of Whiirr. All things considered, the atmosphere is still a lot like the powwow in the longhouse, but this time Hugh’s not here to negotiate anything - and the air conditioning is new, too. Several seats left empty are reminders of what Hiigra's village went through to get to this point.

Hiigra stands up from the head of the table, draped in an Imperial smock-like shirt. "Thank you for coming. Since the Narsai'i came and helped us take our freedom from the false gods, there have been many changes to our village and our land. Our village has gone from farming and hunting for food to being the center of travel to and from our planet, and the starting point for both human activities and the beginnings of our own Wherren government. Events have moved with incredible speed, and there are more changes and growth coming. Now is the time that we should decide, as a village, what we want the future of our tribe to be, not just with the humans, but with our fellow Wherren as well. How we want our territory to be used, and what rules we will make for others to come onto what is ours and use for their own ends."
Murmurs of assent go around the room. There's been a lot of worry from some in the village about all the construction and non-members of Village 815 moving in and living on what is, in reality, their land. Hugh’s thoughts are along the same lines - they imposed pretty heavily on the village in setting up their gateway and its infrastructure here, and while some of it clearly benefitted the village, it wasn’t exactly the most democratic decision. It’s time to let everyone have their say before Village 815 goes all in.
"The humans have proposed one alternative: in return for our land, we will be be given shelter and food and payment, and allowed to stay where we are. They will take responsibility for the land and what happens on it, and be able to build or do as they please," Hiigra says. Already, there's more than a few grumbles and orange and red colors in the room. "They say that this will allow for a more neutral place for the new Wherren government, and that it will make their mission of bringing aid and building to Whiirr much easier." Hiigra looks over the room. "I am not in favor of this plan, but I was asked to put it to the village and so I am. What do you think?"
"It's almost as bad as the false gods!" one older female barks.
"How can they ask us to give up what we have after what we have done?" a male howls.
Rhea's a deep bright orange next to Hugh. "It's insulting," she grumbles. "I have seen how the Narsai'i build their cities, there is nothing wild there, nothing to hunt, nothing allowed to grow on its own. They will cover our land in grey stone and black tar."
”We will not let them,” Hugh whispers back to her.
Hiigra nods, his own fur a sympathetically matching shade of orange. "I told them as much, but they must do what they think is best for themselves, just like we do. But I think it is safe to think that we are not going to allow this to happen. Some of the other tribes have suggested something similar, but under the control of a multitude of chiefs, to make this a village controlled by all Wherren. What do we think of this?"
Welcome to never agreeing on anything, Hugh thinks. Handing control of the village to a council of chiefs representing interests from all over Whiirr - and possibly beyond - is no way to run a community, and even though he says nothing, the disdain for the idea is plain on his face.
"And how would they have our best interests in mind?" a male speaks up.
"We would be controlled by tribes that might not even care about our problems, just their own!" another shouts.
Hiigra nods again. "That is what I thought as well." He looks around the room, slowly forcing the colors out of his fur. "So, here is what I propose. We keep our village ours - but we dedicate it to being the gathering place for all Wherren and any other people. The Narsai'i and humans are free to come here and work and build - according to what we allow, but they can come. The Wherren council of chiefs can be founded here, but this village is still ours. We control the destiny of our land, our village, our goods and our people, but we dedicate ourselves to including all others in that destiny. Our village will be a meeting place for all tribes, peoples and species forever." His fur is a hopeful green and yellow, with a hint of blue. "What do we think of this?'
”I agree with this plan,” Hugh begins, too taken by the moment to consider whether it’s his place to speak first. ”We can loan our land to the Narsai’i or other tribes as needed to make 815 into a meeting place for all, but everyone must understand that it is still our land in the end and that we have the last word on how it is used.” With his piece said, Hugh’s bravery seems to desert him a little and he shrinks back into his seat.
Before he sits back down, murmurs of assent fill the room. "It is a good plan," a female says.
"We can support ourselves from charging for the land," another female points out.
"Hugh's sister has sent us some ideas on what we might do for our own people," Hiigra adds. "I will give you all the plans and we will decide on them soon."
All eyes turn to Hugh. "What do you think of these plans?" a male asks.
"And the Narsai'i?" an older male asks.
”I think…” Hugh begins, and a moment of silence, he feels Rhea’s arm on his shoulder, encouraging him. ”I think we need to carefully consider these plans. My sister and her partners have interesting ideas, but they will require more input from all of us. In a lot of places, they have simply taken the ways of Narsai and tried to scale them up, and while these are proven solutions, they may not be the best fit for us. We can trust their engineering skills, but they do not live here. In summary, I think their plan is a good one, but it is not perfect and we can work to make it better. We should not forget that this is our village and as such the plan must adopt to what we want, not the other way around. I am particularly concerned about the houses she wants to build for us. Perhaps we can make an agreement to reserve some land for a small neighbourhood of a few of those houses and build them first to see how it works out before we commit to planning an entire city around such houses.”
"That is wise," the first male replies. "We can have volunteers live in them for a few weeks."
The first elderly female speaks up again. "But what about the Narsai'i requests to build their own village here?"
"And the other chiefs?" one of the males adds.
It takes another moment and another prod for Hugh to realize they’re still asking him specifically. ”Umm...I would like to see them granted the use of some land away from the main village, so that they can set up their settlements without disrupting our village. However, this will require new roads and clearings in the jungle. In the medium term, we need to think about how much of the forest we need for hunting and gathering fruit. This will be an important question in how much this village can expand, I think. We must also consider water, and waste, and power. All of that will bring many changes. I am no engineer, however. We will have to choose someone to consider such things who has the skills to make good plans.”
"Hmph," Hiigra grunts. "That would mean a human, one that we can trust. And we will need to give the task of watching over this to a trusted elder." Hiigra looks Hugh's way. "Do you now believe that your sister is trustworthy to work on this with?"
Hugh nods. ”I do,” he says. ”She is partly motivated by a desire to impress her coworkers and gain prestige, but she is a skilled architect and planner. She draws no direct advantage from the cost of construction, and her company has a reputation for innovation and quality, so I believe the coworkers she involves can be trusted, too. I believe she will do a great job - if we give her clear goals.”
"Then I say that you should be our representative to the humans and chiefs on our village, Hugh," Hiigra says. "What do we think of this?" More assent and barks of agreement go around the room.
Hugh looks around the room to scan the faces of the village and finally nods his assent. ”Thank you for your trust,” he barks. ”I will work hard to have a more detailed proposal ready for the next meeting.”
Hiigra nods. "And there is something I need you to advise us on now. The Narsai'i have asked for the forest between here and our southern border for their exclusive use and building. They want to build a more permanent village of their own, a soldier base, with roads and their buildings and places for their flying machines. What should I tell them?"
”I am against it,” Hugh says. ”If this is to be a place of meeting and diplomacy, we cannot have the Narsai’i build a military base right next to the village. They already maintain the gateport here. I think we should grant them some land for an embassy when we have our plan for the village ready, but having a base of theirs on Whiirr is a decision that should be made by a gathering of chiefs, not our village alone.”
Hiigra nods, and there's more agreement from the rest of the village elders. "Then I will tell them - unless you would like to, elder."
The trace of an old smirk appears on Hugh’s face. ”Oh, I would love to tell them, Hiigra.”
"Then there is one last question: does Hugh speak with the authority of our village to the humans?" Hiigra asks.
The collection of elders barks an affirmative almost as one.
”Again, thank you for your trust,” Hugh says, bowing his head.
"Then we are done," Hiigra barks. "Thank you for your time. Hugh, I will direct the Narsai'i to you on their requests."

Rhea wraps her arms around Hugh and gives him a few licks as some of the other elders pat Hugh on the back. "This is so exciting!" she barks.
Hugh embraces Rhea and gives her a brief groom. ”I couldn’t have sat here without you,” he whispers to her. ”Come. I’m sure Torega will want to know everything when we tuck her in again.”
"Make sure it's for good this time," Rhea says as her fur rolls green and yellow.
Hugh smirks. ”I’ll make very sure.”

NBC World News with Brian Williams
July 24th - 1840 EST

"Tonight, in international news, the People's Republic of China has agreed to accede to the international protocols on Gateway travel in order to more fully participate in relations and expeditions out into the larger galaxy. This shift in policy from Beijing is just the start of an aggressive push to make up lost ground in the new gold rush for Imperial technology, started by Kesh Holdings in the United States. The Chinese President issued a statement earlier today on the development."
(PRC President speaking with English dubbed on top) "Today, the People's Republic of China's Alien Military Bureau takes its rightful place with the United States and their Gateway Research and Homeworld Defense Initiative in developing partnerships with our alien allies for both mutual defense and technological development. As surely as the People's Republic military might will bolster the cause of our fellow revolutionaries beyond our world, their technological prowess will ensure that the People's Republic stays at the forefront of technology for thousands of years to come."

----

GRHDI Headquarters, McLean, Virginia
July 25th, 1003 EST

"Yes, General, I'm not particularly happy about it either, but like it or not, with them dropping all export tariffs on rare earths, the Chinese just paid their way to the front of the line," Barnes says as she stands behind her desk. Ahead of her, on a large holodisplay sits Garrett Davis, working away in his office at Mesas and sharing workspace via telepresence. "If you think you're furious, talk to the Russians and the Germans, they were the ones that had their partner slots for the next two diplomatic travels to friendly worlds sniped by the PRC."
"But our boys will be in charge the whole time, Director," the general on the other end growls. "Correct?"
"Wouldn't have it any other way, General," Barnes replies, rolling her eyes as Garrett smirks and shakes his head two thousand miles away. "This is our show, the reds have to play by our rules."
"Good," the general barks. "Make sure your rent-a-soldiers know who to keep their eyes on, Director. I'll call you tomorrow for a concrete timetable to get these commies in and out as quickly as possible."
"Agreed," Barnes replies. "Tomorrow. Good day, General."

Barnes mashes the button to hang up the line and takes her seat again. "I don't like this," she grouses.
"Having to play patty-cake with the Pentagon for every mission that we need extra firepower on?" Garrett asks.
"China," Barnes says, and starts tapping her pen.
"You would be the one who knows," Garrett replies, working away at a document on his own holodisplay. "I was near East, after all. I prefer my assholes honest about their intent to kill us."
"China wouldn't piss on us if we were on fire - unless they can get one over on us in the process," Barnes says as she leans back in her chair. "They give up one of their biggest geopolitical bargaining chips to not only get in the game, but jump straight to the front of the line to get off-world. I don't get it at all, and I get very uncomfortable when China starts doing things that I don't get at all."
"You don't think that trying to catch up with Angel and Kesh Holdings is enough?" Garrett asks. "I think the Chinese tech industry shit enough bricks to build another Great Wall when Angel announced what he had put together - and then did it again when they couldn't hack into his servers to steal the tech."
"I suppose so," Barnes says with a smirk. The Sheen had made rather public the failure of various PRC-based hackers' attempts to penetrate Kesh Holding's security - YouTube videos of Sheen affecting redneck accents and blasting incoming packets while making "pew-pew" noises went viral within hours of the hack attempts. "But...something just doesn't seem right. You don't give up half of the crown jewels unless you're getting more than just a chance to play catch-up. There's something else going on here."
Garrett stops working and looks at Barnes through the vox connection. "Well, I think sending Ngawai and me over there for a bit of recon is out of the question. Have you asked the Ambassador if the Sheen have any information they're willing to share?"
Barnes nods. "All it was able to share was that there has been even less Internet traffic than usual in several remote parts of western China - which isn't all that uncommon, unfortunately."
"Then I guess all we can do is wait and watch," Garrett replies. "I'll instruct our agents to keep an extra eye on our Chinese guests during the missions."
Barnes crosses her arms and sighs. "About all we can do, I guess."

Once the immediate aftermath of the village assault got cleaned up and the bad guys sorted from the locals for detaining and questioning, Luis laid out the standing orders for the Sheen: establishing a holding area for the captured hostiles, setting up liaison with the village, and laying down patrol and logistics to settle into the village for a potentially extended stay. The displeasure the Sheen express is clear, but these routine operations are the real objective of the test - not that Luis lets that on. The Sheen grumble and moan, of course - hauling in the Sheen server and charging stations and setting them up is stated as worse than, in order: sitting in the hangar, sitting in the Narsai’i transports, sitting in deep space, and being disconnected and sensorless in deep space. Still, the basics for Sheen support go up fairly quickly.

The real test comes the day after that first day - with doors still kicked in and the memories of that day fresh in everyone’s minds, it’s time for the Sheen to meet the local leaders - played by some now-slightly-nervous members of Bashakra’i intelligence. They asked for a meeting in the intersection at the center of the town, a dusty square with a few dozen humans milling about, pretending to be working, eating, and so on. It looks convincing enough to Luis’ ocular implants, though. The humans don’t have to pretend too hard on how disconcerting the Sheen presence there is. On top of the human-sized four-legged shells patrolling the ground, a half-dozen others are sunning themselves on the rooftops, their dendritic solar collectors extended as they lay lazily in the sun. Luis looks on from video and audio feeds from the Sheen sent as liaisons. Part of him wants to be down there to try and smooth things himself as he can, but if the Sheen are going to screw this sort of thing up, better now than in the field. Instead, he contents himself with listening in and wondering what Angel and his planning team have lying in wait for his Sheen.

Grey Goo Scenario, wearing its least-threatening shell, ambles up to the table on bipedal legs away from the four other Sheen escorting it. The four Bashakra’i “villagers” sit there, snacking on dried bread and spiced vinegar, stop and give it an uneasy look. “Hello,” Grey says. “I am Grey Goo Scenario, and I am here to talk about how things will go in this village for the time being.”
“You mean our village,” one of the women snaps, her eyes narrowing at the sensors in Grey’s chestplate.
“Hey, we kicked your ass,” one of the guarding Sheen replies.
“And you think that gives you the right to tell us what to do?” one of the men cries. “These are our homes!”
“Shut the fuck up!” Grey shouts at the Sheen. Luis winces, waiting to see if Grey Goo can bring things back under control. “I apologize,” it says, turning back to the villagers. “Yes, I mean your village. We are here to help protect you from the humans that were threatening you before.”
“Only those that stood in their way,” the other man grumbles.
“But they were not one of us, either,” the eldest human, a woman with greying hair, adds. She levels a cool gaze at Grey - unlike the others, she doesn’t seem afraid of the eight-foot-tall black robot. “What do you propose?”
“We patrol the town, bring in supplies, and leave you all alone as much as possible,” Grey says. “We don’t want to get involved in your human business - but there are probably still some of you that will attack us, and we are here to secure this village. If that happens, we will -”
“You will come to us,” the woman says, standing up. She strides directly in front of Grey. “And we will discuss what will be done.”
“Not going to happen,” Grey replies. “If any of you four are involved, then...that would be kind of stupid of us, wouldn’t it?”
“What are you going to do?” the woman shouts. “Do you want to fight us all? Huh?”
Luis winces. More diplomatic, less blunt, Grey, Luis thinks. Don’t screw this whole thing up.
“No!” Grey shouts in surprise. “No, we don’t. We...uhh…” Luis, and everyone else watching, are party to a very rare occasion - a Sheen pausing for thought in human time scale. “We are here to protect everyone. You...err...you said that they were not exactly friendly to your people? Uh, what happened there?”
The woman takes a step back, and gets back into the script she was given. “They came here, about three days ago. They flew into the square, pointed their beamers at us and said that they were now in charge, that they were here to fight the Narsai’i and their robots. Some of us were not exactly pleased with this - we don’t care about your stupid war - but they made their point...forcefully.” The other three members of the little impromptu council all go sour at that. “After we buried the dead, we simply stayed out of their way.”
“Well, yeah, that’s kinda fucked up, yeah?” Grey says.
The leader furrows her brow, but nods. “Yes, I would say that could be called ‘fucked up’.”
“And...you don’t want that to happen again, right?”
She takes an aggressive step towards Grey. “Are you threatening us, robot?”
“No!” Grey shouts, back on the defensive. “We’re...we can help make sure that doesn’t happen again? If you let us protect you?”
She glares at it again. “And you will let the supplies through? And you will not just barge into our houses?”
“We will keep your village supplied, and we will try to give you a heads-up on raids,” Grey says. “But I will not promise every time.”
“Hmph.” The woman looks Grey over with the stink eye. “I suppose that is as good as we can expect from the likes of you. Very well.” She turns to walk back towards the table. “First, you can rebuild what you have damaged.”
“Wait, what?” Grey asks, exasperated.
“The houses you damaged - they will need repairs,” the woman says as she takes a seat. “You broke them, they are your responsibility. And the families that live there will need a place to stay.”
Grey pauses, and even though Sheen don’t breathe, Luis could swear he saw it sigh. “Yes. Let us know, we will take care of it.” It turns to leave.
“My name is Hana, by the way,” the woman says.
Grey stops and turns back. “Oh. Yes. It is good to meet you, Hana.”
Hana scoffs again. “We shall see.”
“I guess so,” Grey replies, and turns to go. Luis sees the Sheen network burst with traffic again--apparently he wasn’t the only one holding metaphorical breath through the exchange. Despite the rough edges, Grey did well at not rising to the bait and recovered handily. He’s proud to see that, especially since diplomacy wasn’t something the Sheen were told to expect or that they practiced in the training. He flashes off a message to Grey Goo with his vox: Well done. Some rough edges, but well-handled. Let me know when Hana passes along the repair list and habitat requirements so we can factor it into our planning.
Will do. That was some fucking bullshit. Grey replies.
You defused it, though, Luis sends back. And it’ll be easier to hold here if we can keep working with them amicably.
We’ll see how long that lasts, Grey replies. Grey out.
“Indeed we will,” Luis says to himself. This operation certainly won’t be simple if Angel and the planner have a say, but so far, it’s not too shabby, and could certainly be going worse. “And that’s gotta count for something.”