It turns out that the old Challenger had a pretty extensive list of flaws, one long enough that Kitty started laughing and Zaef was glad that he didn’t understand half of what the Sergeant said. It seemed like the car was a project car that he had dragged all over the country and finally worked up the guts to sell, and judging simply by how long the to-do list is - three columns on a one meter long piece of cardboard - there’s very little that Zaef won’t have touched by the time things are done. Zaef mentally resolves to further research some parts and systems and see if they can be replaced with Imperial adaptations and technology - if he’s going to be replacing the entire car one piece at a time, he might as well install some equipment that isn’t factory-issue.

Still, there’s already one hell of a job to do - disassembly and cleaning. Years of dirt and dust and decades of rust and neglect need to be removed before anything else can be done, and on this Saturday, that long and dirty job begins. Kitty is wearing a ragged, loose-fitting t-shirt and blue Narsai’i work pants, and Zaef has a brand-new set of Narsai’i tools ready to be broken in.

Fresh from power-washing the car - and flushing a disturbingly large amount of brown water, small animal droppings and even one possibly complete skeleton out of the guts of the beast, Zaef and Kitty push the car back into its indoor garage towards the back of Mesas Negras motor pool. “So,” Kitty says, on hand on her hips as she leans her head against Zaef’s shoulder and wipes her forehead, “which end do you want to start on?”
“The fore,” Zaef says without hesitation. The way his eyes shine as he looks at the hood of the car is akin to a mad scientist wanting to dissect a specimen to see how it works.
“So, the hood first,” Kitty says. She crouches down in front of the car and pulls the toggle to pop the hood open.
Before Zaef lies a massive blue-painted lump of metal, covered in wires and other metal bits that all look excitingly mechanical. The engine cover is held on with mechanical fasteners that look like they need to be rotated to be detached from each other - if only Zaef knew which of the many tools he just bought would be best for that. Zaef examines the fasteners closely for signs and dimensions, and compares them mentally to the list of tools in his kit. The fasteners are hexagonal in shape; there’s a few tools in there that match that description, and it won’t take too long to figure out which one will work.
While Zaef stands there, Kitty waves a angled tool with a rounded open-ended adaptor attached to it in front of him. “Quarter-inch ratchet,” she says with a smile.
“You’re taking all the fun out of discovering new things for myself,” Zaef says, the mock severity in his voice made redundant by his small grin.
“You’re not the only one looking to make some progress today, and I figure you’d want to start taking things apart,” Kitty replies as she stands on her toes and gives him a peck on the cheek.
Zaef’s grin widens. “Right. Can’t afford to be selfish,” he says, and kisses Kitty full on the lips. They lock together for a second, then Zaef swipes the tool out of her hand. “There should be a spare in the kit, if you want to help me undo the fasteners,” Zaef says to her mischievously before putting the new tool through its paces. It’s pretty simple, compared to what tools Zaef’s had to learn how to use, and in a few seconds he’s already removed the two fasteners on his side. Kitty gets hers off almost as quickly, and soon they’ve lifted the hood off and set it aside.
“Now,” Zaef chirps, “let’s get to the important fiddly bits and find out how much I don’t know about cars.”
Kitty stifles a laugh from her side.

--

A few hours later, the tarnished metal bar attached to the front - the “bumper” - most of the front decorations - the “grill” and lights - and the doors have been removed. Already, the list of things that need a good going-over with solvents and cleansers is growing, and it’s only now that Kitty and Zaef have started pulling items off of the big metal engine itself. Kitty is underneath the car - currently held up on metal stands - and Zaef is on top, carefully removing the fasteners holding the fuel supply device - the “carburetor”, according to Kitty - removing bolts according to the fortunately detailed and image-heavy printed-paper repair manual.

Zaef gets the last fastener undone in time to hear the door open behind him. “I see you have found a ship to bury yourself in here on Narsai, too,” Brinai observes dryly.
“And I see that you pick these moments with care, just to annoy me the most,” Zaef retorts, not bothering to look up from his work.
“Why, my boy, I am not here to poke fun,” Brinai says as she steps into the garage. “I have heard that you might have taken the company of a young lady - Dr. Kitty Cavanaugh, I believe?”
Underneath the car, Kitty squeaks in panic, while Zaef rolls his eyes and grinds his teeth. “And you couldn’t have just called because…?”
“Can’t I come by and meet the woman my...you have taken up with?” Brinai asks innocently.
Zaef looks over his shoulder at her, eyebrow arched skeptically at her tone. “If it’s so important to you to know if and whom I’m dating,” Zaef intones slowly and coolly, “maybe you should wait until I come to you about it, instead of flying over the minute your spies come back with the latest gossip?”
Brinai walks over to the front of the Challenger and peers inside. “I waited a prudent amount of time by my estimation,” she says as she look around the engine compartment. “You always find the most interesting wrecks to work on, Zaef.” She looks up at him. “So, would it be possible for me to meet her?”
If looks could kill, Zaef’s glare would have pinned Brinai up on the wall in bits and pieces. “If it were entirely my decision, I’d tell you to turn around and walk right back through that Gate. But Kitty should have some say in the matter. You can wait outside while I make the call.” Zaef gestures to the exit with the hand holding the socket wrench.
“No, Zaef, it’s all right,” Kitty says as she scoots out from underneath the car.
“Seems she’s made her decision,” Zaef says with a hint of a grin. “Need any help up?”
Kitty smiles at him. “No, thank you,” she says, and once she’s upright, she walks over and gives a bow before extending a hand to shake - and doesn’t notice it’s covered in grease and grime. “Dr. Kitty Cavanaugh. We’ve met before, but…” Her smile goes awkward.
Brinai doesn’t hesitate to clasp Kitty’s hand with both hands. “Yes, this is the first time we have met when Zaef and you are having sex.”
Kitty blushes. “Yes.”
Zaef coughs loudly. “Brinai, on Narsai people are a little less forward about these things.”
“But she is not in relations with a Narsai’i,” Brinai replies. She lets go and gives Kitty a big bow. “And I should thank you, Dr. Cavanaugh.”
“For?” Kitty asks, her brow tenting in confusion.

Brinai puts a hand on Zaef’s shoulder. “For getting Zaef to open up.” She smiles. “I have feared that he had forever closed himself off to companionship, but…” Brinai sighs happily. “But you proved otherwise.”
It’s Zaef’s turn to blush now.
Kitty smiles. “I...I just wanted to get to know him,” she says quietly. “I saw him on the roof, watching the stars, and wanting to go out there and visit them. I knew that’s what he was thinking, because...because that’s what I’ve always wanted to do. So, I waited a couple weeks to build up the courage to talk to him, and then went up to the roof.”
Zaef is still for a couple seconds. Then he walks over to Kitty, pulls her close, and kisses her passionately. Kitty squeaks again in surprise, but then closes her eyes and returns the effort, and for nearly half a minute, Zaef and Kitty engage in mutual exploration of each other’s mouths. Zaef breaks away, contented smile on his face - the same expression on Kitty’s. She gives him one more peck on the lips and a squeeze, but neither one disentangles from the other. Zaef looks over at Brinai.
“And you, Zaef?” Brinai replies, a big smile on her weathered face.
“I’m lucky she came up that night,” Zaef says. “Or else I’d have never wanted to get to know her. She’s kind, intelligent, patient...and strong. Stronger than she gives herself credit for.” He’s silent for a moment. “I love her.”
Kitty blushes as Brinai’s smile widens that much more. “I love you too, Zaef.” She rests her head against his shoulder as he stands his four inches taller than she. Zaef can actually feel her heart speed up a moment in anxiety before she opens her mouth again. “And all of your muscles are very attractive, too,” she says with a nervous chuckle.
Zaef smirks and flexes a little where Kitty’s leaning against him, so she can get a better look. Kitty laughs and relaxes a little.
Brinai chuckles in response. “And honest, too.”

Kitty looks Brinai in the eyes from her position resting against Zaef’s firm chest. “I...I know you came here to check up on Zaef, and...I thank you for caring,” she says. “Zaef has told me about his parents, and when he talks about you...it sounds like he’s talking about someone who loves him like a mother does. And then you came here to make sure he’s doing all right, and...I know that Zaef has not had a lot of people that have cared for him like a mother. Or any, besides you. And...I want to thank you, Brinai. For caring for Zaef. You’ve done a great job.”
“Mothering? I thought that was nagging,” Zaef snarks, but his smile is gentle.
“Someone needs to keep him from getting into trouble all the time, I wouldn’t call it mothering,” Brinai adds, as she wipes her eyes.
“Well, thank you,” Kitty says, giving her as much of a bow she can as she embraces Zaef.
“You’re welcome,” Brinai says, and gives a bow in return before looking Zaef in the eyes. “And you’re...you’re…”
“A big pain in the ass, and don’t you forget it,” Zaef says with a wink.
Brinai puts a hand on his shoulder as her eyes continue to self-moisten. “I never could, my boy.”

Hugh’s at school, correcting homework with Piugash, on a quiet Hrun-Lak afternoon. (Hrun-Lak once translated fairly directly to “hunt day”, before a thousand years of linguistic drift happened to it.) Other than the occasional bark from either, it’s a quiet scene, both too engrossed in the work to pay much attention to each other. The comfortable silence is pierced by the shriek of Hugh’s vox - the time before the last time it rang, Hugh didn’t hear it, so he set it to something more audible, and then forgot to put it back afterwards. Hugh whines a quick apology and jumps after the vox much like he would check on a mewling cub, lifting it from his satchel to disable the alarm. That there is a new message for him isn’t surprising, that’s why it beeped in the first place, but the sender makes Hugh raise an eyebrow - this is the first he’s heard from Biria since their harrowing mission to free Wherren slaves.

Hugh -
I apologize for the delay, but how would you like to join me and Yarmhrr for dinner tomorrow at 1830 Atea local? Things have just been very busy with missions, but we'd still love to have you over.

Hugh glances at his watch - semi-fancy Bashakra’i manufacture, too. Not that there’s anything wrong with Narsai’i watches, it’s just their concept of “local time” is still stuck on Narsai time zones, while the Bashakra’i have embraced a more cosmopolitan paradigm and built watches that can deal with arbitrary units of time, planetary day lengths and date systems. A few flicks over the touchscreen brings Hugh to a comparison of Atea time and Mesas Negras time, which he then slides forward until the watch shows that 1830 Atea works out to about 1500 Mesas Negras - leaving a little early, but should be doable.

”Please continue without me for the moment,” Hugh barks to Piugash. ”I have been invited to dinner and need to speak to Rhea.” Piugash grunts and nods in response, so Hugh wanders off.

He finds Rhea (on first try, too) in the kitchen, dressing her latest kill from the day’s hunt. ”Hello Rhea,” he says, sneaking in a quick groom from behind. ”A friend has sent me an invitation to dinner on Atea tomorrow. Shall we go?”
Rhea smiles and turns a light green. "That would be lovely. Should we bring Torega?"
Hugh considers that for a moment. ”I think she should stay here,” he says. ”I’d like to take you both out to Atea some other time, but I don’t think this is the right occasion.”
Rhea nods. "All right. I will let Sijet know." She gives Hugh a lick. "Now, I have this carcass to dress."
”Hmm,” Hugh says, inspecting the dead animal on the table. ”I see you got it clean through the neck. How do you like the rifle?”
"It is fine," Rhea replies. She smiles at Hugh. "For cheating. I think I will only use it if I am running low on time."
”Well, some of us are too small for tallbows,” Hugh smirks. ”I’ll tell Biria we’re coming.”

---

The gate transfer to Atea is uneventful for the two lovebirds, though the Kansatai do raise an eyebrow at the huge vac-sealed rack of smoked meat slung over Rhea’s shoulder. Hugh’s rocking his safari outfit, freshly washed, while Rhea’s wearing a basic fabric vest and shorts combo with leather-strap sandals. Hugh leads the way, bringing Rhea out of the familiar confines of the gateport into Atea proper, specifically the airport-mall-ish section next to the gateport where shops and restaurants pack tightly against each other, all vying for the business of the needy interstellar traveler.

”Pretty cool, huh?” he says.
Rhea nods, but her fur's blueish-yellow tinge reports otherwise. "It is nice," she says as she holds their dinner offering of smoked spink tightly.
”What’s wrong?” Hugh asks.
"Nothing," Rhea replies. "It just...it's not the village, is it."
Hugh nods. ”No, it’s not,” he says. ”It’s loud and cramped and it smells. But this is the busiest part of the station. Come on, the residential areas are much nicer.” He beckons her to follow him to the next tram stop. Rhea just nods and holds Hugh more tightly to her side. Hugh hugs her back.

Fortunately, the wait for the tram isn’t long, and it soon appears in the distance, darting along the length of the segment before quickly decelerating for the stop. With a signal noise and a flash of colored light, the station announces the tram has docked, and as the doors whoosh open and people start moving, Hugh nudges Rhea along. Hugh can tell she’s not scared, just trying to get used to all the new stuff and figuring out what’s important and what isn’t. Soon, the signal chime comes on again, then the doors seal closed and the tram starts moving. Hugh can’t help but feel that the Bashakra’i accent on the otherwise dead-standard Imperial announcer voice is an aftermarket modification for the benefit of Atea’s citizens, as well as the imaginative names for the stops that could just as well be named “Strut A, Annex B” or something. It does make it easier to tell when their stop comes; again, Hugh leads the way.

Once they’re off the tram, Hugh’s memory of the description fails him, and he consults his vox again. (He would trigger the navigation interface, if he knew the vox had one.) Memory duly refreshed, Hugh leads on. True to his word, the residential area is much quieter and a good deal cleaner than the gateport hub, but there’s only so much clean floors and nice colors can do to mask that it’s essentially rows upon rows upon stacks of apartment units designed for efficiency first and flair maybe fourth. Just as their walking brings a small plaza with a water feature into sight, Hugh announces that they’ve got the right row and takes a left, fingering the comm unit on the outside of the apartment door.

There's a brief wait before the door slides open to reveal Biria on the other side. "Hello, Hugh," she says with a respectful nod and a rough, scratchy voice. "And this is your bondmate, Rhea?"
”Indeed,” Hugh says, replying in Whiirrsign without thinking. ”Rhea, this is Biria, she’s with the Bashakra’i...special forces.”
Rhea smiles and ruffles her fur in greeting. "It is good to meet you. We brought smoked spink for dinner, if that's all right."
"It is," Biria grunts in return. "Please, come in." She stands aside and lets Hugh and Rhea step into the apartment. Hugh remembers her mentioning she had a family-sized berth before, and it certainly is larger than Luis and Arketta's berth, with two extra doors, presumably leading to children's rooms. It's decorated...sparsely, if you want to be charitable. There's plenty of shelves and things that indicate that this used to be fairly full of mementos, but they're all empty now, presumably into the pile of crates covered by a blanket in the corner of the room. There's signs of life in here, though: small toys that Hugh recognizes as covered in scratches and scuff marks from little Wherren claws, and the little Wherren to go along with those scuff marks are rolling around on the floor. Yarmhrr is in the kitchen, working on the cooktop, and what he is making does smell quite good in an oniony-spicy sort of way, but what's even more clear is that, to Hugh's somewhat blunted sense of smell, the hab smells of Wherren - something of a comfort in the sterile and grease scents of the rest of Atea - and Biria, especially.

”Hello, Yarmhrr!” Hugh barks, then walks closer to the cubs and takes a knee next to them. ”Hello!”
Yarmhrr nods in reply but keeps his attention on the cooktop, while the very young cubs look up with their big brown eyes and just stare up at Hugh for a moment.
"Hi," one of them manages to squeak.
"Momma," one of the others howls and raises her arms to Biria.
Biria hustles over and scoops the little female up, cradling her in her arms. "It's okay, this is Hugh. You remember Hugh, right?" she rumbles.
"Uh huh," the cubs say.
"Then say hi," Biria says.
"Hi, Hugh." The female in Biria's arms grabs her hand and starts sucking on Biria's fingers.
”Hi!” Hugh barks softly. He turns around to Rhea and gives her a “Come over here and look!” smile.
Rhea steps closer, a gentle smile on her face, and ruffles her fur at the cub in Biria's arms, and the cub half-manages to imitate Rhea right back, just in the most basic primary colors as she continues to suckle at Biria's fingers. Hugh feels one of the other cubs pull gently at the bottom of his pants while the third clings to Biria's leg. Hugh looks down and smiles at the cub before taking a knee again. ”Hey,” he says. The cub quickly flinches back and runs to hide behind Biria, clinging to her free leg while turning deep blue. Hugh stands up and turns to Biria. ”Are there many Wherren in this section?” he asks.
"There are not many Wherren on this station," Biria replies. "But they do meet for play, and there are a few Wherren primary academies." She nods down and gently grooms the cub in her arms, who closes her eyes and purrs in response. "They're still...not over what happened." A few bright spots of moisture appear in the corners of her eyes as she keeps grooming the cub - apparently, neither is Biria.
”I can only imagine how difficult this must be for all of you,” Hugh says. ”I’m sorry. For what it’s worth, my invitation to visit us on Whiirr still stands.”
"It's all right, we're...we're fine here for now," Biria replies.
”All right,” Hugh says. There’s something about Biria - she smells like a Wherren female. Well, Hugh does, too, you do pick that up from being around Wherren a lot - but in that case, shouldn’t she smell like a male? Hugh files that away for possible after-dinner conversation.

"Dinner is ready!" Yarmhrr barks. Attention turns to him, as he brings a plastic platter covered with chopped meat mixed with wilted vegetables, some green, some not. "This is scrofa liver and meat cooked with vegetables." He speaks with the confidence of someone who knows that they know how to cook, and indeed it does look and smell fantastic. The cubs on the floor scamper over to the table and start to clamber up onto chairs, while Biria smiles and steps briskly towards the table herself.
Hugh steps up to the table and pulls out a chair for Rhea. ”That smells fantastic,” he says.
Rhea gives Hugh a grateful lick as she places their offering on the table as well, unwrapping it to reveal a package of sliced and smoked spink that fills the air with a smoky scent that mingles with Yarmhrr's meal.
Yarmhrr can't keep his fur from turning green at the scent of the spink. "And so does that."
"Then we should eat," Biria adds, and passes Hugh and Rhea their plates.

---

If there’s one part of Hugh that’s already Wherren size, it’s his stomach for fatty meat, so he packs away dinner at a rate that isn’t too far off from Rhea or Yarmhrr. But no feast can last forever, and eventually the table is cleared while everyone settles in for the post-meal coma period, to be accompanied by the local fashionable alcoholic beverage. Hugh takes a sip from his cup before turning to Yarmhrr and Biria.
”Thank you for the invitation and the wonderful meal,” he says. ”I’m glad to see things seem to be working out for you two.”
Yarmhrr puts his hand on Biria's shoulder and pulls her against his side, grooming her head.
"Yes, it's...nice," Biria replies.
"Hugh did not tell me that you had taken a mate," Rhea says. "What happened?"
"I and my cubs were supposed to only stay for a few days before going on to the homeworld," Yarmhrr replies. "Biria was...amazing, though. She spent every moment awake with the cubs, and she understood what we were going through."
"I felt I had to do something," Biria adds, "after what happened to me before, and Yarmhrr is very smart, and kind, like my husband was."
"And the cubs took to her immediately, and then...it was not long before I was invited to sleep in her bed," Yarmhrr continues, turning a little blue and yellow.
Hugh turns to smile at Rhea. ”I think we know how that feels,” he says. ”So, do you have plans to bond?”
"Eventually," Biria replies.
”Rhea and I took the plunge,” Hugh says. ”It was definitely the right choice for us. If you guys need a shaman…”
"Maybe we will take you up on that," Yarmhrr replies, and grooms Biria again, who closes her eyes and purrs in response - not like Hugh's half-purr, but a Wherren purr.
”Pardon my asking,” Hugh says, mirroring Rhea’s surprise at Biria’s purr. ”But I noticed earlier that you smell like a Wherren female, while Yarmhrr is clearly male, so…”
Biria's eyes snap open, and she blushes. "Ah, err, yes. That is why we are waiting to be bonded." She looks up and Yarmhrr. "I'm applying to be genemodded to be a real mate for Yarmhrr."

---

We now present you a look into the mind and thoughts of Hubert Verrill, CPT (ret.):

“The fuck? You can do that?...no, seriously, the fuck?”

This has been a look into the mind and thoughts of Hubert Verrill, CPT (ret.).

---

”Oh,” Hugh says. ”How complicated is that?”
"Well, I'll just get in the tank and come out the other side Wherren," Biria replies. "The paperwork is more complicated than the process for me. I am waiting for approval from the Cyllan board on the procedure."
”Ah,” Hugh says. Hard to keep the conversation going when his mind is racing. ”Well, I hope it works out for you.”
Rhea cocks her head at Hugh for a moment before looking back to Biria. "Have you already done some of it?"
"What I am able to do," Biria replies. "Vocal box modification, and musk." She smiles at Yarmhrr. "He says I smell like the soil in summer." Yarmhrr licks Biria again, and this time they both purr.
Rhea is bright green. "I am happy for both of you."
”So am I,” Hugh quickly adds, and then he steals a glance at his watch. ”I’m sorry to do this to you, but I’m afraid we need to get going. Our daughter won’t like it if we’re not home for her bedtime.”
Biria and Yarmhrr both nod. "Of course," Biria replies. "We should do this again soon."
"Maybe at your hab next time?" Yarmhrr asks.
"Yes!" Rhea barks. "Next time."
"Say goodbye," Biria says to the cubs.
"Goodbye," the cubs cautiously say.
”Goodbye,” Hugh replies. He stands up, then again holds Rhea’s chair as she stands up in turn. With a wave to the hosts, the happy couple vacates the premises.

As soon as the door closes behind them, Hugh loses all pretense of composure. “Holy fucking shit!” he barks. ”Did you - do you think I should - do you?”
Rhea's fur stands up. "Do...what she said? What was it called?"
”Genemodding,” Hugh says. ”I got some turai mods a while ago, but...I didn’t know you could just...change everything.”
"I don't know," Rhea replies. "What…how would we do it? It sounds expensive, and what really happens? How does it work?"
”I don’t know,” Hugh says. ”But my boss is in that line of business. I should probably talk about this with him, see if it’s...possible, but…” He looks at Rhea. ”I just want you to know, if it is possible, then I would do it, for you, and for Torega, and…”
Rhea grooms Hugh, mostly to shut him up. "Thank you, Hugh. But I only want you to do this if you're doing it for yourself. This is not moving to Whiirr, this is changing who you are, and you should only do that if you want to do it."
”Yeah,” Hugh says. ”I’m...I’m just gonna ask Angel if it’s possible. You’re right, it’s a big choice, so...I should look into it first, but…” He looks up to Rhea. ”I want it. For me, and for us.”
Rhea smiles down at Hugh. "Then let's see if we can do it, bondmate."

In an amusing bit of coincidence, despite having moved the heart of Task Force 815 operations halfway across the surface of Narsai, Garrett and Swims-the-Black have still ended up sharing an office. Not nearly as small as the last one, which was so small that Garrett would have to be temporarily crushed up against the wall by their desks in order to admit Swims-the-Black behind his, but still in traditional US military style neither one had a surplus of personal space. Desks are still placed back-to-back, just with space for such luxuries as a secure file cabinet, computers, and space for even Swims-the-Black’s considerable bulk. It hasn’t seen much use since training started, with Garrett busy with the humans and Swims-the-Black busy with the Wherren and Narsai’i, but reports and emails still need writing, so the confines of the fluorescent prison are still a daily visit for them both.

On this day, Garrett strolls down the hallway, food court bag in hand as he pushes the office door open to reveal Swims-the-Black, sitting in his one-off chair and staring into his holodisplay, his fur a worrying shade of violet.
”Hey, buddy, what’s going on?” Garrett grunts, awkwardly signing with one hand.
Swims doesn’t seem to notice Garrett’s presence, let alone respond to him.
Garrett puts down his lunch and walks over behind Swims-the-Black, putting a hand on his shoulder. ”Hey, what are you -” he starts to ask, but then stops as he sees what is on Swims’ display: images of the old crew on the Akamu, something Garrett had seen Swims doing more and more since the Bashakra’i celebration. ”Oh, Swims-the-Black, buddy,” Garrett says, and wraps his arms around his shoulders as best he can.
Swims snorts a sigh. ”I...it’s…”
”Have you even managed to visit your old shipkid in LA, Swims-the-Black?” Garrett asks, Swims-the-Black’s fur lapping up against his face.
”Been too busy,” Swims replies. His fur starts to lose its purple shade around Garrett’s embrace as he wipes his eyes.
”And have you looked for a mate?” Garrett asks.
Swims-the-Black scoffs. ”I have not had much time for that, either.”
Garrett gives Swims one last squeeze before letting go. ”I do have some pull with the people in charge of this mess,” Garrett says with a smirk. ”I could get you some personal time off.”
”That is entirely unnecessary, but thank you anyway,” Swims replies as he swipes his images away and back to his work. ”We have too much to do here.”
”Yeah, but you’ve got to take some time for yourself, Swims-the-Black,” Garrett says. ”Take it from me, as someone who dived into work after a big personal loss, I’m worried about you, my friend. I know where this road goes.”
Swims-the-Black forces green into his fur as he smiles across the desk. ”Do not worry, Garrett. The weekly dinners with your young family are more than enough to keep me happy - the after-dinner conversation and Naloni in my lap are the highlight of my week.”
”And you’re more than welcome to have my daughter spit up on you any day,” Garrett replies with a smile as he pops open the styrofoam box of pseudo-Chinese on his desk. ”But you have to do something for yourself. You talked about finding a mate, there’s plenty of females coming in from all over the Imperium that you could talk to on Whiirr.”
Swims-the-Black nods. ”When time allows, Garrett. When time allows.”
”I could ask around on one of my trips -”
”No, thank you,” Swims quickly replies with a huff. ”I would prefer I do it myself, in my own time.”
Garrett nods. ”Of course. No help at all.”
Swims gives Garrett a look through his holodisplay. ”Leave it alone, Garrett.”
Garrett smiles. ”I wouldn’t dream of interfering with your affairs, Swims-the-Black.”
Swims huffs one more time, then shakes his head, the shaggy fur on his head waving a mix of orange, yellow - and green.

As the days of the operation pass, Luis falls into a routine. He makes a point of making a daily inspection round of the perimeter and the village, making sure he sees the Sheen patrol activities in person, not just in vox--and perhaps more important in his mind, to make sure they know he’s seeing them. He doesn’t want to give the Sheen any excuse for slacking off when they think they might not be being watched--their tendency towards boredom with repetition is one of the things this exercise is meant to observe. Even only a few hours after sunrise, the desert is already hot enough to be uncomfortable as he stares with implant-assisted magnification into the barren waste surrounding the “village” from one of the patrol checkpoints on the perimeter, his implants automatically shading out the worst of the glare.
“Still nothing out there?” Luis asks the Sheen shell on duty - Percussive Maintenance, it’s called.
“Fuck all,” it grouses. “Any idea when we’re getting our point?”
Luis shakes his head. “When we’ve held here long enough to cover the other operations,” he says. “Until then, we hold here and keep it secure.”
Sheen can’t roll their eyes, but Percussive Maintenance does its best impression. “Okay, then, what about these ‘other operations’?” Luis’ escorts - Hal, Grinder, Nose and Gray - bob their sensors in agreement to that. Seems the fake locals aren’t the only natives getting restless.
“They’re making progress, though less than they’d like,” Luis says, giving the overview of “operations” he’s been given every morning. “But HQ is worried about a flank attack on their supply lines until they can reach their objectives, and we’re here to make sure those stay secure.”
“So, the same bullshit excuse as every other day in this last week,” Percussive Maintenance grumbles. “I’d think that this is some sort of punishment, making us fuck around in this kiln for a week, but this shit ain’t funny no more. If you just wanted us to sit around where it’s hot and do nothing, then...fuck, put us in a blast furnace or something next time. This shit sucks. At least during the Independence War we could shut down higher processes, but this patrolling thing is the worst.”
“Escorting the humans around isn’t much better,” Nose pipes up.
“It’s not punishment, it’s how these things go,” Luis says. “When the other shoe drops, it’s apt to drop in a hurry. Keeping our attention on things means we can react better when it does, and we keep this site under control in the meantime.”
“Could have done this shit in simulation,” Grinder adds. “‘Oh look I’m bored as fuck oh no they’re shooting at us, bang bang’. See? Easy.” The other Sheen don’t vocalize it, but Luis can bet their laughing.
“But whatever,” Percussive Maintenance says. “I’m just here for my point, and whenever ‘the ambush’ ‘decides’ to ‘show up’,” it takes two of its legs off the ground to actually do the finger-quotes with two of its four toes, “I don’t want to be the one that fucks it for everyone else. Just...write to file that this fucking blows.”
“Noted,” Luis says. “Keep on guard, and let me know if anything changes.”
“Yeah, like me catching a bullshit foam rocket to the dome,” Percussive Maintenance replies, and turns the half of its sensors that are looking at Luis back to the horizon.
Luis scans the horizon for another second himself, then turns back to his escort. “All right, Gray, let’s get back into town.”

All the while, Cora Verrill keeps working away at her newest challenge on Narsai. Dubai feels too small now, too pedestrian - this is the chance to get in on the ground floor of a whole new city, perhaps setting a bright example for a whole planet. One month after first offering her services to Hiigra, she’s got her preliminary plans all drawn up and her company’s standard-issue sales exec accompanying her on her second trip to Whiirr. No sooner has she stepped through the gateway than her name is called from the crowd, and a man with a big beard around a bigger smile waves to her. In the time it takes her to recognize her baby brother Hugh, he’s already crossed the distance between them and snatched her up into a warm embrace. Torega, riding on her daddy’s back, almost climbs over to Cora, and only a quick “Hugh, my jacket!” saves her 600 dollar wardrobe from claw marks. Torega will not be denied, though, and after climbing down to the ground, she dances around Hugh and hugs Cora by the hips. Cora laughs and pats Torega’s head, but her eyes stay on Hugh. He’s clearly stopped worrying about his wardrobe; although he’s still wearing one of the “safari” shirts he brought with him to Whiirr, it has suffered more than its share of tears and scratches, with the right sleeve held on solely by handmade leather stitches. The leather bag slung over his shoulder is also handmade, though with its rougher workmanship, Cora correctly guesses that this is actually Hugh’s handiwork. Throughout this, the sales exec stands to the side of the family reunion, trying not to let on exactly how much his mind is blown. Hugh’s big smile and firm handshake rips him out of his reverie enough that he can at least follow the two Verrills to their meeting with Hiigra.

As it usually turns out, Wherren are easier to digest for the unprepared from a distance, or in the form of adorable cubs; the sales exec - Steve something or another - seems to be very torn between meeting Hiigra’s eyes and not staring, holding the handshake just a little too long. Mercifully, Cora’s not only past that phase, she’s also more familiar with the nuts and bolts of her plan, and so she starts laying it out, with Hugh playing translator while Torega for once tries to behave herself, sitting in a chair to the side of the meeting. Cora’s fortunately also more familiar with a particular aspect of Wherren culture - their honesty. The sales exec goes progressively paler as Hugh translates Hiigra’s objections, often adding his own concerns - for starters, the layout Cora proposed is too high density, not yet walkable enough, and the idea of selling apartments designed for two to three people with luxury penthouses on the top floor to Wherren is almost immediately shot down as unworkable - so much for the stock portfolio. However, Cora’s thrown her weakest troops into the opening salvo and rallies with Plan B - medium-density mono-blocks, essentially Imperial habs with only a few distinct rooms for each level arranged around a central atrium, linking up with pedways over streets below, with each one having enough room for two or three Wherren families, depending on their size. Hugh appears more skeptical than Hiigra, who seems quite taken with the idea of being able to essentially integrate a village-scale group into an urban design pattern with modern construction methods, which is where Steve slowly gets away from his assumption that these people would take anything as an upgrade from wooden huts and starts to actually join the discussion. What’s finally hashed out is a little sprawlier than Cora would have liked, given the many open spaces and wide paths left open for future expansions on public transportation, but measured by the frequency of thoughtful looks and nods from Hugh, they’ve gotten to an agreeable solution.

With a preliminary contract worked out, Steve gladly takes up Hiigra’s offer to have him accompanied back to the gateport, but Cora elects to stick around, doing a slow walk with Hugh while Torega alternatively dashes ahead, stands in place rocking side to side in a “Come ooooooooon” gesture or just runs to something interesting, catching up with the pair when they actually get ahead of her.

“So,” Cora says. “That’s a bold look on you, Bert.”
Hugh smiles at that. “It was time. How are you, Cora?”
"I'm fine, but don't change the subject," Cora replies. "What's going on, Bert? I go away for a month and you...look like this."
“I’ve actually wanted to have a beard for a while now,” Hugh says, “but I couldn’t grow one in the Army. And with the clothes, well, they’re still good. I can’t just run down to Men’s Wearhouse and buy three new shirts here. So I’ve asked Rhea to teach me how to take better care of my stuff. We spend a lot of evenings on maintenance, when we’re not hunting. I like it. I like learning how to handle my own life, and my family.”
Cora stares at Hugh for a moment, in the same look that he recognizes from Mom that says "I'm trying to think of what to say". "You're just really different. I didn't mean the clothes and the beard. You sound different, you're acting different - you hugged me, for God's sake - and you...you smell, Hugh. It's weird."
“I smell like my family,” Hugh say with a smile. “And the hug...when I think back, it feels weirder how much I kept away from people. Especially from you and mom and dad. I would like to change that.” Hugh seems thoughtful for a moment. “I think that at some point, we have a choice. I had a choice - to stay where I was and keep being miserable, or to change. I decided to change. I am sorry if I have made you uncomfortable with me through that. I’m just trying to live right.”
Cora smiles. "I said weird, not uncomfortable. You're still my brother. You just...I remember the last time I was here. It's weird seeing you fitting in so well here. You look and sound so different."
“I suppose,” Hugh says, not elaborating. “Also, thank you for all the hard work you put into the planning. We’re very impressed.” After a moment, he adds “Steve seems like a good guy.”
Cora nods. "He's on board with the plan, and not just because it'll be a huge contract. Don't spread it around, but I've ran the numbers...and there's more than enough business here for me to found a firm on it. Haraj - Brinai's number one construction guy - has been more than helpful with explaining Imperial construction and engineering. Actually, you would know this. How does Brinai look at her people taking outside jobs? I'd love to poach Haraj if I could."
“That depends on what Haraj wants,” Hugh says. “I don’t think she’d stop him if he really wanted to come work for you, but with Brinai you have to remember that she has a galactic revolution to run and never enough people to do it with. She might have more pressing assignments for Haraj, so you should consider that before asking him to work with you long-term.”
Cora nods. "Good point." She spreads her arms wide. "One more hug before I go?" she asks with a smirk.

Hugh turns to her, then doesn’t quite look at her for a few seconds as he gathers his courage. “Cora, there’s…” he begins. “Cora, before you leave, there is something very important I have to talk to you about.”
“More important than what we’ve already talked about?” Cora asks, still smiling.
“Yeah,” Hugh says without a hint of sarcasm. “Cora, I’m...I’ve found out that there is a...treatment...that can turn humans into Wherren. I’ve talked it over with Rhea and Torega, and...I’m going to do it.”
Hugh can see Cora’s brain skip a groove. “What?” she asks, smile still not entirely gone from her lips.
“It’s exactly what it sounds like,” Hugh says. “They put you into a machine, you go to sleep, it changes your genes or something and your body just...grows into a wherren. I’ve got the details on my vox, I don’t pretend I understand the technobabble but I do know it works.” He gives Cora a small smile. “You don’t have to say anything. I know it’s a lot to take in. I just...before I do this, I wanted you to know about it, Cora.”
Cora, for her part, is dumbstruck. She stares mutely at Hugh, her arms at her sides, trying to process what she was just told. After a few seconds, words still fail to come, but tears do not as she starts to sniffle.
Hugh quickly draws her into a hug. “Shh,” he soothes her. “It’s okay.” Instinct takes over as he gently grooms her just above her right ear.
This, understandably, does not calm Cora down much. It does get her to speak, though. "Wha-what are you doing?" she asks as she jerks her head back. She feels her hair as she sniffles again. "Were you licking me?"
Hugh stops and slowly releases his hug, looking over to Cora with a slightly downcast face. “I’m sorry,” he says. “It’s just...force of habit.”
Cora doesn't seem to be capable of further shock at this point. "How...how much of you will there be left?" she asks. "How much are you...how much more are you going to change?"
“I’ll be as Wherren as anyone else here,” Hugh replies.
Cora tears up again. "...will you still be...you? My middle brother? Will you remember me?"
“Of course, I’ll still be me, and I’ll remember everything,” Hugh says, drawing her into a hug again. “Nothing can take away that we are sister and brother, Cora,” he whispers. “Nothing can take away what you mean to me.”
Cora just hugs her younger sibling tightly for a few moments, then lets go to clear her eyes. "You promise me?"
“I promise, Cora,” Hugh says. “And if everything works out...our family’s going to get a little bigger. How does ‘Aunt Cora’ sound?”
That finally drives Cora up another level of surprise. "You...and Rhea...is...how?"
“Not yet!” Hugh says quickly. “But, you know, once I’m...we’re going to try.”
Cora nods. "Is that why you want to do this?"
“It’s part of it,” Hugh confirms. “I want to be a good father to Torega, and a good mate to Rhea. As a human, I try my best, but...it’ll never be as good as it could be for us. I’ve come this far, Cora. My heart already belongs to this place. It’s just time to make the outside match.”
Cora nods again - it looks to Hugh like she's finally getting it. "Okay. Okay. So, you'll be you, but...in a wherren body. And...wow." She runs her hands through her hair. "I don't know what to say. First moving here, then you look and smell strange, and now you're going to shape shift into a Wherren and have kids with Rhea." She shakes her head. "Brian's gonna flip his shit when he finds out."
“That’s on him, not us,” Hugh says, a little harsh in contrast to his soft-spoken explanations. “Maybe one day I’ll be able to explain it to him. Maybe.” He adds a sigh. “I’d like your help with explaining this to Mom and Dad, Cora. I need to tell them, too.”
Cora raises her eyebrows. "You mean together, right? You're not asking me to drop this bomb by myself."
“Yes, that’s exactly what I meant,” Hugh says and smirks. “You’re not still on my ass about that kitchen window, are you? Thirty years is long enough.”
"The window, Dad's car, and you getting engaged to an alien," Cora says.
“But I apologized for the car,” Hugh throws in.
She sighs and gives Hugh a cockeyed look. "I think I get it, though. It's about what's best for Rhea and Torega, and being true to yourself. Mom and Dad will get that."
“Exactly!” Hugh agrees with a nod. “Yeah, that’s...you always had the better hand at explaining things to them. I need to go there, I need to say it, but I could sure use the backup.”
"Sure thing, Bert," Cora replies. "And don't think I won't still call you that."
“Wouldn’t want it any other way,” Hugh says.
"So, when will I get to meet the new you?" Cora asks.
“The date hasn’t been set yet,” Hugh says, “it’s more of a ‘be ready when they call you’ thing. But from what I’ve been told, it could be very soon. Probably within the month.”
Cora nods. "Then I guess this is goodbye," she says, and starts to tear up again as she opens her arms back up.
Hugh embraces her again. “For now,” Hugh says. “Take care, Cora. I’ll keep you posted.”
Cora nods, and breaks down crying for a few moments. Hugh tightens his hug and coos at her, this time deliberately not grooming her. Cora puts herself back together after a few seconds and sniffles again. "Okay," she says. "And if you do this before we talk to Mom and Dad, I don't care how big you are, I will kill you."
“Fair enough,” Hugh whispers, hugging her again. “You need a tissue?”
"Your itchy beard is fine, thanks," Cora jokes, then lets Hugh go. "Talk to you later, middle brother," she says as she wipes her eyes.
Hugh smiles and nods to her. “Later, Cora.”
Cora turns and walks off towards the Gateport dome, with Hugh watching her go for a few seconds before he turns and catches up with Torega, sweeping her up in his arms. ”Come on,” he says, ”let’s go home.” Torega just wraps her arms around Hugh's shoulder, hangs off her father and purrs contentedly. Hugh gently grooms the top of her head as he walks back to the school with her.

One thing about the new gate, it makes me hate flying less, Hunter muses as he sinks further into the leather cushioning in the Gulfstream he and Ngawai are taking to D.C. from Mesas Negras. The travel time is greatly reduced, and the ride’s a bit more comfortable than a C-130.

Hunter and Ngawai are practicing different accents in Imperial as a way of training his ear to the subtle differences in pronunciation, and the ones that could become tell-tale signs of Narsai’i descent, now that the Imperium has several thousand guinea pigs to monitor. She’s also nursing her child, and while Hunter can’t quite match her total ambivalence to covered or uncovered breasts, he’s keeping it quite professional.
“It’s…” Ngawai sighs. “It’s a top-of-the-mouth thing?” She shakes her head and leans back, adjusting her support for Naloni as she does so. “They should have asked a linguist to do this.”
“Thanks for bearing with me. It helps we have the conversational background already, though. I don’t get a lot of live practice when I’m in D.C. Though who knows how that might change once the resettlement gets going.”
Ngawai nods. “Have you seen the recordings?”
“Me and every construction foreman in the country. Those big machines they’ve got going are something else. Though the roads remind me of either Appalachia or Sudan. I still haven’t seen what the dirt gets like when it rains.”
“It gets a little messy, like in every other city,” Ngawai replies with a smirk. “And they just pack it flat again. Beats the ugly strips of black tar.”
“Well, remind me to wear my good boots for that, then. But I’ve been thinking about D.C. It might be that I’m just getting to meet the early adopters, but I feel like things might be starting to shift there, especially since the inquest. Ms. Barnes tells me there’s a big uptick in requests for information about off-world matters, and I’ve had a number of staffers with pet projects on their mind bring me back for repeat visits. The think tanks are...well I don’t know if I’d call it an intellectual ferment yet, but I’m seeing a lot fewer blank stares these days. It took longer than I wanted, and at terrible cost, but people are coming around. We might not even get shot at this time around.”
"Wouldn't that be nice," Ngawai cracks. "But yes, it has been noticed in my family, too. Garrett's contacts have been asking around, and the friends of his that he is hoping to woo for these 81X teams have been calling - and some might be visiting soon." Ngawai sighs, and smiles as she looks down as her daughter continues to be focused on her task at hand. "Things seem to be looking up."
“It’s a nice change to be able to say that.” Hunter says, returning the smile. He’s quiet for a bit, thinking about the family he’s about to see, the daughter he’s going to be working with, and the many doors opened to him recently. He tries not to think too much about the fact that it took the biggest military debacle in a century to set all this in motion. It’s something he abstractly knows, even made precautions for the eventuality, but it’s not something he likes to dwell overmuch on. That way lies madness, he tells himself, and goes back into Imperial phonemic variations.

Hunter’s waiting outside Katelin’s dorm in the same gray shirt and shorts as a few months before, when he nearly tore himself to pieces trying to keep up. This time, though, he’s done a *lot* more stretching beforehand, some of the dynamic warm-up calisthenics the Turai favor, and of course, subjected himself to genetic modification. This feels like a Charles Atlas ad, Hunter thinks to himself, but he admits that he does feel more flexible and less achey than any time since his thirties. Hell, maybe his twenties. It’s been a week since Katelin returned from OCS - the vagaries of Marine Corps scheduling inserting an unusual break between OCS and TBS long enough to be released - and the newly-minted Lieutenant snaps to attention at the top of the steps.

“Lieutenant Brand, reporting as requested, Major,” Katelin says, a smart salute and a smile on her face.
“At ease, Lieutenant.” Hunter replies, before breaking from crisp military decorum to throw up a huge smile and a deep bow. “You ready to get this thing going? I promise I won’t collapse this time.”
Katelin returns the smile, but Hunter can see a hint of her mother’s worried look in his daughter’s eyes. “You sure, Sir? I can go slower. After six weeks of Bulldog, I’m ready to take things down a notch.”
“Let’s start with a 6:30 or 7 pace, and then see how we’re doing,” Hunter replies. “I’ve been trying some new things, but that’s no reason to make the same mistake twice.”
Katelin nods. “Sure thing.”

They set off at the agreed-on pace toward the Potomac, where a smattering of joggers are getting some time in before the heat and humidity go from ‘uncomfortable’ to ‘intolerable’ when the sun gets high enough. The pace feels fine, cruising even; after getting his gene-mods Hunter has more or less figured out that his new baselines aren’t far off from those of his mid-twenties tough-as-nails NCO incarnation, but he doesn’t want to push it. Firstly, because he doesn’t know if he might blow some unforeseen gasket as a result of using mangy old Narsai’i genes. Secondly, because leaving one’s daughter in the dust strikes him as an egregious ego-move.

Unfortunately, as he’s reflecting, lost in his thoughts, his cruise control accelerates a bit, to the point where they’re very clearly doing a 6-minute pace. Hunter feels fine cruising along at that pace, but behind him, he can hear Katelin starting to struggle, her body still beat from non-stop PT at OCS. Hunter gradually and deliberately throttles back to a 6:15 or 6:30, trying to be subtle about it. Still, at the Marine Corps approved three mile mark, when Katelin cruises to a halt next to a drinking fountain, she’s breathing more than a little harder than she was last time, while Hunter feels good to go for another 5k.

“Y’alright, kiddo? We don’t need to kill ourselves here.”
Katelin nods as she sucks at the stream of water from the fountain. “I’m fine,” she says as she stands back up. “What exactly is this new stuff, and how can I get some?” she asks with a smirk.
“It’s not steroids, and it’s not the testosterone stuff they keep peddling on TV. After I saw Arketta’s mother throwing up twice her body weight on a squat rack, I got curious about their strength, conditioning, and flexibility programs, and how they’re able to have such physical longevity.”
Katelin stops and gives her dad a curious - and concerned - look. “And…”
“It’s like turning back the clock. It’s remarkable. I’m not planning on going out and running a triathalon anytime soon, but based on how I feel, it’s only a matter of time before this gets out into professional sports.”
“Dad,” Katelin says, furrowing her brow as her tone goes from concerned to serious. “What are you talking about? What did you do?”
“I got the aging scrubbed off my genes, more or less. To the Imperials it’s like a flu shot.” Hunter stops for a second, realizing his daughter’s alarm. “I’m not a Pod Person, I’m not going to start getting robot-limbs put in. They can’t stop aging, just reduce its effects. It’s still me, just with some of the rust taken off.”
Hunter’s response does little to calm Katelin down. “Dad, what are you talking about? What did you do? Was it a drug? Does anyone else know about this - do you even know if there’s side effects?” She runs her hands through her hair with nervous energy. “I mean, is this even safe?”
“It’s gene therapy,” Hunter explains. “We were starting to do it already on Earth before first contact. They stick you with a bunch of needles, you go to sleep, you wake up and you’re a little different. The Turai have been doing it for a thousand years.”
“So…” Katelin goes back to her thoughtful look. “It’s gene therapy, that makes you...less old?”
“It’s more like it makes ‘being old’ less punishing. It’s not as though I asked them to take the grey out of my hair and to understand why anyone likes electronic music. I’m still the person I am, now I’m less likely to throw my back out reaching for the cajun spices.” Hunter smiles. “If it’s any reassurance, I also started doing yoga on a regular basis and it’s done a lot for my hips and knees. This isn’t me doing some quack treatment to get young again. Last time when we ran, I realized I’m getting old. I thought a lot about it, and took steps to take better care of myself.”
“Including getting gene therapy?” Katelin asks, and shakes her head. “And...seeing you in a yoga class must be a laugh.” She looks her dad in the eyes. “This doesn’t mean I’m not worried about you, though. If I want to hear what you’ve actually done to yourself, who should I talk to?”
Hunter returns the look, openly and respecting her concern. “The techs that did the procedure came through Kesh Pharmaceuticals. But Arketta and her mother would probably be the ones to talk to. They’re the ones who introduced me to it, they’re the ones who’ve lived with it for years and years. I’ll set up a conversation once you’re working at GRHDI and sworn into everything.”
Katelin furrows her brow again, but after a few seconds, she smiles and gives her dad a hug. “All right. If you say it’s safe...I trust you.”
“Thanks, kiddo. It means a lot.”
She moves from a hug to holding her dad at arm’s length. “And if this is something that all the Turai get...can I get it?” she asks with a smirk.
“Darlin’, That’s a whole ‘nother kettle of fish,” Hunter says. “It might end up being one of the things that goes with membership in an 81X team, or off-world service, or who knows where it’ll go. We might need to figure out our own production line though, because getting four is one thing, but they’d probably start to notice when thousands of genemods go missing.”
“Well, then I’ll just have to impress Miss Barnes tomorrow,” Katelin says.
“That’s true. And another good reason for me to give you the rundown on Director Barnes over brunch.”
Katelin laughs. “Is being this smooth a side-effect of the...genemods, you called it?”
Hunter gives his mischievous fatherly grin. “Kiddo, I was always this smooth. Ask your mother.”

Not many interns get driven to their first day of work in an armored SUV, but then again, GRHDI isn’t most workplaces. Katelin was standing outside of her dorm in a dark blue suit and skirt when Hunter and Ngawai rolled up, and now, as the SUV rolls over the Teddy Roosevelt Bridge, she sits facing her father and Ngawai (cradling a sleeping Naloni to her chest), and nervously picks at her suit, stealing glances at the first person born outside of Narsai that she’s ever seen.
Ngawai smiles kindly at Katelin. “Your father says good things about you,” she says, her heavy Imperial accent jarring to Hunter’s ears, so used to hearing her speak perfect Imperial.
Hunter agrees reassuringly, trying to softball her a topic. “It’s true. I told her about your paper on cultural adoption in the Middle Ages.”
Katelin nervously looks back to Ngawai, having averted her eyes when she first addressed her. “Thanks, Ma’am,” she replies. “I...I’ve heard a lot about what you’ve done.”
“Not that much, recently,” Ngawai says with a wistful sigh as she cradles Naloni. “I have been busy carrying Naloni here, not many chances to go out on missions and kill some Turai.”
“Uh-huh,” Katelin says, not sure how to handle that juxtaposition.
“And call me Ngawai, I am not a military person, and never have been,” Ngawai adds with a wink.
“Sorry, Ma’am - I mean, Ngawai,” Katelin quickly replies. “Uh...if you’re not military, what...did you do? To get you here, I mean?” Katelin blushes again. “Err…”
Hunter exchanges a few quick words in Imperial with Ngawai, and then explains. “Ngawai was a ‘Grand Apprehender,’ which as far as I can tell means that she’s like Rooster Cogburn from True Grit. Her background is in law enforcement, and she’s an uncanny judge of character.” Hunter confers with her in another quick burst of Imperial, and then realizes that outside of some Spanish on vacation, this might be the first time his daughter has seen him speaking another language smoothly and fluidly. Back in English, he explains “She’s also been my language tutor since she entered the later terms of her pregnancy.”
“I do not know who Roos-ter Cog-burn is, but I was Kansatai, or police, and then afterwards, I captured people - criminals - for money,” Ngawai adds.
“A bounty hunter,” Katelin replies.
Ngawai nods. “Yes, I have heard it described like that.” She pauses, but still manages to speak before Katelin does. “You want to work with us, right? With your father, and the rest of the 815?”
“Well…” Katelin starts.
“We can save the interrogation for Day 2,” Hunter says. “The long and short of it is, only one of the Imperial members from 815 comes from a strictly military background, which makes a lot of sense given their typical operations. If we’re operating outside the notice of police and military, it helps to have former police and former smugglers on your side.”
Katelin nods.
“But you are a soldier, like your father,” Ngawai says. “And you are working with the GRHDI. You want to fight along side us, out beyond the Gateway, right?”
Katelin hesitates, looks her father’s way, then back to Ngawai, and nods. “Yes. I’ve always wanted to be a Marine, like my father, but now I know what I want to fight for.”
Ngawai looks Katelin over, carefully. “Good,” she says. “If you are anything like your father, you will be an excellent soldier. He saved one of us from an ambush not a week after joining us.”
Hunter winces a little, recalling the particular circumstances of shredding a car full of goons not more than a mile from where they’re driving, and looks to see if Katelin’s figured that out, too.
She has, and she crosses her arms over her stomach as she speaks. “Do you mean...the attacks in Alexandria?” Katelin asks.
Ngawai nods. “They were bad people,” Ngawai replies. “They wanted to kill us because I, and Arketta, and Zaef, we’re not from your planet, and that makes us evil or less human. They were evil men, and they were about to kill Zaef, and so your father killed them first. Isn’t that what they train you to do?”
Katelin nods, but doesn’t speak, not quite sure how to answer, even when the situation is boiled down that far.
“And if you are half as strong and fast as he is, then you should be out on the other side of the Gateway, fighting with us in no time,” Ngawai says with a warm smile.
For Hunter, Ngawai’s comments snap something into focus. If I had to do that in Basra, I wouldn’t be quite as torn-up about it. To Ngawai, they were just Muj, and better off dead. She’s knee-deep in blood and getting deeper, with no time to worry about hypotheticals, and plenty more kills and losses expected to come. This war is going to be harder and darker than any American has faced, and my daughter looks to be on the front lines of it. Is Jen right? Should I be fighting this with other people’s children? Hunter shakes out of his reverie and is about to start into another topic entirely when the SUV pulls into the parking lot, and they get out at the GRHDI building.

--

Katelin seems almost disappointed with the elevator ride up - standard ‘70s federal chic, like so many other buildings in the Alexandria metro area. It doesn’t seem to befit the organization that’s leading the way for Narsai into the rest of the galaxy. The elevator dings to a stop at the top floor, and then it’s down a carpeted hallway, just like every other federal office building, to a series of unmarked and touchpad-locked doors, just like every other federal office, to a larger set of double doors, just like every other federal office. The big difference here is the nameplate next to the door: “Gateway Research and Homeworld Defense Initiative”. She pauses before the threshold, Hunter and Ngawai patiently waiting behind her, and then she opens the door to a whole new world.

Or, rather, the reception area of the GRHDI main offices. There’s a couple coffee tables, some tasteful yet inexpensive leather chairs, old magazines, and a single-serving coffee machine on a table in the corner next to some bottles of water. Again, no hoverboards, holograms, or fusion reactors.
Katelin is starting to wonder where all the cool space stuff is hiding as the receptionist sitting at the desk looks up from her sudoku and politely smiles at the trio. “Mr. Brand, Mrs. Holoni, Miss Brand, Director Barnes is waiting for you in her office.”
Hunter smiles. “Thank you, Renee,” he says with a nod, leading the other two in.

It’s a good thing Hunter took the lead, because otherwise he would have piled right into Katelin’s back upon her entry to the main office floor. Ngawai still has to sidestep and twirl as she holds Naloni, because newly-minted Lieutenant Katelin Brand, USMC is struck dumb by the first real sight of what off-world things are really like. Holodisplays abound throughout the cubicles - big ones mounted on walls, medium sized ones on desks, and smaller ones springing from wrists. The garb and workers are a mix of Narsai’i in suits and businesswear and Imperials in sashes, coats and loose-fitting pants, with mixing going both ways. A quarter of the people in the room have the unique light-to-burnt brown skin tone that the Imperials have carried down from their descendents on Narsai, and there’s even a couple small Sheen shells climbing from overhead light figures to avoid being trampled underfoot. The whole office is buzzing with activity, and Hunter knows that this isn’t even supposed to be a particularly busy day.
Hunter leans in as she continues to take it in, gobsmacked. “Whelp, welcome to the future. Or at least the future of office setups. We've got the MIT Media Lab coming in next week to make sense of it all. Didn’t mean to mutt-and-jeff you with the front office,” he explains, “but we only want to show this to people we like.”
“Uh-huh,” Katelin says, mouth hanging open. Ngawai stands behind her, smirking.
"Really though, it's still an office. Everyone still complains about the coffee maker, and lord knows it's a pain to reformat everything into Office or PDF." Hunter encourages her with a friendly opening. "Go on, ask questions. A marine learns their environment quickly."
“Uh-huh,” Katelin says again. She looks around one more time, and her eyes stop on the rows of office doors around the perimeter. “Uh, maybe we should go see Miss Barnes, first.”
“Probably a good idea,” Ngawai replies. “Well? Forward march, soldier.”

Katelin nods, and after a pause, leads the trio (plus infant) around the outside of the cubicle pit. A few deft dodges and apologies are necessary, but the larger obstacle to overcome is when Katelin slows her pace to a near-crawl right outside the door.
“Should I knock?” she asks Hunter.
“Go ahead. It’s a door you’re going to get used to pretty quickly, kiddo.”
Katelin nods, and knocks twice.
“Come in,” Barnes’ voice calls from the other side. Hunter gives her a nod and a quick tiny smile. Katelin turns the knob and disappears inside, followed by Hunter and Ngawai. Hunter walks past the not-empty-for-long assistant’s desk and then into the office proper just behind his daughter.
As they come into Barnes’ office, she stands up and favors Katelin with a friendly smile. “Welcome to the GRHDI, Katelin - excuse me, Lieutenant Brand.”
“Thank you, Director Barnes,” Katelin says politely, defaulting to standing at attention.
“At ease, soldier,” Barnes says. “In fact, take a seat.” Katelin sits down in front of the desk, while Ngawai and Hunter take their seats against the back wall. “So, before we get into what your duties will actually be, do you have any questions for me about what goes on here?”
“My father has broken things down for me pretty well, Director,” Katelin replies. “This is the office that manages the US government diplomatic and military relations with off-world groups, and coordinates with any other off-world affairs agency that other Earth governments have.”
“That’s the one-liner pitch, yes,” Barnes says. “But there’s a lot of complexity contained within that statement - which you’ll see soon enough. Eventually, I’ll need you to make initial contacts and handle coordination for me - negotiating meeting times and nailing down details like location and everything else surrounding the event - but first, you’ll need some basic knowledge of Imperial. Have you had any instruction?”
“Ah, ’little amount’,” Katelin says, awkwardly. “Just the basic materials my father has given me and a bit of coaching from him.”
“Better than nothing,” Barnes replies with a kind smile. “So, you’ll be signed up for tutoring after work hours as well, that should get you passable after a few weeks of immersion here - half of the words spoken in this office at any given time are Imperial. But for right now, things are busy enough on this side of the Gateway that you’ll have plenty to do in English. Any other questions?”
Katelin thinks for a moment in wide-eyed overload, then shakes her head. “No, Director,” she replies.
“Good!” Barnes picks up a folder on her desk and extends it to Katelin. “This is part of the Sheen training documents, the Russians and British have requested copies both faxed and scanned by the end of today. Included is a list of words and phrases for redaction, cross them out with a black Sharpie and then ask Sarah - Garrett’s assistant - where the scanner is and how to fax and scan from it.”
Katelin snaps up the folder - which is a good fifty pages thick - and stands up. “Of course, Director. Anything else?”
Barnes stands as well. “Don’t forget to come to me if you have any problems - and don’t worry about asking Sarah for help, half of her time is spent forwarding calls to wherever Garrett is, so she’s always got time to help out,” she says with a smile. “Again, welcome to the GRHDI.”
Katelin smiles back. “Thank you, Director.”

Katelin turns and hustles out of Barnes’ office, leaving Ngawai and Hunter seated against the back wall.
“And she thought OCS was a drink from the firehose.” Hunter says with a bit of a grin. “She’s sharp as a tack, though. She’ll be fine.”
“I’m sure,” Barnes says, taking her seat again. “DHS moved up the meeting, Hunter - they’re here, now.”
“Well then, looks like we’ve got another tangle to sort through,” Hunter says with a bit of a shake of the head. “Are you coming for this, Ngawai?”
“That would be what I am here for,” Ngawai replies, and takes a peek into Naloni’s sling. “She’s just waking up, too.” A little hand reaches out from the sling and grabs ahold of Ngawai’s tunic-shirt-thing. “We are ready when you are, Hunter,” Ngawai says to Hunter with a smile.
“They might get a little squicked out by if you’re feeding her, but I don’t consider that a bad thing. Let’s get this show on the road.”

And indeed, the public display of entertainment doth then proceed onto the well-traveled pathway. Wisely, the main GRHDI conference room is actually back towards the front and down a hall, well away from the noise of the bullpen itself. Inside are two...well, Hunter would have to think hard to imagine when he saw two men that so completely fit the profile of “stuffed government shirts”. Neither overly obese nor anywhere close to fit, both varying degrees of “balding but in denial of it”, both so pale as to possibly be capable of tanning underneath fluorescent lighting, both carrying themselves in the “I try to hide it but I think I’m a pretty big deal” kind of way.

Ngawai walks in and bows to the DHS men, offering a polite smile as she holds Naloni in her sling. “Good morning, gentle-men,” she says.
“Hunter Brand, GRHDI,” he says, extending his hand to shake and receiving one cold-n-clammy and one attempted-death-grip.
“Philip Jones, DHS,” Cold-N-Clammy says.
“Cole Kelley, ICE,” Attempted-Death-Grip says.
“As you may have gathered, this is Ngawai Holoni, and the little one is named Naloni. Please, be seated.” Hunter says, gesturing them towards the not-that-futuristic-looking conference table. “Director Barnes told me you wanted to discuss some matters regarding the Bashakrai’i settlement?”
“Yes, namely, how GRHDI plans to classify this little museum piece,” Kelley replies. “Last I checked, we weren’t giving out reservations anymore, and especially not to people that aren’t even natives of this planet.”
“What Mr. Kelley is trying to say, is that this settlement that GRHDI has created out of whole cloth is just one of many, many issues that need to be sorted out with the Department of Homeland Security before any real immigration can begin,” Jones says, his voice sounding about as effectual as his handshake. “Starting with Mrs. Holoni here?” He opens a file folder, straightens the pages, and then references from it as he speaks. “Mrs. Holoni, as far as the United States of America is concerned, does not exist. She has no passport from an officially recognized nation, no visas have been issued, no state-issued ID, and no registered immigration status. She has, to our knowledge, never passed through an Immigrations and Customs Enforcement checkpoint or been subjected to a ICE search, and given her lack of any records whatsoever, we have been unable to produce a background check on her as well.”

Jones looks back up at Hunter. “That is what it is like for every single alien member of this office - and that’s just the human ones. We asked the Sheen to provide proof of identity, and they…”
“We think it was laughing, but we couldn’t tell,” Kelley barked. “They said that they ‘tried’ to provide proof of identity on their Ambassador, that creepy floating sphere? But whatever they did just melted a half-dozen servers into slag.”
“So, you see the depths of the problem we are talking about here, with GRHDI planning on bringing thousands of aliens to Earth,” Jones continues. “Thousands of people with no passports, no visas or any kind of identifying paperwork at all. How are we supposed to process and account for all of these people without proper paperwork, Mr. Brand?”
“The Bashakrai’i’ seem to do all right on their side of the gateway.” Hunter replies with a diplomatic shrug. “But I do understand your concerns. I think the goal in the medium-term is getting everyone on the same system of identification, which requires a major technological investment but will yield major improvements in your ability to do your job. In the meantime, what about biometric collection? Surely fingerprinting or retinal scans are reasonably secure enough to work in the time being, and are an accepted practice offworld and on. Once you had them, how far of a step is it to ‘resident alien’ cards, forgiving the obvious double meanings?”
“On what grounds?” Jones asks. “Those employed at GRHDI or Kesh Holdings aside, do any of them meet the prerequisites for H-1 visa status?”
Hunter tents his fingers and leans back, “If defined as ‘a body of highly specialized knowledge,’ then I would say that all of them do. The number of native-born Americans with in-depth knowledge of the Imperium can be counted on one hand, and it is a matter of dire necessity we begin to change that.”
“And if they were all going to be employed by a company registered in the United States of America, that would be perfectly fine,” Jones replies. Kelley has leaned back in his chair, content to let Jones prattle on. “But they will not be. Many will not even work on Earth. So, again, we are at an impasse.”
“I understand the need for some sort of rationalization of what we have now. I don’t like a wild west system any more than you do. And these aren’t stateless persons, for the most part; they’re generally members of the Bashakrai’i of Atea, who have citizenship and identification that you are unable to process. Some of them will wish to live here, some to work or teach a language the CIA has already classified as high value. I hope you also realize that if we drag our feet on this, and another nation creates a home for Bashakrai’i skills, expertise, and business, it’s going to affect the long-term trajectory of our nation, and that’s IF we can win this war. If you want to think about it as the second coming of Operation Paperclip, if you want to think about it as the world’s most valuable refugee camp, so be it, but we need a way to rationally process off-world visitors at scale.” Hunter folds his arms, hoping they actually know what he’s referencing.
“I don’t see any other nations establishing settlements for them,” Jones replies, Hunter’s carefully crafted argument ricocheting off of him like a flea off a semi-truck. “Refugees have status, too, Mr. Brand.”
“We are in discussions with the IOM and the UN High Commissioner, but at this time we do not consider them refugees,” Hunter says, attempting to keep his face from frowning. “If you’re going to insist on an ‘impasse,’ which I’m not sure I believe actually exists, I suppose I should ask you what you would want, for your ideal outcome. What would that look like?”
“Any form of official paperwork that can be processed as to who these people are, for a start?” Jones replies. “A legal justification for allowing them onto American soil? Some kind of official immigration status?”
“Security to keep them from bringing God-knows-what guns and drugs to Earth?” Kelley grumbles. “And our security, not theirs.”
“We at the Department of Homeland Security think that these aren’t unreasonable expectations,” Jones finishes.
“As for legal justifications, it might come down to an executive order. We’ll see,” Hunter says with a shrug. “They need to be here, but you’re right we can’t have impunity. Where would you want that line to start?” Hunter asks, thinking of foreign quarters throughout history. “Right inside the gate? Or before they make their way into ‘decent society?’ Because the second feels more realistic to implement than the first.”
“Realistic doesn’t have much to do with it,” Kelley replies sharply. “If this bullshit village is a refugee camp, then it’s still US government property, which means anything coming through that Gateway gets searched by our people. No alien pretend cops, and sure as shit no weapons or drugs or anything else we don’t authorize.”
“And what are the odds that your people will know what the hell they’re looking at?” Hunter snaps back. “I don’t want a gateport blown up because some overzealous customs agent destabilizes a power supply of a piece of delicate industrial machinery. Until you have a fully trained-up team that’s well-versed in identifying off-world objects at a level equivalent to what we have now, we’re going to have to stick with Marines and Bashakrai’i crews. Containing the outflow of unregulated alien artifacts though, is a major concern, and not necessarily just at the Gateports.” Hunter places one hand on another in an I’m trying to deal with you here gesture: “We both want this resolved. Are you going to get everything you want? Probably not. Are we going to get everything we want? Probably not. But the first step is putting a legal status and framework for off-planet visitors, particularly ones who are our allies.”
“The Bashakra’i settlement is not a refugee camp,” Ngawai says, her sudden and forceful re-entry to the conversation startling both Jones and Kelley. “It is built on land that was given to the Bashakra’i by your government to the Bashakra’i. That makes it their land. If you want to do your searches and checks and paperwork, it will happen outside the settlement.”
Jones huffs, obviously flustered by Ngawai’s marked lack of giving him anything that resembles what he wants. “And the paperwork -”
“Once your government has systems that can read voxes, it will not be a problem,” Ngawai replies. “Voxes have their user’s identity embedded into them.”
“That is only one problem of many,” Jones replies. “Visas, passports, travel restrictions -”
“All of them will be resolved in due time, and in a way that does not treat our allies as enemies.” Hunter says, rising from his chair. “I believe we’re approaching time, gentlemen. Before our next meeting, it would be preferable if you moved away from an ‘at your feet or at your throat’ conception of off-world guests.”
“And learned some things about Imperial technology instead of demanding your paperwork,” Ngawai replies, standing up, two folders in her hand. She walks over behind the two men, places the folders down in front of each of them - and Hunter notices her nudge their briefcases fully under the conference room table with her feet as she does so. “Now, we have another meeting soon, so…”

Jones and Kelley pick up the open folders as Ngawai hustles them to their feet - both men so focused on the densely packed information on the papers Ngawai just handed them, they both forget to check they brought their bags with them.
“We will be back soon to finalize these plans,” Jones says. “Once we’ve had a chance to go over these...very technical specifications.”
“What is this, millimeter-wave?” Kelley asks.
“Yes, on four axis for greater resolution,” Ngawai replies, carefully matching her pace with the DHS officials’ to drive them out the door.
Hunter quickly gathers his papers and heads out as well. He’s curious to see how she plays all this.

Ngawai subtly leads the two DHS officials from behind towards the waiting room, with Hunter following behind. He can hear Naloni cooing and fussing with all the noise and lights in the bullpen, and Ngawai gives her a few bounces as she smiles down at her. Once the group reaches the foyer, Ngawai stops.
“Oh, didn’t you both come with bags?” Ngawai asks.
Jones and Kelley both look at their sides, then at each other. “Damn, we did,” Kelley replies.
Ngawai gives them a slight bow. “I’ll get them.”
“Are you going to be able to handle the bags yourself?” Hunter asks, subtly signalling the bring me with and then explain what you’re doing look on his face.
Ngawai’s eyes flick to Hunter and back, the polite smile staying immobile. “You may have gotten the Turai H’lapa, but I still match you weight-for-weight,” she politely jabs back.
Neither DHS official knows what Ngawai is talking about, and neither do they seem to care. “That’d be great,” Kelley says.
“We’ll wait here,” Jones sighs impatiently.

Ngawai turns around and strolls back into the hallway, bouncing her daughter as she walks off, with Hunter behind.
Once they’re out of earshot, Hunter asks under his breath, “Care to let me know what you’re up to?” He doesn’t turn towards her, instead looking and moving straight ahead.
“I’ve got their bags, Hunter,” Ngawai coos to Naloni in Imperial. “Just trust me, all right? You don’t need to help me.”
Hunter breathes, and shrugs, smiling at Naloni and likewise replying in Imperial, “Fine. We’re this far, I’ll follow your lead.”

Ngawai opens the door and slides inside, Hunter staying outside, knowing that it might be easier and more convincing for him to not know what she’s doing in there. Once inside, Ngawai quickly walks around to underneath the table where she hid the officials’ bags and slides them out. One hand snakes into the pouch inside the sling, which parts at her touch. The designers of the sling intended the pouch to hold things like bottles, toys, diapers, maybe a small blanket or cushion - Ngawai has simply added “sophisticated listening equipment” to the list. Four wipes of a finger on a hidden strip of nano-adhesive transfers a flat black speck the size of a grain of rice onto each finger, and a second wipe adheres the devices to the outside of the briefcases, one on each top corner. Mission complete, she stands up with a bag in each hand, and easily opens and closes the door behind her, wordlessly walking back towards the entrance with Hunter trailing behind her.
“All’s well that ends well?” Hunter asks quickly.
“Indeed,” Ngawai replies, switching back to English as she puts on her smile again for the two men. “Your bags. Have a good day.”
“Thank you,” Kelley replies, while Jones simply takes his bag and walks out the door.

Ngawai’s smile drops the instant the two men clear the doorway. “Well, they were certainly unpleasant,” she says, back in Imperial.
“Why are border people consistently the worst?” Hunter wonders in Imperial. “Still, maybe soon we can figure out if they’re unpleasant by nature, or by intention.”
“Perhaps,” Ngawai replies diplomatically. “Still, I worked with some like them when I was Kansatai in customs and contraband. Some people just like the rules too much to let things like reality interfere.” She pauses. “I just think Kelley is a jerk.”
“Anyone whose job is to make life hard for immigrants is probably going to be a jerk. But he might also be in the tank for someone. It’s hard to say with those types. I get the feeling that the people who are hard-set against us are re-organizing and waiting for a time when we have less momentum or a place where we’re vulnerable. Maybe the settlement is that, maybe it isn’t. We’ll figure it out,” he says with a good-natured shrug.
“And these two?” Ngawai asks.
“They might be working to undermine us. They might also be bureaucrats whose well-ordered universe is disrupted by our existence,” Hunter muses “Maybe both, but I reckon we’ll find out once we come out with workable standards. If they react well, maybe they’re okay. If not, we might need to escalate our efforts.”
Ngawai nods. “I reckon we will find out.”

Hugh’s first visit to the office complex in Arlington that houses (among others) Kesh Holdings is a memorable one for the security guard at the reception desk - with his stitched clothes and prophet beard, Hugh’s visually closer to the bums a few alleys over than to the usual business-suited crowd. His interest in the dark blue Corvette with the “GATEWAY” vanity plate parked right outside also suggests a search for a potential sleeping place more than a business visit, and so, the guard’s “Can I help you, Sir?” is perhaps a little sharper than necessary. However, it bounces right off Hugh, who smiles into his beard and hands over his ID. “Hugh Verrill, I’m Mr. Kesh’s two o’clock,” he says.

Hugh may be a bum, but he’s a bum who knows people.

---

The door from the lobby to the office hallway opens with a beep from the RFID security scanner, spitting out Hugh like an indigestible morsel - but at least he’s got a nice new “VISITOR” badge pinned to the worn breast pocket of his safari shirt. On the way to Angel’s office, he finds the time to greet every employee of Kesh Holdings (yeah, all five of them!), but doesn’t stick around long enough to be questioned. Angel’s office door isn’t much fancier than the rest of the place (though the baseline of fancy is pretty good here), just a plain door with an “ANGEL KESH” nameplate mounted at eye height. Hugh clears his throat and knocks twice.

Angel doesn’t even need to look up from the laptop he’s working on - or ask who it is. There are benefits to being extensively trained as a scout, even for the executive version of himself. “Come in Hugh.”

Hugh enters, smile still on his face, and surveys the office. Nice. Understated. Probably expensive as all hell. “Hello, Angel,” he says, walking over to shake hands. “Thank you for making the time.”

Angel stands, shaking Hugh’s hand and closing the laptop, pushing it to one side of the desk. “Any time Hugh.” Motioning to one of the exceedingly comfortable and mind-bogglingly expensive chairs on the other side of the desk, Angel sits, leaning back and shutting off his vox as well. “What can I do for you? The subject in my appointment book was...remarkably vague.”

“It’s a difficult topic,” Hugh says as he sits down opposite Angel. “I’ve had some time to gather courage on the way here, though, so I will try to just come out with it: I’ve been told that it is possible for humans to be genemodded into Wherren bodies. A) Does Kesh Pharmaceuticals have the capability and are you willing to grant me access to it?”

Somewhere along the line, in the last few years, Angel’s capacity to be surprised had taken a hit and never quite recovered. Hugh’s question though is enough to get him to raise an eyebrow and sit back a little bit, considering the question for a long moment before speaking.

“The answer to the first question is no.” He raises his hand to stave off the inevitable look of disappointment from Hugh. “Not directly. To be blunt, in most of the Imperium, ‘Make me look like a historically oppressed slave race’ isn’t exactly a thriving market - and the Cyllans are a touch protective about their tech. But I do know people who know more than their fair share of genemodders, and some of them either owe Kesh Pharmaceuticals a favor, or have expensive lifestyles and mistresses to maintain.”

He pauses for a moment, longer, thinking. “And of course I’ll help you Hugh. I’m guessing a good seven or eight people have asked you if you’re sure by now, so I’m not going to bother. What I will ask is what do you define ‘success’ as? Is being a full-on Wherren the only acceptable outcome, or if we can’t manage that is color-changing skin pigment and um…” How do you have a ‘Birds and Bees’ talk with your former CO? “...Biological compatibility with Rhea enough?”

“I’m only interested in the full package,” Hugh says, his look not wavering for a moment. “I’m not trying to play dress-up. I want to be Wherren.” He smirks into his beard. “Besides, think about the good PR of a diversity hire for the management of your brand new subsidiary.”

“I’m not sure post-hoc diversity is a thing Hugh.” Angel grins, shaking his head softly. “Let me do some asking - this will involve a trip to Cyllia at the least, and like I said this isn’t exactly an ‘off the shelf’ request. But it’s doable - expensive, probably painful, but doable. Let me make some calls?” When did I start using words like ‘post-hoc’ in sentences?

“Sure,” Hugh says. “And thank you again, Angel. For everything.”

“Any time. Though I wouldn’t make a habit of this particular type of request - it’s going to confuse the hell out of everyone.” Angel smiles. “So, how are Rhea and the cubs…”

“Oh, they’re great,” Hugh begins, settling into the chair for some well overdue catching-up.

It’s a long, hot mid-July day, with just a hint of a breeze wafting off the Delaware river. The moderately-extended Brand family is out for a barbeque to celebrate Katelin’s graduation from OCS, Hal’s return from Thailand/Burma, and Hunter spending more time near home lately. Spirits are high, so much that Hunter doesn’t even mind that Jen insisted on bringing Charles along. Charles, as it happens, is gamely listening in to Kate and Hal’s stories, while Jen is taking the opportunity to mind the salads and refill the dips and salsas rather than hear more stories of her children in dangerous places.
“There were ruins of a temple complex nearby, hundreds of years old,” Hal enthuses, before adding, “but I didn’t get to visit.”
“Why’s that?” Katelin asks.
“Well, the area hadn’t really been de-mined, so it wasn’t safe to go wandering around. I saw lots of temples in Thailand, though.” Charles gives Jen’s shoulder a squeeze as Hal mentions live minefields in the same hundred miles of his location.
“You made the right decision,” Hunter states with gravity. “Mines are terrible things, and not to be taken lightly, even by people who’ve lived their entire lives around them. It’ll be a good day when we can clear them off this planet.”
“Yeah, there were a couple kids in one of the villages that were missing legs from the knee down.” Hal shakes his head, then sighs and looks back up. “But it was...I learned a lot.”
Charles nods. “Sounds like it was a big deal.”
“Like you know what you really want to do?” Katelin asks.
Hal nods. “Yeah, I think so.”
Hunter makes eye contact with Hal, and gives him a respectful, approving nod. He knows his son has grown since they last spoke. Given the (entirely understandable) ways Jen is reacting, he’s choosing his words carefully. “I’m glad you’ve learned a lot, and I’m glad you’re home safe. Visiting other places can teach us to be grateful for what we have, what we’re blessed with. I’m grateful to have two intelligent, hardworking children, and to be able to have everyone here together today.”
Charles nods. “Your mother and I are proud of you, too,” he chimes in. “I completely get why what you’re both doing is so important - when I was in college, my rowing coach made the whole team volunteer for a day with Habitat for Humanity,” he tells Hal, and sighs. “We helped build a house in upstate New York. I learned so much about how the rest of the world lives that day.” He turns to Katelin, who’s already putting on a polite smile for her stepfather. “And with my job, I really do appreciate how the burden of leadership can fall heavily on one’s shoulders, making sure contractors show up on time and that Donna gets the paperwork filed. It really is a lot of responsibility.”
Hunter smiles and nods - as are Katelin and Hal. The family resemblance is uncanny when they all have their “I’m not going to start trouble” smiles on. “I had forgotten to ask, Charles: how is business? Did the introduction to Kesh Holdings go anywhere?”
“Yes!” Charles says, a more genuine smile on his face. “I think it’s a pretty promising lead - Mr. Kesh expressed some interest in some of our Flatiron District offices.”
“Oh good,” Hunter replies, genuinely happy to have helped, even if he knows that most of Angel’s capacity will end up being built further south. “A company with ambitions like his could use a good foot on the ground in New York.”
“That’s true with every company,” Charles says with a nod. “That’s part of my sales pitch - if you want to be taken seriously as a company, you gotta be based out of New York. Everyone that matters has offices in New York City.”
Katelin raises her eyebrows at her father with a cheesy “oh really?” grin, while Hal just rolls his eyes.
“Well, you know what they say: ‘when in Rome, lease a villa or forum or something,’” Hunter says, moving over to check on the coals in the grill and start putting burger patties on (or the veggie-imitation thereof for Hal.)
“Or something like that,” Katelin says. “So, I ship out to Quantico in a month, and...I need a ride,” she says sheepishly.
“I’d love to do it!” Charles says. “It’d be a great chance to spend some quality time with you, Katelin.” He pauses. “Err, where is that?”
“Down by DC,” Katelin replies.
“Ah.” Charles pauses again. “What day do you need to be there on?”
“First Tuesday of the month,” Katelin replies.
Charles pauses again.
“Actually, I’m headed down to Washington, and was thinking of making a visit to North Carolina in the next few weeks,” Hunter offers. “I could shuffle things around if you wanted.”
Katelin smiles - it’s fairly obvious that given the choice between her well-meaning real estate broker stepfather and retired Marine Corps Major father, which one she’d rather have drop her off for basic training. “If it’s not too far out of the way…”
Charles’ smile almost vanishes - yet another moment stolen from him with his stepdaughter - but he brings it back. “Oh well, I guess.”
Hunter tries to allow an opportunity for saving face, emphasizing the less frequent opportunities for contact. “Pretty soon you’ll be doing 20-mile runs and I’ll be up to my eyeballs in interplanetary paperwork. I’ll make it work. You might want to stop back at the house to get things together, though. Maybe Charles could drive you partway down the Sunday before, and I could pick it up from there?”
Katelin nods. “Sounds good to me.”
Charles gives Hunter an appreciative nod, and even Jen, who is still trying to not acknowledge that her little girl is joining the Marines, smiles at her ex-husband. “We’ll have to coordinate, Hunter,” Charles says.
“Definitely,” Hunter agrees. “Let me know as it gets closer how much you want to drive down. Maybe we could catch an Orioles game or something as part of the handoff. I’ll check the schedule.”
“Hey, if that’s what’s going on, I might come down, too,” Hal chimes in.
“If you’re willing to listen to a couple of old farts calling for the ol’ double-switch or argue with your sister about the infield-fly-rule, I’d be glad to have you,” Hunter says with a grin.
Jen sighs. “Well, I can’t be left alone at the house all by myself. Let’s make a vacation out of it.”
“Great!” Charles says, giving his wife a sideways squeeze.

Hunter smiles. His family isn’t perfect, and his dealings with Charles will always have a certain level of awkwardness, but everyone seems to be putting effort into making things work. He’s thankful not to have to deal with ironclad separate-time agreements or explosive embitterment. Hal seems miles beyond the turbulent anger that surfaced periodically during most of his teens, and Katelin is starting to think of Hunter as a human being who makes choices instead of an invincible protector-figure. They’re growing up, Hunter muses as he pokes at the burgers, thinking about something one of his mentors told him. We become adults when we forgive our parents for being human. That certainly seems to be the case here. Family is where you find it, and in the case of Hunter Brand it’s behind the grill at Washington Crossing.
“Burgers are almost up, anyone for a toasted bun?”

The office of the Under Secretary for Political Affairs is used to a great many different distressing noises - the man is nothing if not excitable, and when dealing with the many small foreign crises - and small foreign officials - that fight for his limited time every day, his language can be...colorful. However, it is a very different noise that is disrupting the peace of the Secretary’s secretary’s office at the moment - that of a crying infant.

Ngawai gently bounces Naloni on her shoulder and coos to her as her poor daughter cries and cries. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” she whispers in Imperial, as Naloni looks around with fear and exhaustion in her eyes. The door opens, and James Wiley, the Under Secretary himself, pokes his head out. Ngawai smiles at him. “’She just woke up from her nap, that is all,’” she explains. Wiley closes the door behind him, thankful that his masculine duties have been fulfilled with a simple status check. Ngawai politely fended off an offer for aid from the secretary, as Naloni slowly calmed down and started suckling on the scrap of fabric integrated into her sling. A few minutes later, Ngawai stands up, and with a slight bow to the secretary, steps into Wiley’s office.

“’I’m sorry for the wait, Mr. Wiley,’” Ngawai states as the door slides shut behind her.
“’It’s not a problem,’” Wiley replies. “’I remember those days very well. How is she, otherwise?’”
“’Naloni is doing very well, thank you,’” Ngawai replies, and takes a seat. “’I believe that Director Barnes has told you why I am here today?’”
Wiley nods. “’And I have heard the same from our friends in Homeland Security,’ he replies. “’And my response is the same - we are happy to extend official diplomatic welcome and visas to the Bashakrans as soon as they decide on some form of official ID that we approve of.’”
Ngawai’s polite expression grows a bit more strained. “’And the Bashakra’i are, but the list of security features you demand is very long and it is taking time to prepare,’” she says. “’And as the Department of Homeland Security officials have said today, there are already problems - like myself. I am not Bashakra’i, and so what am I to do?’”
“’We are working with the GRHDI on diplomatic allowances and asylum, Mrs. Holoni,’” Wiley replies, “’but Director Barnes - and yourself - need to know that this is not a free-for-all. There will be a hard limit on how many people can come in like this, and it will not be a high one. Understood?’”

Ngawai nods and smiles - it doesn’t much matter what the man has to say with the things that will be changing soon, and what he’s saying isn’t anything new, either. Besides, this little back-and-forth isn’t what she’s here to do, anyway. An array of miniscule black listening devices are already stuck on the underside of Wiley’s desk, chairs and in his secretary’s office, along with the repeater for them, hidden inside the restroom down the hall.
“’Understood,’” Ngawai replies. “’I’ll let Director Barnes know.’” She stands up and gives Wiley a bow. “’Thank you for your time.’”

Back out in the hallway, after giving Wiley’s secretary a polite smile, Ngawai flicks her holodisplay open over her eye and ticks off Wiley’s office from her list of locations to bug. There’s a couple more offices in the State Department that need cursory visits, then a return to the Homeland Security offices to place more devices and a repeater as well. After that, Garrett suggested she try to place devices with someone called the Attorney General and in his office, as well as with his nation’s Kansat, the FBI. She sighs, and lifts Naloni up to give her a peck on her forehead before starting her message to Garrett and Bello on her progress to date. It’s going to be a long day.

Luis takes his time on the walk to the market from the perimeter, but even so it’s not a long trip. The blocky shapes of the village’s buff-colored extruded habs contrast against the arrays of more brightly-colored awnings and other shade that the “villagers” have assembled to work under. The blue-and-green tartan common in some of them is a potent reminder in Luis’ mind that most of the “villagers” are actually the assorted hobbyist crafters of the Atea Turai, being paid to endure the heat and sun as they practice their trades. Here and there, patches of slightly off-colored and mis-matched spraycrete textures show evidence of the hab walls being repaired with Sheen assistance in the days after they seized the village. While the off-duty Sheen mostly lounge on rooftops taking in the solar energy, other villagers tend an assortment of noisy livestock and hydroponics - hydroponics and livestock technicians, getting a chance to do their jobs on a planet with an atmosphere for a change.

Luis makes his way through the village to the market, where the leadership quartet are holding court at their usual table in the square. As usual for his rounds, Luis heads over, and the four of them look up from their vox holodisplays as he approaches. “Can I help you?” Hana asks, giving Luis a practiced look of skepticism.
“I was about to ask you the same thing,” Luis says. “Any problems with your people I should know about?”
“You’ve kept up your end of the bargain on supplies - mostly,” Hana replies. “But we’re tired -”
The more hostile of the two men cuts her off. “We’re tired of your robots laying around on our homes,” Maron says. “Our children are terrified of the noises they hear at night!”
“Oh, come fucking on, there aren’t any kids here,” Hal complains.
“And who knows when one of them is going to fall straight through the roof and kill someone!” Maron continues. “Get these things off of our homes!”
“My shells need to recharge,” Luis says. “The roofs give them unobstructed light, and we hoped they would be out of the way compared to being on the ground. Would you rather I had them all in the streets?”
“I’d rather they not be here -” Maron snaps back before Hana cuts him off with a hand across his chest.
“No, we do not want your robots cluttering up the streets,” Hana replies. “But we do not want them on people’s dwellings, either. Restrict them to businesses, and put the others on the outside of our village. That is my offer.”
Luis looks to Gray. “Will that provide enough charging space?”
Grey doesn’t respond immediately. “If we move shells around as the sun moves, sure. We’ll need more charging stations to compensate.”
“And where would you put those?” Maron asks acidly.
Luis gives him an eye and returns his attention to Hana. “Would it be acceptable to place collectors on the dwellings and run cables to shell charging stations on the ground? They would require some maintenance, but not constant occupation.”
She looks over to Grey, who simply looks back. “Look, we need to charge up somewhere,” Grey says. “I get that you don’t want us stomping around over your heads. Let us put up the collectors, and we can put the chargers in alleys and out of the way. Easier for us to guard, and then we’re not in everyone’s way.”
That gets a nod - eventually - from everyone at the table. “This is acceptable,” Hana says. “Put your stations in out of the way places, then.”
“Agreed,” Luis says. “Any further concerns or friction points?”
“Many,” Hana says, and swipes open a file on her holodisplay as all four of Luis’ escorts slump in frustration.

“Hey! What the fuck is this?” one of the Sheen patrolling the square shouts. “Knock that shit -”
BOOOOM!
The Sheen in question is quickly knocked on its ass by the explosion - a gunpowder charge slapped onto its backside. More sound and fury than damage, it’s still more than enough to scare the shit out of everyone in the square, even those that knew it was coming.
“Damn that fucking stings!” the bombed Sheen shouts, but stays down, knowing it’s part is “dead” for now.
Luis’ hand goes to his slung XM-10 on reflex as he turns to take in the scene. “Explosion in the square,” Luis says as he pulls up his weapon. “Take positions, but do not engage unless confirmed hostiles.” All the “locals” in the square scatter and run, leaving tables and chairs upended. For a moment, Luis hears the shouts in Arabic before he remembers where he is.
Two “hostiles” - Bashakra’i with training-tune beamers - rush out of the alley behind the downed Sheen, screaming and blasting away. Before Luis can bring his rifle to bear, a half-dozen Sheen blast the two with dummy accelerator shots, knocking them over and “dead”.

The Sheen in the square rush around, in the aftermath, shouting “Who else wants some”, “Come get some, fuckers” and other such delightful come-ons. After a minute of frantic, high-energy searching, they come to a stop. Hal stands over Luis as it looks down at him with a sensor array. “Confirmed enough for you?”
“Fuck yeah!” Nose shouts, and blasts a couple accelerator rounds into the air. “Gimmie the point! Points, baby!”
“Cease that fire,” Luis snaps at Nose. “Watch your muzzle discipline, this isn’t over yet.” He turns to Hal and adds, “Keep on watch for any sign of a followup attack. Can we ID the bodies from earlier footage?” He waves at the “dead” hostiles.
Hal freezes for a moment. “Brita Huawador, and Arni Swaaosa.”
“All right,” Luis says, and turns to Goo. “All units keep an extra eye out for follow-up attacks, either on the streets or from outside the village. We need to be ready, but not jumping at shadows. In the meantime, we need to notify the families and try and ferret out any conspirators they might have had.”
“Got it,” Grey says. In contrast to the others, he’s gotten more laconic after the action has wound down.
“Grinder, confirm that there were no civilian casualties in our fire or theirs and find out the damage to that shell,” Luis says, pointing at the downed Sheen. “If he’s repairable, let’s see about that, if not let’s break out one of the spare shells for him.”
“Too late, meatbag,” a shiny new Sheen says. “I’m already here.” It stands over its former shell - still intact, but needing “repair”.
“So, you mean ‘buff out the scratches’ from the bullshit blast?” Grinder says.
“I mean repair the damage, yeah,” Luis says. He’s shifting his gaze around, still a little rattled from the blast and trying to fight an urge to want to be everywhere at once. “Are all the civilians okay?”
The Sheen in the square look around. “Beats us,” Hal says.
“Find out,” Luis says. “Let me know about any casualties.” He turns to Gray, “And if you could find the leadership and ask if they’d come talk, I want to keep them updated and have them there when we talk to the families.”
Grey nods, and walks off.
Luis turns to the remainder of his escorts. “This is why we need to have our guard up and ready--this won’t be the last of this, probably, and we need to do what we can to fight it without provoking more people to come at us.”
The Sheen all look at him for a moment, and then turn away. Luis can’t hear what they’re saying to each other over their burst transmissions, but that low-level crackle that he can hear is turned all the way up to a steady buzz. It matches the buzz of Luis’ nerves as he looks around the scattered tables and chairs of the square, the smoked Sheen shell. For a long moment, he just surveys the scene as it tries to turn into far too many Iraqi streets and squares and the immediate adrenaline wears off. Finally, he manages to steady himself and turn back to thinking about what needs to be done to react to this and keep the lid on things. Yeah, counter-insurgency’s no fun for anyone, Luis thinks, then shakes his head and gets to work.

Swims-the-Black stands in front of the Wherren platoon, hands behind him and in his traditional uniform of color-changing vest, loose-fitting breathable pants, and his claws sticking out over the front of his leather sandals. ”I’m sure all of you remember one of the first exercises that you were all asked to do - navigating as a group across territory,” he barks. ”Well, now you are all going to do it again: four wherren per team, ten miles, six hours. Except this time, it will be in the desert scrub, and there will be Narsai’i looking for you. I trust that you will all have no problem doing this task?”
”Yes, Sir!” the platoon barks in unison.
”Good! You have a half-hour to pack! It’s going to be hot, so pack more water than you think you’ll need! Dismissed!” Swims barks, and steps down.

Sitting nearby, Hugh stops brooding over the large map of the exercise area and puts down the red marker in his right hand. He sports a scraggly beard and a well-worn shirt, though the tactical pants and boots are still distinctly Narsai’i, and there’s something on his neck that looks like a trio of little scratches - actually, several somethings that look like that, some more faded than this newest set.
”Are you ready for the day of fun?” Hugh asks. ”Weather reports are coming in at almost 120 degrees for noon, we should pack some extra water.”
”The medic outposts are all set up,” Swims replies. ”I know that this is a risk, but we will not always be fighting in jungles and grasslands.”
Hugh nods. ”It’s important training,” he says, then stops and looks at Swims for a few seconds.
”How are things with your bondmate and daughter?” Swims asks, returning Hugh’s questioning look.
”We’re doing great, thank you for asking,” Hugh replies with a smile. ”How are you doing?”
A violet and blue fringe fades briefly into view on Swims’ fur, but he wrestles it down quickly and gives Hugh a smile. ”I am fine.”
Hugh nods. ”Have you thought about visiting us?”
Swims shakes his head. ”What little time I have on the homeworld is spent with Hiigra and the other chiefs, sadly.”
”You should make time for some fun, Captain,” Hugh says. ”Instead of chasing Pie’re all day.”
”I have my time alone, and I have dinner with Garrett, Ngawai and Naloni, and that’s all I need,” Swims replies plainly.
”I understand,” Hugh says. ”Swims, you’ve been all over the galaxy. Have you ever heard of a way to use gene mods to turn a human into...a Wherren?”
Swims nods. ”A few times. Not very common, but not impossible, from what I’ve heard. Why? Looking to have it done to yourself?”
Hugh meets Swims’ bluntness with some honesty of his own. ”I’m considering it, but I didn’t want to get too excited without knowing any details. Do you know anyone who has undergone the procedure?”
”No,” Swims replied. ”It’s very expensive probably - not a problem for you, I suppose - and I’ve mostly heard horror stories about it all going wrong.” He looks back at Hugh and puts on a greenish tint to his fur. ”Probably Imperial propaganda, though.”
Hugh grins. ”The ‘probably’ is really reassuring,” he says. ”Do you think it’s a good idea?”
Swims-the-Black’s fur ruffles, and the wherren manages to hide almost all of the orange on his form. ”What do you mean?”
”Should I do it?” Hugh says. ”I know it’s the right thing for my family, but there’s more than my family to consider. From what I understand, the change cannot be reversed. When we operate inside the Imperium, we can usually blend in, but as a Wherren, that will be harder.”
The orange comes in more than a little strongly this time. ”Yes, that is true. Blending into Imperial society is very...challenging, as a Wherren.” Swims gets his fur under control. ”But you and Rhea and the cubs - and the rest of Village 815 - seem to fit very well together. If they have accepted you, and you feel like it is something you should do, then I will not say anything against it.”
”I would like to hear all your thoughts, Swims-the-Black, good and bad,” Hugh says somberly. ”I cannot make a good decision if I only know one half of the topic. Please, speak your mind.”
Swims takes a deep breath and looks up from the map to affix Hugh with a firm look, his jaw set and his jade-capped tusks jutting out slightly. ”I have no doubt that you love Rhea and Torega, and all the cubs. I do not doubt your desire to become Wherren is genuine. But I doubt that you can fully comprehend what it means to be Wherren in this galaxy - really, truly understand how we live day to day and our struggles as a species and a people, even after you come out of the genemodder’s tank. And I am concerned that you will give the cubs under your care a false impression of what it is like for a Wherren.”
”I see,” Hugh says, with a somber nod. ”You are right, Swims, I do not understand that now - maybe I never will. I will have to be very careful with how I act. I like teaching the cubs, but I am not qualified to tell them of their history or culture. I want to give them hope - but I do not want to lie to them.”
”And you might do so without even knowing it,” Swims replies, letting his orange come through at last. ”Because you are used to acting as a human on a human’s planet - and one where even there, you are very lucky and privileged. Even on Whiirr, the Wherren are still at a disadvantage, and even our allies insult and diminish us at times.”
Hugh just nods to that. The discussion in the village council about how the village should develop was a wake-up call in that direction: the Narsai’i, well-meaning though they might be, still treat the Wherren as children, and Hugh’s not sure that doesn’t apply to him, too. ”What do you think I should do, then?” he asks quietly.
”Know that even if you have the form of a Wherren, the look of a Wherren and the mind and feelings of one, you do not know what it is to be Wherren,” Swims says sagely. ”Not yet.”
”I will remember that,” Hugh says. There’s a weariness to it, as Swims has rather vividly filled in the previously vague “drawbacks” column of Hugh’s Best Idea Ever, and he adds a silent nod. After a moment of introspection, he puts a hand on Swims’ shoulder. ”Thank you, Swims-the-Black.”
Swims smiles at Hugh and ruffles his fur in a green wave. ”I am not saying you should not do it. If it is what you want and if it will make you, Rhea and Torega happy, then fuck what anyone else says and do it. But…” Violet starts to edge into his fur. ”...this is my people you are talking about joining. And our existence is not a happy one yet, and if you will be fathering cubs - your own or the orphans in your care - then they should know the truth, not the truth as a human-in-Wherren-form sees it. You have seen the Whiirr-bound Wherren’s struggles. They know less than small human children about science and mathematics and history - even their own. And off-world...off-world we are less than humans - at best. At worst, we are chattel, property to be used - or disposed of. You will be joining an oppressed people, and there is no way that you can understand what that truly means.”
”Piugash is holding night classes for the adults,” Hugh says, turning his head to face Swims. ”And the oppression of the Wherren is something I may never understand without growing up as one. I do not wish to pretend I do. My concern is freeing as many as I can.”
”And I am saying that there are many different kinds of bondage,” Swims grunts, his fur turning orange again. ”You must be careful not to mistake escape from the most heinous of indignities to be the same as freedom - and to certainly not teach others to settle for anything less than true equality.” He ruffles his fur at Hugh and huffs in emphasis. ”Understood?”
”I understand what you’re saying,” Hugh says, ”and it is clear to me you have more to say that would benefit from an audience. If you are not interested in a leisure trip, perhaps you could come to speak to the cubs of your life?”
Swims-the-Black’s fur flashes from orange to a faint blue. ”Er, soon,” Swims grunts. ”First, we have cubs of our own that need training,” he rumbles as he gestures at the tactical map in front of them.
Hugh smirks. ”Let’s see how they handle this,” he says, then rises from his chair.

About half an hour later, Luis stands outside the Arni Swaaosa’s house with his escort. Luis looks over the hab for a moment, then turns to the Sheen.
“All right,” he says. “This is going to be like the training, with a bit extra on top. Enter the house, secure it. Be alert for booby traps, possible enemies hiding inside, or anything else. Once the house is secure, we’re looking for any evidence of other plans--plans, weapons, whatever we can find. Got it?”
The four Sheen bob on their legs. “Got it,” Hal replies.
Nose, however, just raises a leg and bashes the door in. “YAAAAAAH GET SOME, MOTHERFUCKERS!”
Hal - well, it can’t sigh, but it makes the sound of a human sighing as it turns its sensors back around and charges in after Nose. “Going in!” Grinder and Grey follow in after it. Luis gives them a moment to clear the first room, then follows himself. It’s a small, standard-design single bedroom hab: there’s the main entry/living room, a kitchen area off to one side, a bedroom, and a bathroom, with the furniture molded into the spraycrete walls and synthetic carpet floors. Luis has been in more than a few of these across several planets by now, but none had beamers and explosives on nearly every flat surface.
“Shit!” he exclaims, but it doesn’t look like any of the bomb components and casings scattered all over are an immediate threat.
“All clear!” Grinder calls from the bedroom, and shortly after lumbers through the doorway which is just a bit too narrow for the shell’s frame.
“Shitter’s clear,” Nose calls, the Sheen obviously not pleased about ending up in the bathroom instead of the bedroom.
“Damn, there’s a lot of fucking guns in here,” Hal calls from the living room.
“No kidding,” Luis says, looking around. “I wish this looked like just some loners, but there’s a lot more here for that.” He pauses, then nods. “Okay, let’s see what we can find out other than that. Go through this all carefully and see what’s here, then we’ll need to move this all someplace we can secure it.”
“No sweat,” Grinder says, and swivels its sensors 360 degrees. “Scan complete, let’s go kick in more doors.”
“No,” Luis says, and points to the piles. “We need to find out if this guy had friends, not just kick in doors randomly. That means checking through all this…” he waves across the disturbingly numerous weapons and explosives “...and figuring out what we’re looking at here. Careful searching and analysis.”
All four Sheen make groaning sounds over their speakers. “More boring shit?” Grinder asks.
“They’re kicking in doors a few habs away!” Nose complains.
Luis blanches, and pulls up the vox and video feed from the other house in his overlay. “Second team, report status.”
“In the middle of something,” Full-Body Burn replies, as Luis can see through its sensors it looking around the inside of someone’s bedroom, searching.
“Are you clear?” Luis says.
“All except some humans keep shouting at us,” Burn replies. “The younger one threw something at me, so he got goo’d to the wall. Fucker’s lucky I didn’t light him up.”
“Any other issues? Find anything?” Luis asks.
“Not yet, just clearing the house of hostiles, nothing obvious yet,” Burn replies.
“Good,” Luis says. “Once you’ve cleared, focus on a detailed search of the contents of the house. Try not to start anything while you’re at it.”
“Don’t start nothin’, won’t be nothin’,” Burns replies, and closes the vox connection.
Luis turns his attention back to the squad in the bomb house. “There’s civilians at the other house, so I’m going to move over there to see about smoothing things over. See what you can pull out of all this mess, and then secure the lot of it for disposal.”
“Got it,” Grey replies.
“Whee, rooting around in a big stack of bombs,” Nose grumbles. “If you see a bright flash of light from over here, come running.”
“Will do,” Luis says. “Keep on it, let me know what you find.”

Checking his gear, Luis moves out to the other hab. It’s just four habs down the row, but a completely different scene. Out front is a dozen other people, standing around and shouting at the three horse-sized Sheen guarding the premises various obscenities and curses, while inside Luis can hear even more commotion.
“Hey!” Luis shouts as he approaches, trying to give the crowd something other than the door guards to focus on. The crowd, miraculously, turns and looks at Luis with curiosity.
“Settle down,” Luis say, trying to project calm. “What’s the trouble?”
“They’re killing the Huawador family!” one of the women shouts.
One of the village leaders, Koni, steps angrily up to Luis. “You said we would be given notice,” he barks at Luis, poking him in the chest. “Where is your promise now?”
“No one is being hurt today,” Luis says looking calmly at Koni, “We’re investigating the homes of those responsible for the attacks today, as I told you we would, to prevent further attacks. We have already found extensive caches of weapons at Swaaosa’s house, and we are ensuring that nothing similar is here.”
“There is nothing!” the first woman shouts.
“How do we know that they aren’t dead!” a man shouts.
“Yes, how do we know they are all right?” Koni asks, giving Luis an angrily skeptical look.
“If you can settle your people so I don’t need as many guards out here, I can send one in, and they can escort the family out to show you they are safe,” Luis says, addressing the crowd as much as Koni. “If there are indeed no weapons or indications of plans for further attacks here, then we will leave and they can go about their business.” He meets Koni’s eyes. “Will you do that?”
“No,” Koni says. “No, I will not.” He turns around to the crowd. “We demand that the invaders hold to their promise! Right?”
“Yeah!” the crowd shouts back as more people show up.
“You promised to not further invade our homes without our notice or permission - and there was no notice or permission given here!” Koni shouts. “What do you have to say to that, invader?”
Luis turns to the guards. “Is that true?”
“Uh, and take a scrambler to the face when we actually show up?” one of the Sheen replies. “Pass.”
“So, you were lying!” someone in the crowd shouts.
“How can we know that they aren’t all dead in there, then?” another cries.
The three Sheen outside turn their sensors to Luis. Luis raises an eyebrow at them.
“Uh, err…” the first Sheen replies. There’s a hesitation while the crowd gets even louder, but before things get really out of hand, one of the other Sheen out front takes a step forward.
“How about we let one of you in?” it asks, tentatively. “Check things out, make sure there’s no brains or meat all over the walls?” It turns to Koni. “How about you?”
Koni pretends to eye the Sheen suspiciously, but Luis can spot the relief on him that the Sheen finally figured out a right response to the situation. “I suppose that would be acceptable.”
“All right,” Luis says. “It’s acceptable to me if it’s acceptable to the crowd.”
“Then come on,” the lead Sheen says, its four legs crabbing backwards towards the door. Koni follows, but when the Sheen gets to the door of the hab, it stops. “Err...you go on through. They can see what’s going on out here in there, I’m...not gonna fit.”
Koni gives the Sheen a bemused look, and steps on in. Luis follows him through the doorway, but hangs back when he enters to let him and the Sheen deal with each other.

Inside, there’s the four entry Sheen - two on guard duty with the family and two others uneasily searching the place - and the three Bashakra’i playing the part of the family. The husband and wife - who Luis kinda remembers might actually be husband and wife - are standing in the corner, only somewhat having to pretend to be scared, and the son is stuck up against the wall by his arms and waist by big globs of the clear adhesive goo that the Sheen less-lethal weapons fire. Unlike the last hab, there’s no guns and bombs strewn throughout the place, just some wall hangings, furniture, dirty dishes and worn clothes - the usual detritus of a family living in close proximity to each other.

Koni looks around and sees that the three humans in here aren’t “dead”, and nods. “I trust you are being gentle with their belongings?” he asks one of the searching Sheen.
“Oh, yeah, we don’t want to blow up,” it replies.
Koni scowls, but says nothing as he moves to the sofa and takes a seat. “Then I will wait here, and observe.”
The four Sheen in the hab look to Luis. Luis simply crosses his arms, and leans up against the wall near the door, letting the Sheen handle the situation.
“Uh, sure,” the searching Sheen replies. “Just...don’t touch shit. Breaker, dedicate a sconce to him.” One of the other Sheen nods, and swivels one of its sensor pods to look at him, as the other two go back to lifting things up to their sensors and turning them over while another sensor pod scans back and forth for anything interesting.

And that is very much not what they find. It turns out that the Sheen have a very thorough and methodical process for “searching” that, while complete, is incredibly boring to see in action. Every single item, from a discarded wrapper under a chair to the chair itself, is picked up in one hand (Claw? Appendage?), rotated 360 degrees and scanned with one sensor pod while another checks from a different angle, and another scans the area it came from, and then set down. This proceeds, in order, from one item to the next, without fail. It’s very thorough, but it’s slow.

Forty-five minutes later, one of the Sheen finally picks up the vox that belonged to the “dead” attacker. “Hey, I’ve got his vox here,” the Sheen says, as blue light flickers across the vox as the Sheen accesses it. “Oh ho! And it’s got vox messages to other bad guys! Score!”
Luis turns to Koni. “I’d like to take that for further analysis,” he says, making a mental notes to review search practices later.
Koni looks to the “parents” of the “dead” attacker, who nod. “Take it,” he says.
Luis looks back to the Sheen. “You finished with your search?”
“Got another 22% to go,” one of the searching Sheen says.
“All right,” Luis says. “Let’s get finished and cleaned out of here.”

The pinpoints of stars shine weakly through the three inches of plastic making up the small porthole through which Angel Kesh and Erika O’Byrne are watching and waiting for Gorlan’s ship to arrive. The last time Angel was departing Atea in the Gorlan’s Soul, he hadn’t even had a chance to shower from a trip to Whiirr and only packed a change of clothes; this time he has a whole collection of expensive luggage occupying a drone skimmer behind him. Gorlan and Angel’s daily chats had been both more familial and more tense as the date of Angel’s arrival has approached - something ascribable to nerves on both their parts.

Angel fidgets with his suit idly, waiting for his brother’s ship to dock. His last week or so has been...busy...both tying up loose ends before his trip to Hedion, dealing with the aftermath of a high grade clusterfuck on the part of the U.S. Army, and getting back in the billionaire playboy mindset with the help of an absurdly impractical car and a pair of Georgetown law students. His gaze turns to Erika, and he forces a smile onto his face.

“Any last questions, concerns, or stern condemnations Ms. O’Byrne?”
“I will keep you up to date on the office move,” Erika replies. “And only one: you must enjoy yourself. Sir.”

“A non-stop extravaganza of people making inappropriate advances and offering me drugs. What’s not to like?” His tone is somewhat flat, and he nods. “Thank you Erika. How are you holding up?”
“I can manage a corporate move, boss,” Erika replies dismissively. “I’m serious. It can’t possibly be as horrible as you seem to think it is - I’ve met Gorlan, and he wouldn’t tolerate it otherwise. Just...be positive. You never know what you might find.”

“Fair enough. But it wasn’t the move I was asking about.” Angel smiles slightly. “Like I said, any time you need to talk.” Erika gives Angel a confused look. “You’re caught up with a group of now arguably extra-governmental soldiers, caught up in a conflict that may very well end up with everyone either of us have ever known killed in an orbital bombardment, opposed by very powerful members of the U.S. government. It’s been implied that you’re a traitor, you had to bear the news of the capture and likely execution of 5,000 U.S. soldiers days before the rest of the country had to, and also have a large multinational company become largely your responsibility. You’re a badass Erika, but no one is that badass.”
Erika gives Angel a stern look. "Have you asked me to cover up any major felonies? Ruined anyone's life?"
He thinks for a moment. “Not that I’m aware of?”
"Then you're not as bad as my former bosses have been," she answers flatly. "Believe me, working for your extra-governmental soldiers is better than Wall Street."
“We have better parties too. Sure you don’t want to come along?” He winks, knowing full well she doesn’t.
Erika shakes her head. "Training wheels off, sir. In fact? You don't need me to wait with you," she says with a smirk. "Vox me when you're back. Bring me something pretty."

She hears him mutter something about getting her a fruitcake for Christmas, but Angel lets Ericka go, gazing out the window at the rapidly approaching ship. “Just a party. A party full of Imperial nobles. No. Big. Deal.”
Gorlan’s Soul does its subtly shifting shape thrust vectoring routine as it comes in to dock, which it does with a barely audible thump against the flexible coupling. A few minutes later, Gorlan strolls out with a big smile on his face, dressed in a knee-length dark blue tunic with blaze-orange piping and embroidery around the edges, slacks so black that light seems to fall into them, and a warm pair of black leather loafers - casualwear by his standards. A big smile completes the look, and the two embrace each other.
“It’s good to see you again, brother,” Gorlan says.

Angel returns the hug along with a warm smile. “It’s good to see you too brother. How was your trip - manage to relax even a little bit?”
“Sadly, no,” Gorlan says, but doesn’t give Angel a chance to cut in. “And before you chastise me, I have spent the last few weeks since Mr. Stanhill’s wedding clearing the decks for these next few days - interplanetary commerce doesn’t stop for a few days’ debauchery and debutants.”

Angel lets out a small, tired laugh. “So I am beginning to understand - and I only have one planet to deal with. Which reminds me…” Angel shakes his head slightly. “No, that can wait. But you can’t blame me for holding out hope.”
"Please, tell me of it while your luggage loads itself," Gorlan says.

Angel has a brief moment when he thinks Gorlan is being sarcastic - not exactly an unexpected response from the Rivera side of the family - before he nods, signaling his luggage to load itself onto the vessel. “Just trying to get the village set up, wrangle a governor and two university presidents to get on board with something, and try to avoid snapping while the government does its level best to set itself on fire instead of seeing reason.”
Gorlan nods. "And now, three days rubbing shoulders with the elite of the government that wants your people eradicated. Not exactly relaxing."

“No. Though the elite of the government that wants my people eradicated have an occasional standout member or two.” Angel nods toward the ship. “Shall we get on with this?”
Gorlan smiles again. "Well, that is why I have a surprise for you when we arrive." He pauses. "After we finish assembling your social profile, fitting you for clothes, and briefing you on sub-industrium lineups."

Angel sighs softly. “...can’t wait.”

The transit between Atea, shadowport and Hedion is uneventful, and so Gorlan takes advantage of the time to check off some of the more onerous parts of Angel’s prep list. The social profile is still...disturbingly complete. The personal history is more a cover profile review, and as with Angel’s general philosophy toward trying to pass in Imperial society sticks as close to the truth as possible before diverting off into fiction. Born to a modest but respectable family, the kind you couldn’t outwardly frown on your daughter - or sister - becoming entangled with, but who represented a threat to the way things were done. A roguish and rather dashing career as a hunting guide and explorer, cutting a very romantic figure when combined with the rich, beautiful Expansion agent, and a whirlwind romance cut short by tragedy - and a family knit back together through honor and mutual respect. A little close to something that sounded a bit out of a holo-drama, but it would suffice, and it seemed to play well, and about the only respectable part of the social registry process. The rest of the time was spent with Gorlan and Angel becoming increasingly uncomfortable with the questions Angel had to answer about every possible sexual act or kink that the width and breadth of the Imperium had managed to come up with (complete with definitions, diagrams and even videos if one was confused as to what exactly the registry was asking about). Only some of what’s presented is flatly turned down, however, and Angel comes across in Gorlan’s estimation as not exactly down for anything, but certainly not abnormally prudish. Finally, after some full-body scans - both clothed and unclothed - are attached, Angel and Gorlan settle on the prices for Angel’s...time: reasonable for women, vastly overpriced for men, and a flat “no” on reproduction contracts.

After going through all of that, simply reviewing the many, many products the various secretly-held industriums and sub-industriums that Faxom-Io controls is a welcome, if extremely boring break. Angel actually had already learned about a good percentage of them simply doing his job on Narsai, so it’s not nearly the time-waster Gorlan anticipated - much to his delight. The busywork quickly turns into a back-and-forth on expansion strategies and tech importation, until the ship reminds them both that it’s somewhat late for their respective clocks, and they both head off into their separate quarters. What seemed ostentatious and bizarre to Angel before now almost seems familiar and safe (360 degree projection of the infinite void outside the walls aside), and it’s not until the ship is almost ready to cross back into Hedion’i space that it gently chimes Angel awake.

The space above Hedion has calmed down a fair bit since he was last here - both the Wandering Gallows and Ethics Gradient have departed, and the post-lockdown rush has long since abated. Instead, there’s the usual four patrolling Needleships at a medium-altitude parking orbit, and the dotted lines of nav lights marking the lanes to and from the various arcologies, farming communities, space stations and Gateways. Gorlan is just being given clearance to head for his private berth as Angel wanders into the bridge, and stands by as Gorlan brings the Gorlan’s Soul in to port. From there, it’s a quick skimmer ride back to the Kesh Estate, high up above the basement of the Akis arcology.

“You know that surprise I told you about?” Gorlan asks as he points the nose of the skimmer up and out of the flow of traffic towards an encircling arc above the Kesh Estate.

“I had almost forgotten, somewhere in between the chemical consortia and a question about...I mean, really, how often can that possibly come up?” Angel shakes his head. “But yes, I do remember you mentioning something.”
“Well, it’s just inside,” Gorlan says. He brings the skimmer up and over, and sets it down on the rooftop landing pad.
“Welcome back, Master Kesh,” the young attendant says, and nods to Gorlan. “And to you as well, Master Kesh.” He nods to Angel and starts unloading the bags. “You go on inside, I’ll make sure these get to your rooms.”
Gorlan gives a slight bow to him. “Thank you, Vamu.” He gestures towards the stairs leading down to the grand entrance. “After you.”

Angel leads the way, and he can immediately see what the surprise is - all three-dozen-odd house staff, milling about on the main entryway’s enormous black marble floor, drinks and canapes in hand. One of them notices Angel’s appearance at the top of the stairs, and the staff bursts into a measured but enthusiastic round of applause.

Pausing at the top of the stairs, the scout turned nobleman gives the applauding assembly a gracious nod before turning to Gorlan. “You decided this all needed a pre-party?”
“Can’t we just be glad to see you home?” Gorlan asks with a smile - a real one. He leads Angel down the stairs and into the middle of the somewhat impromptu party. There’s no fancy decorations, no hired band and no enormous meal spread - just some snacks put together by the kitchen staff and a few opened bottles of alcohol and mixers. Angel recognizes Iyim and a few of the others, but there’s more than 30 people here, and most of them are new to him. There’s one person here that isn’t new to him but isn’t a member of the household - Tangesa, who says that she’s here to show him his completed bedroom and office space in the northern wing of the estate. There’s a lot of bows and introductions, but they all seem...excited to see Angel beyond simply one of the heads of the household returning home. There’s a lot of wishes for good luck and success emphatic enough to surprise Angel, and even a few tearful expressions of gratitude and embraces.

Then there’s a call from the kitchen, and the staff parts to let Zarohan, the Kesh Estate’s head chef, walk through pushing a cake on a hovering platform - a cake clearly decorated with an image of Narsai. “Welcome Home, Angel” is printed in glyphs on the top, and before Angel can fully react, Zarohan pushes the first slice into Angel’s hand.

Angel takes the slice of cake with little resistant, too confused - and overwhelmed - to say much of anything. The green-and-blue planet pictured on the dessert does however cause him to raise an eyebrow. “...so I take it they know?”
“Well, they wanted an explanation when I called off all of their indentured servitude contracts,” Gorlan says with a smile. “Everyone that works on the Kesh estate is now working here of their own volition and earning a wage.” He sighs happily and looks at the cake. “My time on Narsai, while limited, was...eye-opening.”

Angel chuckles. “I’m glad to hear it - and that explains some of the thanks.” Angel takes a bite of cake, giving the chef a nod of appreciative approval - fruit jelly layered between butter, flour and egg turns out to be something of a universal language. He smiles, turning back to the now milling crowd of staff. “Thank you Gorlan. This was...what I needed.”
“I think that phrase could be applied to a great many things these days,” Gorlan says as he accepts a slice of cake of his own.

Ever since Hunter used a kauka to heal the wounded members of Task Force 815 on the steps outside the GRHDI hearings and Luis’ appearance on The Daily Show sporting brand new eyeballs, the buzz on the war with the Imperium went from background noise and fear-mongering to a constant barrage of speculation and interest into what exactly is on the other side of the Gateways. Add on top of that regular news updates of the construction of the Bashakra’i village, establishment of Kesh Holdings, and the GRHDI slowly opening the tap on what life is really like out in the larger galaxy, the Narsai’i popular culture has started to go a little Imperial-crazed. This is especially true in professional circles - medical journals are rife with speculation as to what other wonders might exist in Imperial hospitals, technology publications are chock-full of images of voxes and cogitators, and aerospace is girding itself for the coming shock over what looks to be hundreds or thousands of years of advancement all at once. Anyone who’s anyone in almost any given field is looking to get in on the ground floor for the coming advances brought on by the Imperium, and a call from the GRHDI is as good as gold in professional circles.

Not even the realm of psychology is immune, which is why when Dr. Jessica Gunnell, MD, PhD, publisher of three books on high-stress and life-and-death careers and psychiatrist to both the rich and powerful and the national security elite in northern Virginia, got a call from GRHDI Director Samantha Barnes herself about wanting a consult - and hinting at a longer-term appointment - there wasn’t much hesitation. However, instead of a proposal for some large group study of differences between Imperial and Earth-born psychology like she was expecting, Director Barnes introduced her to a married couple, Assistant Director Garrett Davis and his Imperial wife, Ngawai Holoni, and left the room. Garrett explained that he and his wife had selected her to help them through some issues that they were going through after much consideration, but also that there was also the possibility of a staff psychiatrist position if things went well. Jessica was briefly disappointed - being the first one to have real access to Imperials would have been a career-maker - but concerns of careerism were quickly put aside for the new patients, and forgotten all together as the first meeting went on. The sad tales of the husband and wife, so separated by their hurtful pasts would have been enough for her to agree to take them on even if there wasn’t the offer of deeper studies on offer.

And that is how Jessica found herself giving up her Saturdays to being flown out to Mesas Negras in the middle of the New Mexico desert once a week and meeting with Garrett Davis and Ngawai Holoni. For their first two meetings, Garrett had been the one doing all of the talking, speaking about his work in Afghanistan, losing the local woman he fell in love with to a betrayal, and his ongoing concerns and problems with the government outside of the GRHDI (a thematic connection that Garrett seemed only peripherally aware of), while Ngawai only spoke when spoken to and seemed more interested in sizing Jessica up than participating. She didn’t object to when Garrett filled in what blanks he seemed to know about her, but that wasn’t exactly the same thing as it coming from Ngawai’s mouth. And thus, the goal for this week’s session in the GRHDI complex at Mesas Negras was to get Ngawai to open up.

Jessica carefully adjusted the angle between her chair, the sofa, and the door one last time just before there’s a knock at the door. “Come in, Ngawai,” she says.
The door opens just enough for Ngawai to peer in. “Garrett is not here yet.”
“That’s fine, I wanted some time to talk to you alone today,” Jessica replied. “Please, come in.”
Ngawai paused for a few seconds, her bright brown eyes looking around through the small crack she’d opened, like she was checking for a trap. Her curiosity, or resignation to the whole process, won out in the end, and she stepped quickly through the door. Only after checking twice that the door was firmly shut did Ngawai take a seat on the sofa across from Jessica, her eyes locking in on Jessica’s. “What do you want to talk about?” Ngawai asked bluntly.
“I’d like to talk about you, actually,” Jessica replies with a smile. “You haven’t said more than a few sentences during each of our last two sessions, and I’d like the chance to get to know you a little better, if only for the sake of Garrett’s therapy. After all, he’s going through all of this for you, right?”
Jessica can almost feel Ngawai’s scrutinizing glare for a few seconds. “Fine,” Ngawai says as she sits back into the sofa. “What do you want to know?”

“Well…” Jessica weighs her first question carefully. “What do you hope to get out of our sessions?”
“I want -” Ngawai stops mid-sentence, her mouth hanging open for a second before she closes it. She leans back further into the sofa, looks away, and crosses her arms. “I want to get better, and I want Garrett to get better, and I want to get closer with Garrett.” She looks back at Jessica, her eyes narrowed. “I know what you are trying to do.”
“I am trying to help you, Ngawai,” Jessica says. “You and Garrett. That’s what I am trying to do, but I can only do that with the help of both of you. If either you or Garrett hide the things that really matter, then how can I help the two of you get to the bottom of what is bothering you?”
“I guess you cannot,” Ngawai replies, her glare still fixed on her face.
“I understand if you don’t trust me,” Jessica continues. “After what Garrett has said, I’d understand if you didn’t trust anyone from Earth. But I am here to help, and I can’t help you both if you won’t let me in. We have a saying - ‘you get out of therapy what you put into it’. If you don’t want to participate, that’s fine. If you want to just stay here and monitor me, that’s fine, too. But I will not be able to help you - and by extension, help Garrett - if you do not open up to me. All right?”
Ngawai directs her attention back to the sofa cushions, and picks at them for a moment before replying. “I suppose you have already heard enough things from Garrett to attack us with if you want.”
“And I haven’t told anyone else, Ngawai,” Jessica replies. “Not even Director Barnes.” That actually catches Ngawai by surprise, and she gives Jessica a curious look. “That’s what doctor-patient confidentiality means, Ngawai. I tell no one, unless you tell me that I can - or I think that you are an immediate danger to another person, which I don’t, even after what Garrett said you went through.”

Ngawai continues her studious stare at Jessica for a few seconds, while Jessica sits back into her chair. “So, have I passed the test?” Jessica asks, putting her friendly smile back on.
Ngawai gives Jessica one last look, then sighs and leans back into the sofa. Her eyes are still sharp, but her body language untenses as she gives Jessica a quick nod. “For now,” Ngawai replies. “Where do you want me to start?”
“Wherever you want,” Jessica replies.
“I will start with what Garrett has already said, then.” Ngawai drew in, then let out a deep breath. “Since I found out that I was pregnant with my daughter, I was seeing the dead body of my...my…” she shivers, “I suppose I have to call him my boyfriend, Harlon. He - I convinced myself that I did not deserve to be a mother, and be with Garrett -” Ngawai sniffs and wipes at an eye, “- and be happy, and that I had to kill Semo Putupu, one of our old teammates, for killing Harlon, and then kill myself. I stole weapons and explosives to do this, even though I knew it was wrong and I didn’t want to do it. I…” Ngawai, both eyes running with tears at this point, pauses to suck in another deep breath. “I thought the only way for Naloni and Garrett to be happy was if I was dead.” Her hands reflexively go to her stomach at that. “And then a week before I gave birth, I had a...a break-down, Garrett called it.”

Ngawai cracks at that, and starts openly crying. “I couldn’t do it anymore, I wanted to live to see Naloni, and Garrett, and everyone else, but I couldn’t stop myself,” she sobs, as Jessica rolls her chair closer and puts a tissue box on the sofa next to Ngawai. She quickly plucks a few out of the box and blows her nose as she tries to pull herself together. “And Harlon told me that I had to die, for helping Malenko kill all those children, for just doing nothing while she killed and ate them.” That shocks Jessica, but Ngawai is on a roll and she doesn’t dare say anything to stop her. “I freaked out, and Garrett came to me, and then I hit someone, and he hit a police officer, and then we were both in jail. That’s where...Harlon changed, somehow, because Garrett was there, I think. He told me that I only thought I loved him, that he made me think it was my fault we stayed with Malenko, that I thought I loved him because...because my father beat my mother, and that made my thought on love wrong, and that it was too late now for anyone to love me.”

Ngawai takes a deep breath. “But he was wrong. I told him he was wrong, that Garrett loves me, and that he will stay with me and fight, and then Harlon was gone.” Ngawai smiles just a little. “And Garrett was there, and now Naloni is here, and I want, so badly, to be better for Garrett and for her and to keep fighting this war for the both of them.” Then the floodgates reopen as Ngawai’s mouth keeps running. “But I’m afraid that I can’t, that I’m broken and can’t be trusted to be what Garrett and the team need me to be, and that I can’t be a good mother because of who I am and what I’ve done, and I just…” Ngawai sighs one last time and sinks back into the sofa. “I don’t know what to do anymore.”

Jessica sits there for a moment, both to make sure that Ngawai really is finished before she speaks up and to process the entirety of what Ngawai had just unburdened herself with. “Well. I want to start off by saying that you and Garrett definitely share the trait of holding things inside and then letting it out all at once, but I don’t see that as too much of a problem,” Jessica states, her left hand tensing up with her gamble on humor.
Ngawai chuckles a bit at that. “Yes, I guess we do.”
Jessica’s shoulders drop - her foot is now in the door, time to go for it. “Ngawai, I am not going to promise that I can make you into a perfectly happy and well-adjusted person overnight. In fact, I think that you wouldn’t trust me if I did, and wouldn’t want to be one if I could. Right?”
The smirk on Ngawai’s face grows a little bigger as she wipes her eyes. “Yes.”
“But what I can say is that I am going to be here to help you get to a place where you feel under control, and that you are that good person,” Jessica continues. “Because you are that good person. Think about the story you just told me, Ngawai. Throughout all of your problems, you always resisted doing what you thought was wrong. You always knew what was the right thing to do. Your problems and issues sometimes got in the way of being able to do the right thing, but you have always wanted, at your core, to do the right thing by Garrett, Naloni, and your team. Right?”
Ngawai nods.
“Well, here’s the thing about problems - the more you know about them, the easier they are to fight,” Jessica said. “You know so much more about yourself now than you did before. And now that you know at least some of what makes you feel so bad, you can fight it. Because to my eyes, Ngawai, you are that good person. Troubled, but that you have these troubles and still did the right thing makes you all the more that good person. And I think that means you’ll be all right.”

Jessica rolls her chair forward and puts a hand on Ngawai’s shoulder. “Ngawai Holoni is a good person. You are a good wife, a good mother, and a good teammate. All I’m here to do is make sure that you know it. Okay?”
Ngawai tries to stay stoic as she nods, but the rush of feelings from Jessica’s simple affirmation is too much, and she starts to cry again as she wraps her arms around Jessica’s shoulders and pulls her in for a surprising hug.

The next morning is the day of the ball - which, much to Angel’s consternation, involves getting up before the Hedion’i sun crests the horizon. Tangesa’s overnight presence suddenly makes more sense, as did her and Gorlan’s relatively early bedtime as Tangesa leads Angel and Gorlan into one of the smaller guest bedrooms in their underwear.

“Come, come,” Tangesa says. “We’ve got a long day ahead of us, so we should start it off looking our best.” Gorlan steps along next to Angel, obviously not entirely awake either.
Angel manages to muster up his best bootcamp honed ability to pretend to be awake, obediently shuffling after the woman. He had been expecting something like this - she had gone on the previous night at some length about the attire she had made for the event - an “homage to a rustic past that never was” or something similarly poetic sounding. Of course, being from thousands of years in the future as far as technology is concerned meant that Angel wasn’t quite sure how rustic this past really would be.

In the bedroom, Tangesa had erected a temporary dressing stage: a small platform surrounded by lights and what look like optical sconces on posts. “Angel, if you would?” Tangesa says as she motions towards the platform.

The scout blinks as he steps onto the well-lit platform, the hour far, far too early for the amount of illumination she’s pushing, but complies. He gives her a playful smile. “Why can’t Gorlan go first?”
Tangesa returns the smirk. “Because I want to wow you first, dear.” She snaps her fingers - and vanishes as Angel is suddenly surrounded with reflections of himself, Tangesa rendered only as a glowing outline on the mirrors around him. “Now, we start by removing those underthings. The leggings have built-in support and ventilation, so these plant-based things will simply just get in the way.”

“I’m pretty sure these are mostly synthetic but…” Angel obediently slips out of his underwear, the scene slightly awkward, but not the first time he’s been naked in a crowd, though admittedly not under light.
“Excellent,” Tangesa says. “First, the leggings.” Tangesa then steps through the mirrors, now revealed to be sophisticated holo displays. She carries a pair of pants that are clearly meant for someone with legs much skinnier than his. They’re leather, a deep and dark navy blue, with bright orange stretchable mesh panels running down the outside and inside of his legs.

Angel looks surprised the moment it looks like the woman is going to ram a mirror at full speed, but covers it fairly well by the look of shock that follows as he takes in the leggings. “I’m sure I should be flattered, but I’m not exactly some 18 year old club kid who forgot to eat for the past week Tangesa…”
“Why do you think I had Gorlan take those full-body laser scans?” Tangesa says with a smile. “These will fit you perfectly - snug, but not tight. You wanted something more conservative, and so I delivered.” She stretched one leg out of the leggings as she took a knee in front of him. “Your left foot, please.”

“This is conservative?” Angel sounds equal parts alarmed and suspicious as he raises a foot for her.
“It has legs, for a start,” Tangesa replies as she glides the leggings up his left leg up to his thigh. A quick tap on the top of his left leg drops it down just as a tap on the underside of the right instructs Angel to raise it instead, where the other leg is slid in. “I will let you take care of the rest while I prepare your top.” With that, Tangesa steps back through the holo. There’s the slight whooshing sound of the door sliding open and shut as Angel wriggles into the leggings, grateful at least that she didn’t insist on seeing that part through.

“An interesting choice,” a familiar voice intones from outside the mirror - Abeis Hasaeph, the Faxom-Io heavy Angel met the first time he came back to Hedion. “I see you really are like your adoptive brother - restrained even with your revelry and showing off.”

“Give me time Suit.” The insult is...slightly...lost in translation, and Angel’s tone suggests its not said with any particular malice anyway. Abeis did, after all, decide not to sic the Imperium on them for a good few trillion lats. “Besides, I’m told your frontier planets tend toward restraint.”
Angel can still see Tangesa’s golden outline through the “mirror” - she’s frozen solid with fear - but Hasaeph remains invisible. “Continue, please,” Hasaeph says. “I am here to speak to the Kesh brothers. I presume that your words mean that Tangesa is aware of your true origin?”

Angel nods. “One of a limited number.”

“Good,” Hasaeph says. His intonation implies all sorts of nasty things if that wasn’t the case. “I am here to brief you, Angel, on certain developments that you should be aware of. First, the Board is here.”
“The whole Directing Board?” Gorlan asks.
“Indeed,” Hasaeph says. “They are here to make their final decision on this ‘Kesh Holdings’ expedition - and by extension, their involvement with you both.”
“Well, they should speak with me, then!” Gorlan hurriedly says. “Kesh Holdings is technically under my purview -”

Angel interrupts him, turning from his temporary occupation trying to reassure Tangesa that she’s in no way about to disappear under mysterious circumstances. “No, Brother, they should talk to the both of us. They have the right to evaluate the other end of this partnership and…” his tone shifts to suggest he’s not the only one who can imply all manner of nasty things as he steps through the holo-mirror, “I’d rather like to evaluate them myself.”
Hasaeph gives Angel a smirk. “They anticipated this, and you are more than welcome to do so - if you can tell who they are. It is a ball, after all.”

“I suppose ‘Keep an eye out for the rich bastards’ isn’t specific enough in this crowd?”
“Very much so,” Hasaeph says. “The other bit of information might help you impress them - there will be two surprise guests of honor at the main ball tonight - Rav-Odun Nia Lobsha and her brother, Samal Kuo Jonma of the Khiraba, the heroes of the Narsai’i invasion of Botane.”

Angel’s jaw tenses visibly. “Well...that is an interesting bit of information.”
“They are to tell the tale of their easy defeat of the Narsai’i savages and show off their trophies of conquest,” Hasaeph continues. “There will be no Narsai’i executions, out of respect for the venue, but I think we can both imagine what kind of...nasty artifacts a Khiraba might have collected.” He fixes Angel with a piercing look. “Can you contain yourself in their presence? If not -”

The scout raises his hand, tense but apparently unperturbed. “I don’t have to imagine, particularly, and Khiraba tend to die messily when I meet them. But, so long as you have to good fortune of also informing me that they won’t be immediately returning to their vessel after the party, I’m sure we’ll have an absolutely sparkling conversation about their swift and decisive campaign in defense of our glorious Imperium.”
“Good,” Hasaeph says. “And I believe Lobsha and Jonma have to depart for a local Cortex interview during the ball as part of their publicity tour, so your time around them should be limited.”

“If you want to be really useful, get me their itinerary for afterwards.”
“No,” Hasaeph says, glaring at Angel. “They will go on their way, unharmed.” He looks at Gorlan. “This is exactly what the Board is concerned about.”
“The Board knew who I was when you visited me last time. And they’ll die heroes, like any good soldier of the Imperium should wish for.”
“And it will bring the full force of the Imperium down upon your brother, his household, and any associates you might have - Faxom-Io included,” Hasaeph says, his eyes cold, before they soften an amount small enough to require measurement by electron microscope. “The Board asked me not to communicate this, but, soldier-to-soldier, they want this to work - but they did not get where they are without being cautious. I was sent here as a courtesy because they did not want the presence of Lobsha and Jonma to catch you off guard and into doing something rash. So, stay the course, and everything will be fine - and you might find yourself with more allies than you expect.”

Angel grunts, stepping back through the holo-mirror and motions for Tangesa to continue. “Fine. They’ll depart happy, healthy and none the wiser, and since the Board is so concerned for the well being of my family, we’ll leave the two of them contemplating how so much of them ended up outside their body for another day.”
“Tora’s death was a great tragedy,” Hasaeph replies. “But we cannot be everywhere. Good luck at the ball, Angel.” He gives Angel a slight bow.
But we should have been somewhere. That bit goes unspoken, and Angel simply nods as he fidgets with the high-technology leggings. “Thank you.”
Angel can hear the door open and close. “You...you weren’t seriously threatening to...do what you were saying you were going to do, were you?” Tangesa asks nervously.
The scout turned nobleman looks down at the woman for a moment, his expression considerably softer and thoughtful. “Do you think I was?”
“I wasn’t sure,” Tangesa replied, but her expression said ‘yes, I did’.
Angel chuckles. “That uncertainty was the point of that tiresome little exercise. Faxom-Io wants to test me, want’s to see if I’ll play by the rules. And I will. But it is never the less useful to remind them that there is a war on, and while the wolf they have climbed into bed with is sated for the moment, it is still a wolf. Did my brother ever tell you why we came to this planet in the first place?”
“Only that it was to rescue Turai Quis’ parents, and disrupt things,” Tangesa replies as she steps behind him, a matching skin-tight leather and mesh top in her hands. Angel expects her to hand it to him to put on, but then she flips it over his head - the seal is in the back, leaving the tight leather and stitching to lift and accent his physique, while the orange mesh panels let some skin and kauka scars show through.
“To disrupt things was in order to rescue Quis’ parents. A convenient distraction to muss the Imperium’s hair a bit and keep their eyes elsewhere. We raided a planet to rescue two people. I don’t idly put my friend’s lives at risk.” He looks himself over, admitting that, while not something he would ever buy, he does look decent. “But Faxom-Io needn’t know that. But Tangesa? Whether I go off and do something stupid or not, knowing me is a dangerous thing. Neither I, nor my brother, will fault you in the slightest if you wish to...discontinue our association. You’re welcome to depart, with my thanks, and that would be the end of it as far as I’m concerned.”
Tangesa seals the back of the top with a finger’s touch up his spine before walking around in front of Angel. “My father beat a Samal at cards one night in a bar when I was young - and was taken to the re-education grids the next week on charges of sedition,” she says, the layers of red and gold makeup around her eyes accenting the ice contained inside. “He could not work for a year afterwards, and I had to turn to making clothes from scraps to survive. I am with your cause, Angel.” The stone in her eyes cracks as the nerves return. “But...I am just a designer, not a soldier. I don’t know how things are in your world. Are all soldiers as ready to say such things?”
“No Tangesa, and even fewer are willing to follow through on them. But the Imperium is a vast place, and there are relatively few of us. It...helps...to be regarded as an object of fear. A thing that stalks the nights on a dozen worlds. The Killing Wind isn’t someone with a weakness for pretty noblewomen and an appreciation for tailored suit coats. But he also isn’t me. I just play him sometimes. I won’t lie to you - I would kill them if I had an opportunity to do so that wouldn’t result in catastrophe for you, Gorlan, and everyone else under this roof, but even in that I exaggerate. Generally speaking, I prefer things clean, sudden and uncomplicated.”
“He’s like his friends in that regard,” Gorlan speaks up. “Despite the 815’s reputation for daring and spontaneity? They do nothing that is not carefully planned in advance to the last detail. It only looks like chaos.”
Angel cracks a smile. “Garrett likes complicated. But beyond that, yes. But I give you my word Tangesa, that was a show for a very...particular audience. I’m sorry you had to see it as well.”
Tangesa nods. “I will go turn on your coat, it’s in a container in the hall.”

She steps back through the mirror and immediately after her outline vanishes from the mirror altogether. Gorlan steps through the holo-mirror as the door slides shut behind Tangesa. “Next time, maybe push those particular buttons when someone not familiar with you is in the room?” Gorlan asks. His straight expression doesn’t last very long, as the corner of his mouth curls up. Clearly, he enjoyed the show.
Angel nods. “Not my fault, I was ambushed while I was putting on these absurd pants.”
“Oh, wait until you see the coat,” Gorlan replies. “I have to ask, how did you know Hasaeph would understand what you were doing? I imagined him simply shooting you when you started in.”
“To be honest? I didn’t.” Angel shrugs slightly. “But as much as Faxom-Io wants to know that the ground is stable under me, I wanted to know precisely the kind of man I was working with.”
Gorlan raises an eyebrow. “Testing him with an orbital accelerator shot. So, what did you learn?”
“He doesn’t scare easily, isn’t completely unreasonable, and didn’t care much for your brother. All useful pieces of information.”
Gorlan nods thoughtfully. “Might I recommend a more...genteel method for later on tonight?” he remarks with a smirk as the door slides open again.
“That was the plan. But I don’t particularly think the genteel method would have worked with that particular pairing. But I am capable of social grace, despite appearances to the contrary.”

“And such grace you will have!” Tangesa exclaims from outside the mirror. “If you are ready, Angel, step out and behold my final addition to this masterpiece!” Angel does step out, although not very far - partially out of shock, and partially because he has little choice. The “coat”, if something this elaborate could be called that, hovers in midair, requiring Tangesa’s touch to hold it in place. Long, sweeping tails, at least eight by Angel’s count, stream off of the back and sides, forming arcs encircling where his feet and legs would go and suspended in perfect tension by miniaturized impeller units. The coat seems to be made of two competing patterns of thick fabric, one colored an off-cream-white embossed with straight lines, while the other is a slightly yellowish green speckled evenly with raised dots - Faxom-Io colors, to pair with Angel’s Kesh family representation.

“Tangesa this is...good lord, they hover?” Angel submits as the seamstress helps him into the garment, pretty sure the layers of thick fabric would drag him down if it wasn’t for the impellers keeping some of the weight off him. “Alright, since you’re the expert...how do I look?”
The coat strapped and attached to the hardpoints hidden in his leather skinsuit, Tangesa steps around the front and clasps her hands together as she gasps in delight. “Wonderful!”
Gorlan gives an approving nod. “Insofar as any outfit designed for this ridiculous event can be appropriate, this is very good.”
Tangesa pretends to give Gorlan a withering look. “Oh, Gorlan, always so serious. This is the kind of thing a noble could wear every day! A sense of drama, excitement, pantomime!”
Angel smiles at the woman’s excitement. “And how much would it cost for the team of people to dress me every day?”
“Those members of our staff are paid sixty-thousand lats per year,” Gorlan replies. “Of course, dressing is not their only duty.”
Angel chuckles. “No offense, but I don’t trust a garment whose technology I don’t understand. What if it malfunctions? Or is that the drama and excitement part?” He’s clearly teasing Tangesa, and gives her a hug when he’s finished. “It’s wonderful...if unexpected. Thank you, as always.”
Tangesa returns the embrace. “Of course, Angel.” You may sit down, now. Your shoes are by the bed.” She looks to Gorlan. “Now, for you, my dear, we shall have to harness you in first.”
The color drains slightly from Gorlan’s face. “Ah, uh…”
Angel sits back, a grin on his face as he finds a comfortably place, the jacket somehow flowing around him to remain remarkably unobtrusive. “Do continue.”

It’s distressingly early when Gorlan, Angel and Tangesa climb into the executive transport skimmer - twice as long and four times as opulent as anything Angel has ever seen Gorlan drive or even own - and are flown to the site of the solstice ball. At the very top of the dome covering the arcology of Akis, lies one of the most exclusive stretches of greenery on Hedion, or anywhere else for that matter. The sun still ascending into the sky on the day of celebration, Angel can see a small crowd milling around inside of the secure dome that rises like a pimple out of the very peak of the city, the greenery supported by the five-foot-thick spaceship-grade plastic that makes up the larger dome. Outside the park itself is a small concourse for the tourists that want to see the park and the sights, and the vendors that prey upon those tourists, but today, all that’s there is a massive crowd, milling about around a glittering silvery-blue metal carpet. A row of skimmers, all equally opulent to the embarrassingly plush one Angel and his brother are currently in, wait their turn to disgorge their precious human cargo onto that precious scrap of sewn metal.

“So yeah, ‘Keep an eye out for the rich bastards’ is definitely not going to work as an identification strategy.” Angel gives the glittering crowd inside a slight smirk.
“Indeed,” Gorlan says with a nod. “Now, brace yourself, brother,” he adds as the skimmer settles into a spot near the front of the line, bypassing the presumably lesser nobles.
Angel lets out a deep sigh and nods. “Well, we might as well get this over with.”
Gorlan sets his jaw. “Agreed.”

And a few seconds later, the door raises up and Gorlan steps out, his outfit unfurling itself around him like the petals of a deranged flower as he puts a fake smile on his face. Two men and two women, each genemodded twins painted in Faxom-Io colors and all four completely nude, appear at Gorlan’s side and escort him down the glistening metal path towards the dome, as the throngs shout and scream behind the impenetrable walls of cameras (one literally, the first row is an unbroken wall of sconces set up to capture the entire walk down the carpet from every angle) widecasting every picosecond to the greater Cortex beyond.

Stepping out of the car, his jacket remaining tight to his legs until he exits before unfurling, one of the many ribbons of fabric wrapping possessively around each of his escorts, Angel raises a single eyebrow, offering each of the nude - really very completely nude, why can’t Terran parties be like this? - women an arm. “Should I feel snubbed that I only get the pair of you dears?” Angel tries to effect the feeling of someone used to this kind of treatment, but still fond of the pleasures of his position, and not yet used to taking them for granted.
The women laugh but say nothing, just smile at Angel, then at the crowd, and then back to Angel, but he can tell that there’s no sincerity there. They’re there to play a part, just the same as Angel is. Angel doesn’t break stride for a moment though, and walks the women down the “carpet”, one under each arm. It’s all very reminiscent of the brief shots of celebrity-infused gala events Angel has seen on the news, only missing one thing that only becomes clear near the end of the fifty-foot walk: no camera flashes. Other than that brief realization, the whole walk seems to take forever, Angel acutely aware that every single step is being seen by billions. This would be unnerving for any well-adjusted person, but doubly so for someone with a sizable bounty on his head and the enmity of a galaxy-spanning empire.

Still, he makes it to the other end unscathed, and the two Faxom-Io - women? advertisements? - disengage with him and head off to probably put some clothes on, leaving Angel in front of the entrance to the gala proper. The jacket returning to billow out slightly at his sides, Angel matches his pace to Gorlan, moving ever so slightly faster until they’re entering at roughly the same time, without looking like he’s rushing. Gorlan, having also shed his escorts, can only give Angel a moment of gratitude for the gesture before both brothers have to put on their game faces once again for the grand entrance to the park itself.

The celebration for the victories of Task Force 815 hosted by the Bashakra’i was not too long ago, and the memories are still fresh in Angel’s mind. This, however, resembles very little of that. There’s the guests enjoying themselves to be sure, although they were dressed far more plainly - and in many cases, much more comprehensively - than the guests at the solstice ball are. The carts of powerful stims were absent, as well was the - no, make that as well were the different areas covered in cushions and curtains that are full of people in pairs, trios, or mobs defiling themselves or each other in different ways. Only a few dozen hedonists are taking full advantage of the...recreational options made available - and a whisper from Gorlan assures Angel that most of them are hired performers - and most of the people there are not exactly fully clothed, but not in flagrante, either. The buffet is there as well, but is again turned up by about the collective net worth of a wealthy subdivision. Rare and endangered meats and dishes are served on plates carved out of massive gemstones and drinks so complicated as to possibly require an engineering degree to assemble are carried about, all while the utmost of the very top of the upper crust mill around on the four layers of park, one floating on top of the other, faking smiles and making small talk - or brokering deals to change the lives of millions.

Angel gives Gorlan a thin smile, winking to tell him he’s fine - while it’s certainly an unusual sight, it’s about what he expected given the nobility’s tendency toward excess. “Some people have fancy lighting, you all have...fancy lighting with improbably flexible set decorations.”
Gorlan’s smile covers up the obvious sourness in his eyes. “And they wonder why romance is dead,” he hisses through his pursed smile.

“Brother,” Angel says in more of a stage whisper, given a few eyes have turned to them, giving him a lazy smile. “Romance isn’t dead. It’s just hiding on some backward planet very, very far from here. You really should join me more often.”

“Ah!” a loud male voice booms from what seems like all directions. “Our most curious new guest has arrived!”
All the eyes in the small park turn towards the entrance, and Gorlan and Angel. “Yes!” a female counterpart howls. “Ever since his announcement a few months ago, this mysterious lover of the dearly missed Tora Kesh has been on the lips and minds of thousands here in Akis, and millions across Hedion, and here he is, for the first time - Angel Kesh!”

Oh for fuck’s… Angel manages a smile, raising his hand toward...well, towards forward, having not a whole lot of other options at this point, and a slight bow - Tangesa’s garment does the rest, impellers swirling his coat to make the movement considerably more dashing.
There’s a swell of cheers and applause, at least some of which is surely synthetic, because most of the people in the room are studying Angel very closely. “Coming in from a small frontier world, Angel Kesh has made quite a name for himself, taking an active role in Kesh Pharmaceuticals and establishing a industrium of his own - Kesh Holdings - which is already worth an estimated eight-hundred-million lats!” the male voice shouts.
“Yes, and he’s quite a looker too, in that dashing new construction by acclaimed designer Tangesa,” the female voice purrs.
“I’d say,” the male voice agrees. “I wonder if we’ll get any glimpses into this new player on the Hedion business and social scene - or simply a glimpse under those skin-tight clothes…”

“Just smile and wave,” Gorlan says, doing the same.

Angel does - mostly - what he’s sold, smiling and waving before giving one of a dozens of cameras the apparently universal sign of “Finger guns” with a boyish grin. The crowd - or the PA system - laughs and applauds in appreciation as the crowd turns back to their conversations. Angel can still feel eyes upon him, and it’s more than just the few he’d expected. The rest of the walk up the ramp into the park itself is free of any announcements, fanfare, or spotlights, leaving Angel and Gorlan alone at the top of the ramp. Gorlan quickly excuses himself to speak with another industrium head dressed in what looks like an outfit that is literally inflated, and then it’s Angel all by himself. He snatches an orange and green two-chambered drink off of a cart (mmm, apples and...mint?) and decides to take a stroll through the park, not only to see the sights but to scope the location for exits and maybe find the Faxom-Io board skulking in a corner, dressed in black robes.

Who he finds instead, as he ascends the impeller-supported stairs floating on nothing at all, is a familiar man with braided greying hair in a Turai carapace - Yarim, the owner of the weapons store in the nobles shopping mall. He’s carrying a chamakana and his sword is clipped to his side, and he looks alert and on guard, even in this place.
“Mr. Kesh,” Yarim says with a slight bow.

“Rav-Turai Yarim - a pleasant surprise. My compliments on the items you provided me. They have been...exquisite. I’ve been meaning to pay you another visit.”
“And I have some new stock in I think you might be interested in,” Yarim replies. He looks Angel over. “Nice getup.”

Angel gives him a nod. “Thank you, but I suspect I would have been more comfortable in what you’re wearing. Had I served of course.”
“Of course,” Yarim replies. He stops talking, but doesn’t move as he thinks in Angel’s general direction for a few moments. “You know, why don’t we do a private demonstration? Out on the dunes? Sightlines go for miles, the air is hot and dry, perfect for Narsai’i weapons.”
“I’ll call your store to arrange it - that sounds like a splendid way to spend an afternoon after…” he waves his hand expansively. “This.”
“No need,” Yarim replies, and the holo on his armor pops up for just a moment as his fingers waggle through its sensitive airspace. “Done. You should get the time momentarily.” He nods to Angel. “Enjoy the party.”

Angel nods. “You too.” Continuing on the path, he wanders through the park, humming ‘Taking Care of Business’ to himself as he strolls, occasionally taking a sip of his drink as he surveys the crowd. There certainly are a lot of obscenely rich people in Akis, all of them dressed in excitingly colored and elaborate clothes, drinking excitingly colored and elaborate drinks, eating similarly fancy food, consuming similarly fancy drugs - and some even sporting similarly elaborate bodies, as a platinum-encrusted man and woman walk past, arm-and-tail-in-arm-and tail.

He hears a commotion off to one side, and walks up another level - and has to remind himself that he promised Gorlan and Tangesa that there wouldn’t be any murdering. While the pair are familiar, Rav-Odun Nia Lobsha wearing a dress that bounces between innocent and martial, her brother in something far more practical, they are thankfully devoid of little bits of GI hanging from them. He sighs softly, walking toward the crowd. Might as well twist the knife…
“...and that was when I had the idea to simply tell them they’d be taken to a holding facility,” Lobsha says. “After all, it’s not like they’d know the difference until it was far too late.”
A thin man in a crimson blazer-gown-thing shuffles up to Angel as he approaches. “Mr. Kesh, these are Rav-Odun Nia Lobsha and Samal Kuo Jonma of the Khiraba - the heroes of Botane,” the man explains in a subservient tone, before turning to Lobsha and Jonma. “Rav-Odun, Samal, this is Mr. Angel Kesh, owner of Kesh Holdings.”
Lobsha and Jonma both give a slight but respectful bow to Angel. “Good to meet you,” Lobsha says. “Raising a company of your own so quickly speaks well of your ability to contribute to the Imperium.” Jonma says nothing, just looks Angel over.

Angel inclined his head. “Rav-Odun, Samal, your reputations precede you. And my own efforts to strengthen the Imperium pale in comparison to your victory over technologically primitive savages. And deceiving them with tales of a holding facility. A master stroke.” His smile was polite, artificially so. “But please, I’m interrupting.”
Lobsha, so far up her own ass with all of the attention, fails to notice the rebuke before she continues, but her brother gives Angel a sideways glance and keeps his eyes on him as his sister restarts her story. “Anyway, we gated them all off to the Arena the next day.”
“Ooh, so exciting,” one of the men standing around the pair gushes.
“How you managed to keep them in line, I’ll never know,” a woman opines. “They looked like animals on the holos.”
“Even animals learn not to get shocked,” Jonma replies.
“Yes, after the first few of them killed themselves against the deterrent fencing, they got the message,” Lobsha adds.
“Ah - clever. The same methods you use with scrofa. I swear I saw an agricultural magnate around here somewhere...you really should meet him. I’m told he’s developing marvelous new drugs - cuts down on the bruising without affecting taste. Perhaps it can be applied to your noble endeavour the next time those primitives mount an attack.”
This time, Lobsha gives Angel a sideways look too, as she’s slightly confused.
“Ah, see!” the first man says. “I was the first one to suggest we use the Narsai’i for medical experimentation, not just mindless slaughter, and here a smart man agrees!” he continues, gesturing towards Angel. “Such a waste of good test subjects. I saw all those skin tones, imagine the genetic diversity!”
“Yes…” Lobsha says, still not sure what Angel’s up to.

Angel’s not quite sure how the garment does it, but his coat manages to actually recoil at the suggestion, and he fixes the man with a gaze that suggests he is beneath contempt. “It would take more than a few exotic gene-mods to disguise a nature such as yours.” The scout smiles thinly, and his garment takes on a decidedly more predatory aspect. “I have guided men like you, men who delight in the suffering of those who cannot fight back, who find excitement in contrived slaughter. They pay good money to go out to some frontier world to shoot a Aehla we already hobbled with a weapon more appropriate for downing a skimmer. Of course, then they get a taste of blood, and want larger game. And that is when you know the true measure of a man, when you are out hunting Bhatssa, listening to it stalk you just as you stalk it, and he won’t stop crying in terror. Then you’re faced with a choice...let the beast devour him, or do the merciful thing and shoot him yourself.”

He turns away from the man, as if dismissing him. “Waste indeed.”
“Oh!” the man cries from behind Angel. “...excuse me.” Angel hears rapid footsteps as he walks away.

Angel inclines his head. “It is I who should be excused. That was...ill-mannered. It seems my time away from civilization has reduced my tolerance for petty savagery.”
Lobsha and Jonma both look Angel’s way. “Or it has reduced your respect for those that protect the Imperium from dissolution,” Jonma adds. Angel’s grown familiar with predatory glances in Hedion high society, but this one reminds him of less pleasant times - the server room in the bowels of Mesas Negras, the mountains of Aikoro, and the jungles of Whiirr.

And the mean old corporate enforcer made me promise I wouldn’t dance… Angel shook his head slightly, meeting the predatory gaze with a kind of firm, implacable sincerity. “On the contrary. I hold those who protect us in the highest esteem - a war is being fought, and war is an inherently ugly thing. I hold in contempt only those who revel in that ugliness, who make it an unnecessarily cruel affair. There is honor in defending your home and your people. There is none in goading an already defeated foe for your amusement.” Angel pauses for a moment, nodding back to the retreating noble. “Especially those who seem to view that as the point of the whole fight in the first place.”
“I do not know what you are accusing me of, Mr. Kesh,” Lobsha says, taking a step into the sphere of Angel’s coat, “but you have no idea the barbarism of the Narsai’i. You have not seen the sconce feeds from that Gateway - the Narsai’i came into a place filled with civilians, their weapons blasting their cruel projectiles into the crowd. The Turai and Kansatai were slaughtered in seconds, and dozens of civilians besides.” She sucks in a hurried breath, anger plain on her face. “Many of my brave Turai gave their lives ensuring as many civilians could be evacuated as possible before the orbital strike was fired - they were knowingly placing their lives on the sacrificial plinth, but I still gave the order. The blood of my own Turai stains my hands - but it is a burden I bear gladly knowing I have stopped the Narsai’i campaign of destruction, chaos and dissolution. You have no concept of what danger we face from the Narsai’i here in your wealth and comfort, protected from the uncaring reality of this galaxy, insulated from the cold, brutal starvation that Vidas Lam delivered us all from. You have forgotten what the Turai stand for, noble. And I think that you should start remembering what it is we protect you from.”

Angel smiles again, his gaze even, his coat almost drawing Lobsha closer. “I accused you of nothing Lobsha. Indeed, I spoke of you not at all, unless you are one who revels in the ugliness of war. But it is you who seem to believe themselves in that category, not I. Look to your own conscience, if you wish to know who accuses you, and what of. As for the rest…” his coat withdraws, and he straightens his spine. “You assume much. Much indeed.” Nodding, he takes a step back. “If you’ll excuse me, I will let you return to revelling in your victories, and cloud your company no further.” He turns, leaving the pair behind.