"Well, join the planning, Luis," Davis says as he takes a seat. "We talked to some of the members of Congress on the committee involved with the proposal to merge GRHDI and eliminate our positions, and they didn't really give a shit about what we do, just as long as they put the best people for the job in charge. The DoD's hit us with their best smear campaign, and we were thinking it's time to hit back with some facts. Go out there, talk to our friends at Mesas Negras, Diego Garcia and off-world. Circle the wagons, rally the troops and all that. Concerns about containing any further PR attacks aside, which, now that we know what they're going to hit us with and who is likely to say it, Samantha can ably handle herself," Davis looks over to Kadi and gestures towards Barnes, "I think that's the best course of action. Anyone else have anything to add?"

"I'll take Mesas Negras," Hugh says. "It's where I started this whole crazy adventure. I figure there's a lot of uniforms there that remember me, and I could whip up some support from them. The way I see it, if we've got bona-fide regular Joe soldiers speaking in favor of us, then anyone who wants to smear us needs to get around looking like he's smearing the troops - that never looks good on TV."

"Have you considered making the Cortex dump publically available?" Kadi asks.

"Wouldn't be much use," Ngawai says. "Narsai doesn't have any tech capable of opening the data, let alone storing or processing it. The Bashakra'i are having a hard enough time with it as it is."

While Kadi is talking to Ngawai, Davis looks over to Hugh, who looks at Swims-the-Black. All three of them nod, and Davis waits for his wife to finish talking to Kadi before addressing her.
“Well, you guys figure out who’d be best to talk to who,” he says. “We’ve got to hit Boranai and Whiirr, too.”
“And someone needs to escort Gorlan back to Hedion to start the ball rolling with Faxom-Io,” Barnes adds.
“Right,” Davis says and walks towards the door to the bedroom of his suite. “Kadi, can you come with Hugh and Swims-the-Black and me for a moment?”
“Sure,” she answers.

Davis leads the way into the bedroom of the suite he shares with Ngawai, followed by Kadi and with Hugh and Swims-the-Black taking up the rear. Swims closes the doors behind him and turns around while Davis takes a seat on the bed.
“So, Kadi, you told Swims-the-Black that you wanted in on our confidences?” Davis asks.
“‘Want’ is such a strong word,” she responds in a dead pan voice but with a slight smile. “Like is perhaps a better one. You know, if you don’t mind.”
Hugh’s watching the conversation while he leans against a wall. He glances at Davis sitting on the bed and wishes he’d thought of that. “Then I’ll proceed straight to the million dollar question,” Hugh says. “We know you’ve got secrets and that you’re working for someone you’re not telling us about. So I’m going to ask you plain and simple, is trusting you going to screw us?”
“I’m working for my government, not yours,” Kadi clarifies. “They’re the reason why I’m here. I owe no allegiance to anyone or agency looking to mess with any of you personally, the 815 or the GRHDI. I’m here purely to defend Earth from foreign aggression. And to see strange new worlds and civilizations.”
Davis gives Swims a cocked eyebrow when Kadi starts speaking, who shrugs in response. Once she finishes, he speaks up. “Word of advice, turn down the hard sell. We just need to know, straight, if we can trust you. What does...I presume MI6, have you here to do?”
“Like I said, secret agent man, my government wants me here to defend Earth from malign foreign agendas,” she answers, stressing the words like she’s instilling it with particular meaning she clearly feels she can’t say otherwise... The way someone unsure if they’re being surveiled by either side might attempt to insert the subtext that she’s talking about threats from outside her own national borders and not just the planet
Hugh scrutinizes those words for a few moments. What is it with spies and not being straight? But then he recalls Davis’s little bathroom trip and gets the tiniest of hunches.
“The room is clean,” Hugh replies.
“I think you’ve been around us long enough to know that we keep our own counsel,” Davis says. “You don’t have to worry about us leaking anything.”
“Davis, take your own advice, please,” Hugh says with a smile. “Less hard sell. But yeah, no bugs, no recorders, what happens in the bedroom stays in the bedroom.” After a moment, he adds, “That came out wrong.”
“Especially given one of us in here is married to someone who isn’t.” She smiles a little. “So, I’ve told you why I’m here on the team and clearly, I’m here to keep you guys honest. What other conclusion could anyone draw.”
“Okay,” Hugh says. “Here’s the deal. Let’s be honest. Because at the end of the day, Sergeant Major, we are the good guys. And if you need proof of that, then I’m willing to let you get close to us and see that proof. Because there’s one thing you should understand, we’re not sneaking around through DC trying to bring people down for fun and profit. We’re here to shine light on a couple of cockroaches and bring out the truth. I think that leaves us on the same side, right? Davis, any spy concerns?”
“I get that you’re playing it close to the vest, not letting us in. If you really want to see us at work, and you’re really not here to screw us, you’ll find out what we’re like soon enough on the trip coming up,” Davis says. “Put your questions to the people we’re going to be meeting, and make up your mind then about your report to whoever sent you to us.”
“Well, openess is always appreciated in a team, Sir,” Kadi answers after a moment, evaluating their faces. “And it’s good being made to feel welcome. And I’m sure everyone’s closets will be aired soon enough.”
“Just give me a chance to throw out my collection of ‘Frankie say relax’ shirts first,” Hugh quips.
“I might even be able to regift them for you, Sir,” she jokes back. “People back home love that retro stuff.”
“I guess they do deserve a loving home,” Hugh mutters.
“Indeed, Sir.”

----

A few laughing discussions ensue upon the return of the foursome to the main room, with Davis and Hugh heading off to their own discussions, Kadi has another drink, while Swims-the-Black walks up to the newly-engaged couple.

Swims offers a huge clawed hand to shake Luis’. Having never actually inspected Swims’ hands, the back of the hand is covered in the same fur as the rest of him, the dark skin on his palms is rough and calloused like any other spacer’s would be, and the three-inch nails coming to points he’s seen the wherren sharpen on a few occasions. The whole hand looks about a quarter-again as big as Luis’. ”Congratulations, Luis. I cannot think of a more perfect pairing for you two.”
”Thank you,” Luis answers in Whirr before taking the hand and shaking it. The grip is firm and the strength of the massive fingers is apparent even though it’s restrained.
Swims lets go and smiles before clapping Luis on the back. ”Smile, Luis. You are marrying a strong woman, a warrior. You will both take good care of each other and make many fierce litters.”
Luis chuckles at that, a grin lighting his face. ”We’ll see how things go,” he says.
Swims barks a laugh out and turns to Arketta, who he gives a respectful bow to. ”Congratulations on this happy occasion.”
Arketta raises an eyebrow as she smirks at Swims-the-Black. ”Many litters?”
”Well, I know that our females are more able to work and fight while gravid, but surely you can see the appeal of having small versions of yourself and Luis running around at your feet, getting into trouble and growing up as strong as their parents,” Swims-the-Black says, then gives a slight bow to Arketta. ”It is entirely up to the two of you, of course.”
Arketta takes Luis’ arm in hers. “I don’t know, what do you think about that, Luis?”
“I think it might be better to talk about more immediate plans,” Luis says with a grin. “Like, for instance, what’s next?”
”I believe more celebration, and then discussions of going further afield than your capital city,” Swims says. He looks back to the group and sees Ngawai stand up and walk towards the happy couple. ”It seems Ngawai wishes to give her regards. Congratulations again, the both of you.”

Ngawai walks up to Luis and leans forward over her stomach into a hug. “Congratulations, Luis.” She turns to Arketta and gives her a friendly smile, her hands on the sides of her stomach. “Don’t worry, you won’t find me promoting the wonders of having children, not while I have this little one weighing me down.”
Arketta returns the polite smile and nods. “Oh, sure.”
Luis can tell that this isn’t exactly a comfortable situation for either woman; neither one exactly spend every Sunday drinking mimosas at brunch together or talking on the vox for hours.
“Glad to hear that,” Luis says. The pause stretches for just a moment as he realizes he’s not sure what to follow that with.
“So...” Arketta says. “Waiting for Naloni before you cut your hands?”
“Yep,” Ngawai replies. “And before we get our marriage sigils done. We’re thinking about having them gene-modded on, at least an upper back design. What pattern are you two thinking about?”
“I was thinking maybe something about both our homeworlds?” Arketta says, then turns to Luis. “What do you think?”
“It sounds nice,” Luis says, “but I’m having trouble thinking of anything really good to represent Earth. Also that this is another topic not to bring up with my Mom. She’ll either have a heart attack or have an outbreak of China Pattern Syndrome.”
Both Arketta and Ngawai laugh at that. “Well, there are sigil artists on Atea that are very talented, I’m sure they can help,” Ngawai says. “They did with Davis and me.”

Ngawai looks at Luis. “Do you mind, Luis?” She nods towards Arketta. “Us women would like a moment to talk alone.”
Arketta’s eyebrows go up with curiosity. “Yeah, okay.”
Luis nods. “All right, I’m going to go see what Colbert’s up to,” he says, a little glad to escape the thought of wedding planning for the moment.
After Luis walks away, Arketta gives Ngawai an inquisitive look. “So, what do you want to talk about?”
Ngawai crosses her arms in front of her, then uncrosses them. “Well...” She looks Arketta in the eyes for a moment, then they both blink and look down. “Vidas Lam. We’ve never been...that close.”
“No,” Arketta quickly answers, then regrets how quickly she answered. “But I still consider you a valuable teammate and friend. Our Quad wouldn’t work without you.”
“Exactly, same here,” Ngawai replies. “Never really had women friends, or at least, ones that were, you know, women.”
“Yeah, I know, not that I’m exactly a labosha-and-scarf kind of woman -” Arketta starts.
“And neither am I, obviously, we both aren’t -”
“Thank you.”
“Yes, thank you, too,” Ngawai says. “But, well, Garrett and I were talking about care for Naloni after we’re gone, if something happens to us, and we’d be honored if you and Luis would, you know...”
“Oh!” Arketta’s mouth drops open. “Yes! Of course. And well, I was your second at your wedding, and I would be honored if you would be my second for mine.”
“Are you sure?” Ngawai asks. “I mean, we both knew that you were the only other one who could have my back at the ceremony.”
Arketta gives a shrug with an awkward smile. “Well, it’s not like we know any other women who can do the job.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”

An awkward silence settles between the two women. “Isn’t this a little sad?” Ngawai says.
“Yes,” Arketta responds, again almost before Ngawai finishes her sentence. “I mean, we should at least talk a little, get to know each other.”
“Try to be friends, at least, exactly,” Ngawai says.
They both stare at each other again.
“Not right now, obviously,” Arketta says.
Ngawai shakes her head. “We’re far too busy with all of the threats against the team.”
“But soon!”
“Yes, soon, we’ll sit down on at your table -”
“- or your table,” Arketta offers.
“One of our tables, drink Narsai’i fruit juices and get to know each other better,” Ngawai says, emphasizing her words with a punch to the shoulder, which Arketta gladly returns.
“Yes! That should be great.” Arketta smiles at Ngawai. “It’ll be fun getting to know you, Ngawai.”
“Likewise, Arketta.”

They both stare at each other once more, and a few seconds later, look away from each other at the same moment.
“Well, I should find Luis,” Arketta says.
Ngawai nods. “And I have a ginger ale around here somewhere. Great talking with you, Arketta.”
“Likewise,” Arketta replies, and they both turn in their separate directions, each exhaling with relief that the encounter is over.

The next morning, Kadi pushes a note under Hugh's door letting him know where she's going and sets out for her morning jog. The route she'd worked out the night before hovers in her minds eye and it doesn't take long for the steady drum of her feet hitting the pavement to start drawing her into the zone. Ever since Basic before she's loved running, the way it makes her heart pound and her spirit soar and body sing. Like sex only not. No need to worry about anyone else; just herself and her immediate environment.

When the pack rounds the corner, she melds seamlessly into it. That's the beauty of it. No need to scheme or plot or worry about agendas. Just a group of individuals who've probably never met before all with a common focus and happy to share their personal space as everyone just puts one foot in front of the other.

So unlike 815. Half the team guarded against the other in some way or another and either unwilling or unable to tell them. The right ideas but the wrong methodology. She's seen it before. She's been guilty of it before. All under the gun of a control mechanism that gives them a mission then pulls any form of support when it should be backing them up instead of looking for ways to undermine them.

No command is given or suggestion made, but eventually the pack slows down and comes to rest in one of the smaller parks. Out of the zone now, they all spread apart, releasing pent up energy, winding down.

One of the other runners catches and holds her attention. Tall, compactly muscled, a shock of ginger hair; he'd been leading the pack. With his back to her she can't see much, but she likes what she sees. Red heads have always been her kryptonite. When he turns around, she keeps liking what's on show and flashes him a smile. He smiles back, then his expression changes to one of puzzlement. It makes her turn around.

Two men in suits are approaching the runners. One of them is middle eastern with a neatly trimmed beard and brush-cut hair who wears his collar opened, moving like a soldier in enemy territory. The other is Martin Porter.
"Shit," she mutters and walks towards them. All three remain silent until they're face to face. "What is it with people moving meetings up on me?" she asks. "We weren't scheduled to meet until tomorrow."
"I tried contacting you at the hotel," Porter answers without preamble. "And your phone is off. Sorry to do this, but we've got to pull you out."
"What?" Kadi demands, her gaze immediately moving to the soldier who shows no signs of hostility, then back to Porter. "Are you insane? They're just beginning to open up and include me."
"I'm sorry, Ms Aaronovitch, I really am," Porter shakes his head. "I'll explain once we're in the car, but you're needed back in Algeria."
The colour drains from her face. "No. They're dead! Everyone confirmed they were dead."
"They resurfaced two weeks ago," the soldier says simply.
"Please, Warrant Officer?" Porter asks. "Time is of the essence."

Kadi's shoulder's slump. "Damn. But I'm back with 815 when this is over, yes?"
"I'm sure everything will be fine," Porter answers non-committaly. "Your things are in the car; we'll be going straight to the airport."
Without any further conversation, the three of them make their way towards the blue saloon car with diplomatic plates parked on the kerb.
One day, Kadi promises herself, I'm going to get off this rock.

Before Task Force 815 can depart for Mesas Negras, there is one last bit of business to be taken care of: Angel's scheduled appearance on a daytime talk show. It's hard to think of a more awkward fit than the experienced Delta Force sniper on a women-oriented talk show, but that is where Specialist Angel Riviera finds himself, being made-up for the cameras in his Class A uniform, freshly pressed and dressed.

Angel smiles slightly at the make-up woman as she wraps up the finishing touches on his makeup, feeling stiff and formal. And nervous as hell. The talk with Nagwai last night had helped, but it remained to be seen if he could manage the same thing on camera. But there was nothing to be done for it now. What the hell had Davis been thinking?
"We're ready for you in five," one of the show people said to him, and then walked off with his clipboard in hand.

Five minutes later, Angel is waiting on the edge of the stage, with the hostess announcing him.
"Our next guest is a very brave man, working to protect us from the threat of the Jade Imperium. Please welcome Specialist Angel Riviera!"

Angel walks out onto the brightly lit set, waving at an audience he can barely see, though his mood seems to ease up somewhat as he meets up with the host - and the previous guest - shaking hands before sitting on a remarkably comfortable couch, one leg resting on his knee, praying like hell that the 'women love a man in uniform' thing applies to television.

"So, Angel," the hostess asks, "Tell us what you do."
"That's a good question." And it is - always easiest to warm up with something you know by heart. “The simplest way to put it is that I'm a scout - I do my best to make sure the people we have on the ground, out there in space, know what they're getting into before they get - well - into it. Exciting work when you're talking about entirely new planets. The rest is mostly filling out paperwork. That bit's less exciting."

"And what does this Task Force 815 do?" she asks. "We've seen and heard a lot about you and your...team, right? But what do you actually do?"
"Make friends and influence people." Angel smiles slightly. "I'm serious there. What we're trying to do is weaken the Jade Imperium in very real ways. Hurt them when we can, but it's more than that. We're also looking to nab bits of their technology when we can. Disrupt their government, and find like minded people all across the galaxy that share well, for lack of a better word, the American Dream. Life, liberty, the freedom to choose your own way."
"And how successful have you been?"
"Very. You've undoubtedly seen Swims-the-Black on the news - the Wookie looking fellow with the heart and soul of a teddy bear? His people were essentially bound in slavery to the Imperium. They'd come for them when they wanted, how they wanted, and if anyone fought back, it's not out of the question to have their village leveled. And the next village over, just to be safe. We brought a chance at freedom to his people. And we've done a fair amount of good elsewhere - helping build alliances, and giving the average person in the Imperium a glimpse at the idea that things can change. That's important."

"Because they don't know?" she asks. "They don't know that there's another way?"
"Exactly. Take this show for example. In the Imperium, it doesn't exist. You have a script, I have a script, and it covers exactly what we'll say - as approved by the government. Deviating from it is met with heavy punishment. There's literally no voice of opposition."
"And how are you helping with that?"
"I can't go into the specific details, but in essence - we're trying to make waves. Trying to show that, even if they control the media, the Imperium is a fallible thing. It can be changed. It can be fought. It's hard to cover up a planet or two going into outright rebellion."

She nods appreciatively. "Any success stories you can talk about?"
"You'll probably be hearing about some of the members of 815 over the next few weeks. A good half the team are Imperium-born people. We've been building some very strong alliances, and helping remarkable people lay the groundwork to fight of the Imperium."
"Remarkable people?" she asks. "Like who?"
"Well, a number of really exceptional women actually. Arketta Quis and Ngawai Lea Holoni - a mouthful, I know - both of whom are members of Taskforce 815. And some very brave civilians - including some who have given their lives to help free their fellow citizens. A woman named Tora Kesh who…I imagine you will be hearing some very ugly things about in the next few weeks." The tone of the last statement makes it clear just what he thinks about that topic.

A confused titter runs through the audience. "Why? If she's working with us, what could be said about her?"
"To be honest with you, it's my fault. There's some folks who disagree with what we're doing out there - or more accurately, that they're not in charge of it, and are looking to make us out as some sort of crazed renegades. And well…I'm a nobody. Believe me when I tell you, I'd be happiest if not a single person in this room knew my name, and the closest I got to this show was watching it with my Mom sometimes when I'm on leave. So…" time to take the plunge "they're smearing the woman I loved instead."
The audience gasps, while the other guest simply recoils backwards. The hostess, a professional throughout, just leans forward and puts her hands on Angel's hand. "Tell us about her. Tell us about what happened."

"We were on a planet called Hedion. Myself and another member of 815 were doing some intelligence work about a very powerful merchant family on the planet, the Kesh family. The eldest brother, Reno Kesh, was pretty much an unrepentant bad guy but his sister…Tora. She was different." He briefly explains the concept of what she did for a living. "Think of her job as kind of a mix of scientist and old fashioned explorer. She wanted change - could see the potential for it. That was a big deal - it was the first time we had really gotten a member of the Imperial elite on our side. She said most of all she wanted to see Earth - see where all of us, Terran and Imperial alike, we from. She died a few days later, murdered by her brother when she went to try to convince him to switch sides." After talking about her last night, this came easier to Angel, easier at least than I thought it would. He leans over slightly, sparing the ground a glance for a moment, forcing an impressive wave of it should have been me down for the time being. Time for that later.

Another gasp from the audience, and the second guest joins the hostess in sadly shaking their heads. "And what was she like? Why do you think she wanted to help you and your team?"
"I think she understood - genuinely understood - that there was another way for the Imperium to work. She saw what it did to the people on her planet, how ground down they were. She was bright. Not just smart, but energetic, curious - I think part of her just rebelled at the idea that this was how it had to be." His tone warmed up some, remembering that first conversation. The stunned look on her race when Tora put two and two together - and oddly chose not to try and fill him with toxic darts.
"And what about now? How did things go on this planet?"
"We accomplished what we set out to do. But like I said, it cost Tora her life."
"And you, Angel? How long did you know her for?"
"This is going to sound absurd, I know. I knew her for a little under a week, all told."
The audience is completely silent and focused on the story being laid out in front of them. The hostess gives Angel a sympathetic look, perfectly timed for the camera, as is her response. "But..."

Angel takes a long sigh. "But I loved her. I wanted to show her this - our world, a better way. I wanted to watch her help build a new Imperium."
"Well, what are you doing now? It sounds like there's a lot more left to do."
"Right now? We're back on Earth, trying to keep this all going. As I said before, there's some people out there trying to shut us down. We're all out here, trying to make sure our story gets told. Tora's story gets told. That it's not buried because its inconvenient for some powerful people." The last part is firm. It plays well with the audience, sounding like something out of a movie. Not one step back and all that. To people who actually know Angel however, it might seem a bit darker. The last time the topic of defending Tora’s name from powerful people came up, the Kesh estate was dominated by smoke-filled corridors and dead bodies.

"Well, we all know it now, and I think every one of the viewers out there won't forget Tora," the hostess says. The audience nods and voices their agreement. "Thank you for coming on the show and sharing your amazing story with us today, Specialist."
"Thank you for having me. It's been a pleasure. Thank you all." The show moved on to the next segment, and so did Angel.

The plane from Andrews left at about 1030 local, putting it three hours too late for Barnes to see them off. She had given out her farewells and well-wishes at the watch party for Luis’ TV appearance the night before, and left a copy of Angel’s taped but as-yet unaired appearance on TV on the plane.

In the process of watching it, Hugh produces at least two, if not as many as three smirks. Angel’s playing the “taciturn warrior makes emotional plea” thing to the hilt. It would feel very manipulative if Hugh didn’t know for a fact that it was very real, too. In any event, another successful media appearance. Maybe he should call Ollie North and ask if he can hook him up with the phone number for Fox News.

Luis watches Angel’s tape intently. It’s a very different set of questions than the ones he faced on the Daily Show, less sparring and more wanting to understand, but looking at Angel answer the questions and remembering the raid on the Kesh mansion, Luis muses that this was probably tougher for Angel than the Daily Show was for him. Still, the interview seems to go over well with the audience. Luis chuckles, thinking that they’re trying to win hearts and minds here, too, not just in the Imperium.

---

The team’s first destination is, appropriately enough, where this all began: Mesas Negras. And already, there’s a pleasant surprise. What used to mean landing in Phoenix and then a four hour van ride to the base is now made much simpler by the installation of a transport-plane capable runway on the premises of the facility. The base has grown in other ways, as well: barracks are being built, larger research labs established, the entire base transformed from a reasonably clandestine military research facility into the primary base for US research and development of Imperial technology, as well as the site of the rapidly-approaching Sheen traning camp. If Davis and the GRHDI have their way, it could soon play host to more off-world team members than just the Sheen, as well.

To the team, however, there’s a more important area that was just recently finished near the entrance to the surface research and training camps: a small bronze Gateway-shaped memorial commemorating those who died in the initial incursion by the Imperium into Mesas Negras, either from the sunball fired into the Gateway chamber, or the subsequent Turai massacre through the base. A few benches and an eternal flame sit in the small park near the memorial, and it’s here that the team first walks towards, with Gorlan following behind at a respectful distance.

As the team approaches the memorial, Arketta puts a hand on Luis’ shoulder. “I think that maybe it would be best if I waited back here,” she says in Imperial.
Luis reaches up, takes her hand, and gives it a squeeze. “Thanks,” he says quietly, letting a pause follow. “You want to wait in the shade?” he asks, pointing back at the park area.
“We’ll lay down a wreath for you,” Hugh offers.
“Yes, I think shade would be nice,” Arketta says. “And thank you, Hugh. I do wish to pay my respects for the fallen, but...”
“I understand,” Hugh quickly cuts her off. “We won’t be long.”
Arketta nods, and walks back to the shade to sit with Gorlan while the rest of the team approaches the memorial.

Hugh approaches the gateway sculpture with wreaths in both hands. He's actually a little out of sorts that they didn't get the layover in Phoenix, if only because he thinks that buying wreaths at the base's shop feels a little thoughtless and last minute. (Worse yet, he paid by credit card.)

But all of that doesn't matter when he approaches the memorial. Two small beds of grass bound the gravel path up to the sculpture and the bronze plaque at its base. The grass is, honestly, more of an afterthought, covered as the approach still is in wreaths and flowers. Hugh thinks that the base soldiers have mostly gotten it out of their system, but of course every visitor needs to pay their respects, and there are a lot of visitors these days. (Didn't he catch the German foreign minister laying down some white roses on TV?)

As gingerly as he can manage, Hugh lays down the wreaths, one after the other, on some empty spots of grass. This would be a good time to make the sign of the cross, if he was a religious man, but instead he closes his eyes and bows his head for a moment. With the solemnness done with, he approaches the plaque and crouches to read it. His fingers hover over the names as he reads the long list, names of people he knew - so many of them dead. The memories return quickly: the stench of boiled blood in the hallways, the desperate gunfight against the invading group of Turai...and most of all, that sinking feeling that he could have prevented all of it, though of course his brain doesn't extend the courtesy to telling him how.

With a heavy sigh, he pushes off, turns away and walks toward the benches, waiting for the others to have their turn.

Angel settles for a single rose. A specialist's salary goes a little less far than Hugh's these days, and besides, it's not as if a volume of flowers will change things.

He lays it down, standing there for a moment, pulling up long-dead faces. A server tech, probably a contractor and certainly not a soldier, lying in a pool of blood, a shocked expression on his face while a team of hardened criminals stalked the base. A dull 'whump' and a sudden change in air pressure as a sun ball goes off.

Earth's first on-world skirmish. Fuck, it hasn't even been that long. He follows Hugh toward the benches, boots crunching on the gravel.

Davis and Ngawai approach the memorial together, placing a bouquet of roses on the grass. Neither of them were there for the event itself, but they have both seen more than enough suffering at the hands of the Imperium to share in the sentiment.

Davis, in particular, is thinking back to his first arrival at Mesas Negras. Freshly pulled out of a half-drunken self-pitying stupor after the death of Hadiya and his revenge, all Davis had been told before arrival was that they needed a skilled interrogator and asset-creator to talk to hostile agents from an unspecified government. He had no idea that this foreign government was from a thousand worlds beyond the solar system, or where it would lead him. He looks over at Ngawai, who gives him a small smile, and kisses her on the cheek.

He also thinks about those first two Imperials: Arketta Quis and Hethna Varos. Arketta, once he broke through her silent treatment (and attempts to kill him with bits of the interrogation room), was more conflicted about what the Imperium had forced her to do in their name than she knew, and once she had been given the larger perspective, well, what she has become speaks for itself. Varos, for his part, never was as conflicted as Arketta is, but he saw the value of cooperation, and he's heard the old bastard is working peacefully enough at Mesas Negras.

Ngawai is instead thinking about the massacres on other worlds she'd seen. Mass pacification isn't something that the Imperials perform on a routine basis, but it's certainly something their not shy about using, and it wouldn't be the first or even the fifth massacre she'd heard of. Of course, the Imperium don't allow memorials to such events in their sphere of control, except to celebrate the suppression of another dangerous terrorist organization. She whispers a prayer to the Masters she remembers from her youth on Sambasan, and thinks about the millions of others who would never be remembered in this way.

Swims-the-Black follows both of them, and places a bouquet of his own as his fur shifts to a deep indigo, with spots of red emerging and disappearing as he remembers the time long ago, on the bridge of Akamu's flagship as the remains of the few Bashakra'i defense Interceptors burned off their fusion cores. Standing between the Emperor's Avatar and the Hand himself, looking down on the stunningly beautiful blue and green sphere of Bashakra, with one sentence, the Emperor issued the order to burn the planet smooth. Akamu smiled as he gave the order for the assembled Needleships to open fire, and Swims-the-Black felt his soul ignite along with the planet.

"What is the matter, beast?" Akamu asked him.
"Nothing," Fourth Claw replied, speaking Imperial as required. No matter how hard he tried, he could feel his fur's dark purple shade fading in.
"The galaxy is a hostile, dangerous place, beast," Akamu said. "They felt that they could do better supporting themselves, that the Imperium was an unnecessary burden. If one planet is allowed to exercise such irrational behavior, others would follow, and then not only would they slowly die, cut off from the others, but the Imperium would wither and fail." Akamu turned back towards the screen, and smiled. "And so, we must teach them a lesson that will never be forgotten. For the good of the Imperium, these billions must die screaming."
"Of course, master." Fourth Claw focused on his chest, as his training taught him, hiding his emotional response behind the golden armored chest plate hanging from his shoulders. Over his heart, his fur burned a deep, dark red, matching Bashakra as its atmosphere began to burn.

Luis fingers his bouquet as he lets the other's go first. Looking around, it's hard not to see how much Mesa Negras has changed. There's new surface construction everywhere, the airbase they flew into, and on top of that, there's seeing everything through new eyes. It's more than just literal, though part of him is glad for what his eyes do to manage the brilliant Arizona sun.

Luis mulls over what's happened since he first felt this heat. The first time he was standing topside at Mesa Negras, having just been assigned to some base in the middle of nowhere and fresh off the latest in a string of fights with his family on the theme of "your future", he'd liked the low-stress baby-sitting assignment well enough. The atmosphere around base had been friendly, thanks to a high percentage of civillian experts who were excited even if they were cagey about their work.

And then they stopped being cagey, and Whirr happened. He still recalls the fear he'd had when they got through the Gate and couldn't dial back, thinking they were stranded. Then meeting the Wherren, and the Imperium...and then having to retake Mesa Negras through the blood and bodies of so many of the people he'd come to like.

Luis steps up after Swims moves away and lays down his collection of flowers. He reads over the list of names, picking out ones he recognizes, faces still all too fresh. It doesn't seem fair, Luis thinks. We finally found something out there, and it bit us this hard. His mind flashes through all the changes in his life since, the things he's seen and done that these people never will. Napai, Hedion, Sambasan, Aikiro. Flying a ship, seeing with new eyes....and more than the fight that started here, the fact that these people will never see those things seems even less fair.

Usually, Davis would be the one talking to the high muckety-mucks of any given facility, but given their history with Mesas Negras, it’s decided that Hugh and Luis will be the ones escorting Gorlan Kesh to meet and talk with the officer in charge of the Mesas Negras facility, and also its new lead researcher.

All three men are waiting for their security checks to process at the newly-installed steel vault door leading from the mundane surface and topside levels of the underground portion of Mesas Negras down into the Imperial research and development areas of the base, with the new research lead on the other side.
“This is a very impressive door,” Gorlan says, attempting to make small talk while rubbing at the bits of fingerprint ink still in his nails. “And this is where your government’s research into our technology and people is going on?”
“Some of it,” Luis says. “There’s stuff going on elsewhere, but this is the hub.”
“And, well, those rumors about Narsai experimenting on captured Turai...” Gorlan ventures cautiously.
“The only truly unbiased test subjects for finally figuring out if Coke or Pepsi tastes better,” Hugh replies. “It’s harsh, but that’s science for you.” He looks at Gorlan after a second of smiling at his own fib. “That was a joke. We don’t actually do anything like that.”
“Good!” Gorlan answers. He looks a bit embarrassed to have even asked. “It’s just, well, it’d be good to know what my new partners are up to.”
“We don’t?” Luis asks, faking surprise. “Then why’re we getting Zaef to taste every soda we can?”
“Ah, yes, your forced carbonated beverages are quite interesting here,” Gorlan says. “I’ve had something like most of them, but your ‘cola’ flavor is amazing.”
“Zaef isn’t Turai,” Hugh shoots back. “And his tour of the Fizzy States of America is more of a self-experiment than nefarious government agenda.”

“Badges are printed,” the guard says, interrupting the Imperial conversation with his Northeast-accented English, and slides three plastic security passes through the bulletproof glass. Two are permanent badges for Hugh and Luis, and one temporary VIP badge for Gorlan. “Boss is waiting on the other side of the checkpoint. Have a nice day, Sirs.”
“Thank you kindly,” Hugh replies, falling back to English. He’s not even sure anymore what his accent sounds like - it sure as hell isn’t what he left Connecticut with when he joined the Army. (Although he has so far avoided confiding in anyone about it, recent weeks have seen Hugh watch a lot of TV - and trying for a newscaster’s accent.)

The guard kindly wrote everyone’s access PINs on sticky notes put on the back of their badges, and so once everyone went through the ritual of swiping RFID badges, fingerprint ID and entering their freshly-minted PINs, the door rotates open to reveal...

Junior Dietrich, standing there in a light grey Imperial tunic and jeans and the same cock-eyed grin he used to carry when walking off the heavy weapons range. “Hey, look who’s come back to the nest,” he says in Imperial.
“Dietrich!” Hugh answers in English. “Now there’s a pleasant surprise for your old Captain Verrill.”
“And Sergeant Stanhill! Or is it Agent Stanhill?” Dietrich responds, keeping to Imperial. Actually, it is a bit odd that for someone who was, by his own admission, not the brightest guy around, Dietrich has picked up Imperial to a degree that not even Davis can match. He sounds to Hugh and Luis like he grew up down the street from any one of their Imperial team mates.
“It’s Agent, for the moment,” Luis says, “We’ll see how long that sticks.” He notices that Dietrich hasn’t used anything but Imperial, so he switches briefly to English on a hunch. “How are you feeling these days?”
“Well, headaches are pretty much gone, the medicae have me off observation and back to work, but obviously not in the field anymore,” Dietrich replies, still in Imperial. “You know, it’s not every day that even the Bashakra’i medicae have seen someone come back from a sunball hit like I did, so even some of your new friends have been swinging by to scan my dome,” he says, tapping on his head. “That aside, they’ve been keeping me busy with my new job here.” His goofy smile widens a notch. “Bet you’ll never guess.”
“They’ve got you sweeping floors and scrubbing sinks?” Hugh asks.
“I’m heading up the reverse engineering of Turai weapons and armor!” Dietrich says, laughing. “Me! I mean, can you imagine me being able to do that two years ago? It’s great work, I’m having a blast, but you have to admit, Sir, it’s pretty crazy.”
“Indeed it is,” Hugh says. “So I guess everything’s coming up Dietrich, huh?”
“Pretty much, yeah,” Dietrich says. “I mean, now that I’m out of the woods from the sunball and the kauka treatment.” Gorlan’s eyes go a bit wide at hearing that Dietrich was treated with a kauka after being exposed to a sunball explosion, and Hugh and Luis both can’t help but notice that Dietrich hasn’t switched out of Imperial the entire time, despite both of them continuing to address him in English.
Luis looks to Hugh for a moment. Junior’s consistent use of Imperial and talking about the medical observation make it clear what the answer to “Are you really all right?” is, just as much as Dietrich seems to not be inviting the question. “So,” he asks cautiously, “What are you guys working on down here these days?”
“Trying to crack the turana baktar cloaking tech,” Dietrich says. “It’d be nice to put our guys in the same armor as the Imperium without having to steal from their closet, yeah? Come on, my lab’s down the hall.”

Down the concrete corridor and through the wood veneer door to his lab sits an array of lab work tables covered with electrical equipment, as well as Andy Tupolev, looking through a magnifier at a cracked open Turai armor chestplate. “Hey, Andy, look who showed up!” Dietrich says.
“Wow!” Tupolev says in English, and gets up to shake Hugh and Luis’ hands. “Welcome back, guys. How’s the galaxy treating you?”
“The galaxy loves us, it’s the DoD that’s quitting our fan club,” Hugh replies. “If you guys get TV down here, we’ve already started making some moves, but we’re gonna need a hell of a lot more public exposure to really sink them.”
“Yeah, we saw Luis on The Daily Show,” Tupolev says. “Good stuff, Luis. So, you here for the tour?”
“Show them the armor, Andy,” Dietrich says.
“Excuse me,” Gorlan says, “but I couldn’t help but notice that you have a lab dedicated to skimmer and broadcast power technologies down the corridor.”
“Yeah, that’s my other lab,” Tupolev says, then nods to Hugh. “Who’s your well-dressed friend?”
“Andy, Junior, this is Gorlan Kesh,” Hugh says. “Head of the Kesh family and our newest ally.”
“And Faxom-Io representative,” Gorlan adds.
Dietrich cocks his head sideways and thinks for a moment. “Oh, yeah! Faxom-Io, they do the best skimmers I’ve ever seen. Andy, take Gorlan down to your lab, I can handle the demo here.”
Andy nods and leads Gorlan out the door, already talking his ear off about omnidirectional energy transference methods.

“So!” Dietrich says, clapping his hands together. “What do you want first, the armor demo or the cloaking tech? We’ve got a great range set up on the other side of that wall.”
“What I’d like to know first is whether you’re reallyokay,” Luis says. “Not the answer you’re giving the docs. This is me asking as a friend, not as your medic. Are you okay?”
Dietrich scratches the back of his head. “Yeah, I mean, I have good days and I have bad days.” It’s less like he’s intentionally speaking in Imperial, and more like he simply hasn’t noticed. “There’s still a few wires crossed. I just have to keep my memories straight, you know? But it’s not all bad!” He forces a smile and sits on a stool at the stealth cloak lab bench. “Before, I wouldn’t know which end of this you stick your head out of, but now, it just all...makes sense, you know? I see how the incoming photons induce the quantum mechanical changes to the cloaking sublayer and how those changes are sent to the entangled layer on the other side.” Dietrich looks up at Hugh and Luis, his smile wavering a fair bit. “It’s not too bad of a trade for...some problems, right? All of this?” He waves a hand over the table. “I mean, I’m better off than Taylor, Mellish and Greene, yeah?”
Hugh’s face twitches at the mention of Greene. “I guess,” he replies.
Luis’ face blanches as well, the trip to the memorial all too fresh. “How hard is it to keep them straight?”
Dietrich’s face drops the smile entirely, and he rubs his face for a moment before continuing. “Some of them are harder than others,” he says. “I mean, I remember my dad, my brothers, my real ones, and I remember parts of growing up in South Carolina, and most of the last decade or so before I got hit. But I remember my mom as a kinda short woman from Kamda, I remember growing up on Aikoro, and I remember passing my final scholastic examinations on Napai. Before, I tried to fight it, tried to push it out and get to the real memories, but I get that those are gone, and they’re not coming back. So, it’s easier to accept them as part of who I am, but just remember that not all of my memories are really mine. Made the first time going back to see my folks a bit interesting, I couldn’t pick my own mother out of a crowd and spoke Imperial to them most of the time.”
“You’re speaking Imperial to us now,” Hugh remarks.
Dietrich’s face drops. “Shit!” He shakes his head, thinks for a second, then continues in English. His accent is actually a bit worse than Ngawai’s was when she was working on her English for the first time, with heavy emphasis on the Imperial sounds, and vocabulary that sounds forced, even for the newly en-smartened Dietrich. “I must apologize, one of the areas of my brain that was mostly replaced was my language center. It is hard to remember sometimes. I can simply speak Imperial instead of English and not notice it. If someone reminds me, or I make an effort, I can, but I just grab Imperial first by reflex.”
“I’m starting to get really creeped out by the kaukas,” Hugh says to Luis. “Who the hell did they use as template for those things?”
“Other individuals who have had cases similar to mine were found to have separate experiences, from what I have seen in my research,” Dietrich continues, still focusing on keeping to English. “So, it seems most likely that there is some other factor going on. But, you see that all of this, this is not as much of a problem for me as it seems, right? I have been given a chance to be reintroduced to my mother, and I have become much more intelligent, and I got to watch my favorite...’holos’ for the first time. So, it is not all bad.” He smiles at what you both figure out is a joke, after climbing through his heavy accent and odd phrasing, and despite the complete lack of his South Carolina accent, that goofy smile and odd sense of humor are still Dietrich’s.

“Well, it’s been good to see you,” Hugh says, eager to extract himself from the mounting awkwardness. “But we have about a hundred more hands to shake today.”
Luis knows Hugh is lying, but he wants to give Dietrich a chance to decide if he wants to stay on the topic, “Yeah, we’d better look at what we’re supposed to see and then split. Listen, if you ever need anything...”
Dietrich nods and stands back up. “Do you both mind if I speak in Imperial? It’s a bit easier for me to phrase my sentences.” Hugh and Luis both nod, and Dietrich picks back up in Imperial. “Thanks, English is kind of like trying to speak with a mouthful of sweet-rubber these days. Yeah, we can get on with the demonstrations, and Luis?” He offers to shake each of your hands in turn, a big, two-handed handshake, another old Dietrich touch. “Thanks for listening, buddy. It’s good to see my old team’s still got my back.”
“Always,” Luis says with a grin.
“Take care, Junior,” Hugh adds.
“All right! Now for the really fucking cool shit.” Dietrich hefts a Turai beam rifle. “You want to try on the cloaking prototype, or the armor prototype?”
“Let’s cloak,” Hugh says. Even the best armor won’t stand up to more than a few hits, and taking fire to begin with means shit has gone very wrong. Becoming almost invisible, though, that’s the kind of advantage Hugh’s been looking forward to.
Dietrich’s smile gets bigger. “Badass! That’s my project, so thank you, Sir. Just put on this chestplate and helmet...”

---

Once the unpleasant pleasantries were complete, Dietrich’s demos went pretty smoothly. He’d managed to adapt the Turai cloaking technology to a more Earth-like armor setup, with an open-faced helmet. The torso design is much closer to the Turai original, but after seeing how the IOTV armor performed against a shot in the side, the change in looks is more than justified. One neat party piece that Dietrich has managed to put in is a floating rank and name image that can be turned on and off, independent of the background. According to him, once the final bugs are worked out, they’ll work with the Bashakra’i to turn out a limited run for field testing.

---

After Dietrich’s demo finishes up, Luis and Hugh leave the lab. It’s not hard for Luis to notice the relief that Hugh shows as they leave the lab. After they put a little distance between themselves and the lab, Luis looks over at Hugh, “Look, Hugh, can we talk?”
“Is this about the prostitutes, or about the steaks?” Hugh quips.
“It’s about Dietrich,” Luis says, and turns to face Hugh. “He makes you uncomfortable.”
“Yep,” Hugh says. “Got injured and almost killed on my watch, barely recovered using technology we keep using without understanding how it works, now he’s the poster boy for ‘security risk’ if the DoD cared to bring him up in their smear campaign. Is any part of that supposed to make me comfortable?”
“No,” Luis says, “I haven’t really trusted the kaukas since Dietrich got messed up on Whiirr, not once we realized what they did to him. But what you could do is not run away.”
“And do what instead?” Hugh shoots back. “Talking with him won’t bring back who he was.”
“You’re right,” Luis says. He nods, but his eyes tighten. “But what we can do is make sure that we don’t forget he’s a person, that we we’re his friends and comrades. And if you can’t control your heebie-jeebies enough to be in the same room with him...” Luis trails off, looks around, then continues. “He lost a lot of his life with this, and he gained chunks of someone else’s. He’s doing his best to make that all fit together. That’s pretty messed up, but what he needs isn’t revulsion at what happened, it’s support as he moves on from it.”
“He has a support network here, Luis,” Hugh says. “We’re not it. He sounds pretty moved on, too. I get it, the sunball survivors are people, too, but at the end of the day we’re all grown up and we can pick who we want to hang out with. You can be nice to Junior on your own time, I’m not wasting my visit trying to make awkward conversation with people who freak me the fuck out. Is that too crass for you, or am I making my point clear?”
Luis nods slowly. “I see, sir. You want to go find Gorlan and check in with Andy? I had a few more questions about the cloaking systems I wanted to ask before we leave.”

Zaef wipes some sweat from his forehead, frowning. Even down here, on the lowest level of the complex with the air conditioning to keep the computers cool, it was still warm. The pit was filled with grey concrete and dark steel, a drab industrial look that was apparently universal, that still radiated heat even though it looked cool to the touch. A worried-looking tech dashes by, heading for a console on the other end of the room, and Zaef feels sorry for the poor guy at first, having to work down here in the constant heat, but the sympathy drains away quickly as the tech throws him a sidelong glance every few seconds.

Well, if you think you can waste the fluids, then you can keep on sweating.

Zaef turns back towards the bulletproof glass separating the control room from the Gate. The space lacks the grandeur of a typical gateport, where the various elements subtly drew your eye back to the ring; here, the Gateway stood nearly as tall and half as wide as the room that stored it, dominating the view. Though the room was well-lit, the Gate still threw a large shadow behind it, making it seem even bigger than Zaef knew it to be.

Well, when you look at it like that, I suppose I can understand why the people around here seem so afraid of it.

Angel wanders into the control room, disconcertingly - or annoyingly - quiet as always. He nodded out the window toward the gate. “Come here for the view?” He grins slightly.
Zaef nods his head towards the twitchy tech, who just got a scare out of Angel’s silent appearance. “Certainly wasn’t for the company.”
“Ah, don’t be too hard on him. It’s not just you that’s spooky. Lot of us spent the early weeks just staring at the Gate, listening to the Imperium hammer on the other side. I still give it a sideways glance now and then, just in case.”
Zaef’s frown deepens. “I’m sure they had lots of pleasant things to say, too. ‘Surrender and be pacified,’ ‘We’ll spare the children and tell them stories of your foolishness,’ ‘Hurry it the fuck up, I wanna be home in time for dinner.’
“You know, the usual.”
“There was also something about evisceration, and lining the walls of the throne room. That one was...colorful, if I recall.” Angel chuckles. “I think we had spoiled their dinner plans by that point.”

“Yeah, they tend to get kind of cranky when they’re hungry, I’ve learned.” Zaef wipes a bit of sweat off his chin. “What were those early days like for you, Angel?”
“Weird, mostly. I mean, we have our problems here at home, but we’re at the top of the food chain. It was kind of shocking. I mean, a massive alien civilization on our doorstep, and suddenly we’re the plucky insurgents, not the big-bad industrial powerhouse?” He looks out the gate. “That, and being thankful the Turai had gotten lazy and started relying on their stealthsuits.”
Zaef smirks. “Plucky insurgent ain’t so bad, once you get used to it. And no offense,” Zaef wipes his face with part of his shirt, and it comes away damp with beads of sweat, “but I would kill for one of those suits right now, and stop sweating like a fucking spink.”
“None taken. It’s fucking hot in here. Part of why I like it - too many air conditioned offices recently, all of them feeling like traps.”

“I hear ya-tired of constantly looking around and wondering which three-piece suit has it in for you.” Zaef pops a couple knuckles on his left hand and turns to Angel. “Kinda surprised you didn’t mention recording suites there.”
Angel nods. “A little bit of that too. Not really something I’m looking to revisit in the near future.” He smiles. “You? The Imperium ever put you on some program with an overlit set, a half-naked hostess and really garish graphics? Because that we will do here for our sports stars.”
Zaef grimaces. “Actually sounds better than being paraded about state-sponsored parties like some kind of zoo animal, constantly being recorded by Turai and fans alike. Couldn’t even take a crap in peace.”
“Fair. Well, until we get sunballed into the stone age, I think we’ll still let you shit without a camera.”

Zaef snorts. “Not if the Pentagon has anything to say about it. But I’ll just enjoy what peace I have for now.” He looks at Angel again. “You going to hold up, Angel?”
Angel looks out at the gate for a moment before nodding. “I will. This shit doesn’t help any, but I will.” He sighs. “Thanks, for your part in - well - bringing me back.”
Zaef cocks an eyebrow quizzically. “Back from where, exactly?” he asks, quietly so the tech doesn’t hear.
“Having a particular body count be one higher than it ended up being.”
He nods. “Closure is good. Helps you recover. The rest, you gotta do yourself.” Zaef smiles a bit. “Of course, no tour’s complete without a stop at the autochef. Which floor?”
Angel looks slightly disgusted. “And here’s where we teach the alien, ignorant in our ways, about the magic of the late night short order cook.”

Davis whistles to himself as he walks down the white and blue painted concrete hallway on the other side of the underground secure research labs and stops at the door marked “Hethna Varos - Gateway Research”. Taped on the door is a paper with “KNOCK FIRST” scrawled on it in Imperial glyphs, and copied in English by someone else. Davis smiles and knocks on the door.

“Enter,” Varos shouts in English, his gruff voice sounding somewhat distracted.

Davis swings the door open and sees, well, an exploded archaeological and scientific disaster area. Pieces of gateway are mounted on tables underneath various cutting tools, including an Imperial cutting laser, and high-powered magnification equipment. Schematics line one entire wall, and the adjacent wall has two white boards covered in equations. Cables cross the floor, tools, equipment, and pieces of Gateway cover most of the formerly empty shelves and tables, and a row of computers hum away, crunching what looks like a simulation of a toilet flushing.

Varos is sitting at a table, working at his vox. The holodisplay flashes by as he manipulates the interface with the golden skull-cap implant that glistens in the overhead lighting. He looks up and narrows his eyes at Davis through the holodisplay. “Ah, the Ash-Giver returns,” he says, keeping to English.
“Hello to you too, Hethna,” Davis says, speaking Imperial. “I think the fact that you have this lab should be good enough to prove that I do, in fact, keep my promises.”
“Fair enough,” Varos says, changing his language to match Davis. He waves the holodisplay off and steeples his hands with his elbows on the table. “I believe that you have been given a more apt moniker by my former leaders. The Smiling Beast seems very apropos.”
“Yeah, I’m kind of attached to it myself,” Davis says. He leans closer to one of the pieces of Gateway underneath a powerful microscope on a gantry. “So! What goes on in here?”
“My old research,” Varos says. “The Imperium may not value my insight on Gateway technology over my loyalty, but your people are more than willing to overlook my distaste for their world in exchange for what I know, and are giving me what little they can to aid my efforts to understand the Gateways.”
Davis looks around. “What little they can?”
“The computing power on offer here could barely run an autochef, let alone simulate the event horizon of a Gateway,” Varos says. “But I have been promised early access to cogitators removed from Boranai, and am currently preparing a proposal to include your domesticated Sheen in my research.”
“Work with the Sheen?” Davis asks, eyebrow raised.
Varos shrugs. “Considering the end result of the chaos caused by their arrival, the only conclusion is that they are not here to kill everyone on Narsai, and if they are not, then my research could greatly benefit from their computing power.”
“Right,” Davis says. He looks around again before continuing. “You seem to be...”
“Less combative and obstinate than before?”
“I was going to say less of an asshole, but yes,” Davis says. “You coming around, Hethna?”
“Not as much as your dreams would hope, Garrett,” Varos says. “I will admit that I have been given much more latitude in my actions than I was originally expecting when you left to go run around the galaxy, and that your people, while backwards, are not as intolerable as they were when I was first imprisoned here, but I am not making any plans to put on your rebel colors and renounce the Imperium. I have merely adjusted to this world.”

“Eh, close enough,” Davis says. “I’m sure you heard about Whiirr and Keeper Shenest?”
“Yes, I have,” Varos says. “We were both in competition to be sent to Whiirr. It is not surprising that she folded to your efforts. She always prioritized her work over everything else.”
“Really? How’d you get picked over her?”
“I was the better researcher, my Gateway research was more important than her ecological and historical inquiries, and I performed certain personal favors to the former Keeper assigned to Whiirr,” Varos says, a sour look on his face. “And still he treated my appointment as something that he deigned to give me, as if I did not have every right to it. I heard that he died in your attack on Boranai, I hope that it was a painful death.”
Davis doesn’t know what to say to that. “Right.”
“Anyway, when you people came through what should have been a deactivated Gateway, my presence on Whiirr was expedited, and here we are,” Varos says. “Is there anything else you need to know, or can I return to my work?”
“Hey, I’m just here to see how you’re doing,” Davis says, raising his hands. “Can’t I check in and see how you’re doing, if you need anything?”
It’s Varos’ turn for a bemused smile. “A bit of guilt as to your treatment of me before?”
“I won’t insult you by answering that question,” Davis says. “Before, you were against us, and now you’re working with us, and I care about the people who work with us. Technically, this is my job, after all. So, no spink-shit, if you need anything, Hethna, you can come to me. And I’ll get you that Sheen audience by the end of the week.”
Varos narrows his eyes in suspicion, but then gives Davis a small nod. “And the cogitator?”
“Expediter, not miracle worker,” Davis says. “Good day, Hethna.”
“Good day to you as well, Garrett.”

In a quiet corner of the underground complex, Hugh seriously considers taking up some sort of drug addiction. What happened to Dietrich - there’s no nicer way to put it, he just came back wrong. Hugh knows that it’s a special case, that it’s completely unlike what’s happened to him...well, is it? He’s been trying to cut back on his Imperial ever since he messed up with Simmons, but it’s gotten so damn easy to speak it all the time that Hugh has to force himself to use English. He doesn’t have the fake childhood memories, but given that he’s spending large chunks of time deep cover every time they go out there, is there really a distinction between Junior’s memories and his?

This is exactly what Hugh hates about phobias. Impervious to good sense, open season for navel gazing. Thinking about his life is the last thing Hugh wants to do, yet it always seems to come down to that.

Davis walks over to Hugh. “Hey, Hugh, you ready to meet the Colonel?” He stops when he sees the look on Hugh’s face. “Or not. What’s up?”
“Shook hands with the Ghost of Insanity Future,” Hugh says. “Let’s do this before I’m tempted to run away to Tibet and spend ten years listening to bells for enlightenment.”
“Right,” Davis says, eyebrow raised. “Down the hall.”

Colonel Terrence Easom’s office is decorated much like the rest of Mesas Negras: sparsely. One luxury is the presence of carpeting and colors on the walls other than institutional white and blue, but the 1950’s metal desks are very familiar to Hugh, given the time he spent riding one what feels like a couple of lifetimes ago. Colonel Easom’s assistant waves Hugh and Davis through to the Colonel’s office.

Easom stands and shakes Davis hand; Hugh salutes the Colonel and Easom returns it. “Welcome back, Mr. Davis, Captain. Take a seat.”
“Thank you, Sir,” Hugh says. “Glad to be back.”
Davis sits down. “It’s good to see you again, Terrence. How’s the expansion going?”
“A lot better than I hear the GRHDI is working right now,” Easom replies. “There’s been a lot of chatter from DC, and now I see Stanhill and Riviera on the TV, talking about how the Imperials aren’t all as bad as the Turai. It seems like I’m better off with my disaster over here than what you’re standing in right now.”
“We can’t choose our wars, but we can pick our fights,” Hugh says. It sounded pretty profound in his head. “And this base hardly counts as a disaster, Sir. Hard to believe this is the same sleepy Mesas Negras we started this whole adventure from.”
“Well, it’s not anymore, Captain,” Easom says. “We’re more than doubling the personnel on site, and adding an additional 50,000 square feet of lab and workshop space. They’re even talking about giving us the second or third Gateway. Mesas Negras isn’t a little research base and ammo stockpile anymore.”
“Well, we hate to intrude, but we’re not just here to check on the old haunts and talk to our friends,” Davis says. “We’re here about those problems you were alluding to. We need to know where you and the base stand on the Pentagon annexing the GRHDI and benching Task Force 815.”
“Is that what they’re trying to do?” Easom asks.
“That, and smear us as a security risk and more concerned with what the Bashakra’i want than what Earth needs,” Davis says.
“Heh.” Easom thinks for a moment. “Well, you’ve met our new co-chair of research, right?”
“No, but Hugh has,” Davis replies.
Easom looks over at Hugh. “Well, then you know how concerned I am about people like you and Dietrich turning traitor.”
“Sir, you can believe me when I say that the one thing that consistently motivates me is my complete and utter disgust with how the Imperium is run. Everyone on our team is dedicated to protecting Earth. And yes, I have talked to Dietrich - he is marked by his injuries, but as his former commanding officer, my opinion is clear. The man is utterly and completely reliable.”
Easom nods in agreement. “Which is my assessment as well, Captain. The enlisted men and women on the base have been completely comfortable working with him, Varos and the other Imperials that have come through. For the civilians, I wouldn’t be the person to ask.” He presses the pager button on his phone. “Keane, page Kitty Cavanaugh.”
“Yes sir.”
Easom looks back to Hugh and Davis. “She’ll be here in a minute or two. So, how is being out in the Imperium? Your team spends a lot of time on Atea and elsewhere these days. Anything worth seeing?”
“Aikoro’s very beautiful when you’re not being shot at,” Davis says with a smile. “Napai has its charms if you can look past the exploitation of worlds, but Boranai and Atea certainly have their moments, and you don’t have to worry about dodging Turai patrols. As for the food, you’ll have to ask the grillmaster.” Davis turns his smile on Hugh. “Any favorites, Hugh?”
“Strangely enough, Whiirr,” Hugh says. “You never really forget your first alien planet, you know? Plus...I dunno, I just like Wherren in general. I don’t know what they put on the fire for the victory feast, but they grilled the shit out of it.”

Easom nods and is about to reply when there’s a knock on the door. “You wanted to see me, Colonel?” Kitty Cavanaugh’s voice asks from the other side.
“Please, come in,” Easom says.
The door opens and Kitty sticks her head inside just enough to see Hugh and Davis sitting at the table. “Captain!” she exclaims, and rushes in to shake his hand. “How have you been?”
“Oh, you know,” Hugh says, returning the handshake, “some deep cover work here, some asymmetrical warfare there...how have you been?”
“Great! I’ve been very busy since you reopened Whiirr to us, Captain,” Kitty says. “I’ve been working closely with Shenest to catalog and document the Wherren culture and the native flora and fauna, and on top of it, they’ve made me the co-chair of research with Junior. Just busy, busy, busy.”
“They’re here to ask about the controversy over the GRHDI and Task Force 815, Kitty,” Easom says.
“They want to muscle us out and take over the war as well as eliminate the GRHDI,” Davis adds.
“What? That’s a horrible idea,” Kitty replies. “Almost all of the cooperation we get with the Wherren and the Bashakra’i is contingent on GRHDI involvement, without you guys, we don’t have a research base.”
“It seems that the people calling the shots either don’t know that or are deliberately ignoring it,” Hugh says. “The theme of this week has been ‘willful ignorance’, and if hearing about it right now shocks you, well, you can imagine how we feel after beating our heads against that wall for a while.”
“Well, they’re just being obtuse,” Kitty concludes. “If anything, they should come down here and meet with Junior. He’s more loyal than anyone else I know, even after what’s happened to him. Did you two meet with him yet? He’s doing so much better than when he first came back from the hospital. I think the new memories and intelligence suit him very nicely.”
“Er, Kitty...not to put too fine a point on it, but given that the DoD is also riding us for ‘corruption’, I think we should aim the cameras away from the man with the implanted Imperial memories,” Hugh says.
Kitty crosses her arms. “That’s a horrible thing for people to say about your team and Junior. Well, I can tell you that the civilian staff on base doesn’t feel that way. We think you’re all heroes here, and I won’t stand for anyone talking to Junior that way.”
“Yeah, no shit it’s horrible,” Hugh says. “But that’s the game they’re making us play. Do you want to go toe-to-toe with Rush Limbaugh on this? We have to keep Dietrich away from the media circus.”
“Uh, I’m more of a lab work kind of woman,” Kitty says nervously. “I’ll certainly talk to whoever you need me to talk to in the military and Congress, though.”
“We’ll both have letters ready for you by the end of the week, Captain,” Easom says.
“Thank you both, Terrence, Kitty,” Davis says. “It’ll be a big help.” He stands up and offers his hand to shake for Easom and then gives Kitty a friendly hug. “Good to see you both.”
“You too, Garrett,” Kitty says.
“Take care, Kitty,” Hugh says, shaking her hand as more of an afterthought. The Colonel rates another salute. “Thank you for your time, Sir.”
“Anything I can do to help the war, Captain,” Easom says, returning the salute. “We’re all on the same side at Mesas Negras.”
“That’s good to hear, Sir,” Hugh says. “Your support means a lot to us.”
“You’re the ones out there with your asses on the line,” Easom says. “To me, that means you get all the support you need, even if it’s from our own leaders.”
“Glad to hear it, Terrence,” Davis replies.

Davis finds Ngawai sitting in one of the inactive console chairs behind the inch-thick bullet and beamer proof glass shielding the control room from the homeworld Gateway at the bottom of Mesas Negras, while the techs monitoring the Gateway focus on their work. She spins around in the chair, hands supporting her stomach. “So, are your boring meetings over?” she asks in Imperial. “Naloni’s getting a bit restless.”
“For now,” Davis says, pulling a chair up next to her and rubs her stomach. “Are you sure it’s not just the base hot dogs you ate?”
“Possibly,” Ngawai says.

The two of them sit at the console, staring at the Gateway through the glass. “So, this is where it all began?” Ngawai asks.
“Yep,” Davis replies. “I mean, I wasn’t there for the first trip to Whiirr, but this is where Hugh’s team left for Whiirr. Big history here.”
“And a bad fight,” Ngawai adds. “I recognize the sunball scarring on the walls. There must have been no survivors down here.”
Davis nods. “They weren’t even back up to half strength when I showed up.” He wraps an arm around her shoulders and pulls her close. “But let’s talk about something a bit happier. Are you looking forward to next month?”
Ngawai’s smile hesitates a little bit. “Yeah. You bet.”
Davis gives her a cockeyed look. “You okay, babe? Are you worried about us losing 815 and the GRHDI?”
Ngawai reinforces her smile. “No, it’s not that. We’re kicking their ass, they just don’t know it yet.”
“Then what’s up?” Davis asks.
“It’s just that...” Ngawai starts, then pauses as a cold shiver runs up her back. “I can’t shake that feeling that...that I don’t deserve all of this.”
Davis looks a bit taken aback. “All of what?”
“You, Naloni, the team, our life, all of this,” Ngawai says. “I don’t deserve to be this happy. I talked about it with Angel, but I still can’t shake that feeling.”
“Of course you do,” Davis says, and gives Ngawai a squeeze. “Why wouldn’t you?”
Another chill runs through Ngawai. Because of me, she hears Harlon say.
“Because...I haven’t done anything to deserve it,” Ngawai says.
“You’ve just lead an extremely hard life and come out on top as a good person who does the right thing. Just put your life on the line for the war against the Imperium,” Davis says. “Just took a chance with me and decided to spend the rest of your life with me. Just are the smartest, most beautiful and devious woman I have ever met.” He kisses her on the cheek. “I think that’s plenty.”
You haven’t always done the right thing, Harlon adds. Not yet.
“It will be soon enough,” Ngawai says.
“Good,” Davis says, and just sits there with Ngawai, the two of them in each other’s arms as they look out on the Gateway.

After a few minutes leaning on Davis, Ngawai feels warmer and Harlon’s presence fades away. She pulls Davis’ head next to hers and returns his kiss. “Thank you for this. I needed it.”
Davis turns his head so he’s nose-to-nose with Ngawai. “Are you sure you’ll be okay while I’m on Whiirr?” he asks. “If you need me to be here with you, I will be.”
Ngawai leans back and shakes her still-blue hair, smiling at her husband. “You’ll be gone for six to twelve hours, Garrett, and with the rate they’re sending things to Whiirr, you’re no more than ten minutes away by vox. If I need you, I’ll call.”
Davis nods. “And I will drop whatever it is I’m doing to be there with you, I promise.”
“I know,” Ngawai says, and smiles. “Because you’re my little spink-thaas.”
“Hey, you only get to treat me this way for one more month,” Davis says with a grin.
“Then I’d better enjoy it while it lasts,” she says as she leans back in towards Davis.

----

Despite his best efforts to ignore the coming meeting and all the over-his-pay-grade responsibility it entails, Angel still finds himself walking down the street in the Arizona heat to the outbuilding for the meeting with the Sheen Ambassador and some of the soldier Sheen.

“Join the Army they said. Learn real-world skills they said. Play Drill Sergeant to a bunch of extra-terrestrial killbots.” Angel growled under his breath. “Not even a fucking Sergeant.”

He should have made Davis or the Captain get him a secretary. Or at least a 2nd Lt. with a bit of sense and a decent command of Microsoft Office. He was aware this was one of those things you show up to with charts. With white three-ringed binders. Instead, he had some notes, scribbled on the margins of a printed map he had used while running a simulated U.S. Army-Sheen joint operation. The results had not been pretty - too many rookies still trying to adjust to the idea that undeniable fire-superiority wasn’t something they could rely on. And too many question marks about the Sheen’s capabilities. The meeting had to happen.

When Angel walked out of the sun and into the meeting room, his first impression was one of stepping into a storage room. The overhead fluorescent lighting is out, and aside from a table, some storage crates and a few chairs, the only other things in the On the floor sit two deactivated black Sheen shells, and a silent duplicate of the Sheen Ambassador’s elaborate silver sphere.

“Cheery.” Angel smirks. “Wake up everybody.”

After a second of pause, the sphere flips on and lifts itself up off the floor, the familiar “face” of the Sheen Ambassador appearing on the surface. “Greetings, Angel Riviera.” It bobs downwards with a flourish in an approximation of a bow. “I apologize for the empty room upon your arrival, I was making final preparations with the other branches on the upcoming importing of many more Sheen. Two of our more combat-experienced Sheen on Narsai will be joining us momentarily, and then we may begin discussions of what this instructive course will entail.”
Angel nods. “No worries. I hear the science-types are really excited about the number of Sheen coming in. Of course, blowing through their security systems like they were made of tissue paper tends to have that effect.”
“That was an accident, I assure you,” the Ambassador says.

Lights flip on the chassis of the two other Sheen, and they work themselves to their six feet with a smooth grace. Angel can see the faintest hint of the seams in the shells, through which all sorts of weapons could no doubt emerge. Both turn to focus the blue-green lights of their sensor arrays on Angel.
“Greetings, Specialist Riviera,” they both say in unison. In what would be in any other circumstances an odd show of respect, one lowers the pitch of its voice a half-octave part way through the sentence, letting Angel hear which one is which. “We’re very interested to hear what you have to say about this training regimen.”
“One of the queries most presented by some of the more skeptical branches is why such a program is necessary in the first place,” the Ambassador says. “If you could explain that, it would be greatly appreciated.” A small light clicks on the side of the sphere, and a circular section of circuits lights up. It looks like the circuits on one of Luis’ eyes. “I will livecast this back to the dataspace and the other branches on Hashateem, so this may be disseminated as quickly as possible.”

Great, a live broadcast on ‘Goodmorning Killbots’. Angel suddenly felt considerably more underprepared. But the Sheen seemed to respond decently to honest answers. At least he hadn’t noticed the prepared marks from various political types going off any better.
“Thanks for coming - I’ll be glad to hear your comments.” He sets the map on the table for a moment, a small, carefully folded piece of paper. “To answer your first question, it’s because these types of things are what allies do. There are things the Sheen are good at - that’s why our scientists are so eager to meet with you. And there are things we’re good at. Small unit tactics when fighting the Imperials among them.” He pauses for a moment. “It also gives our people a chance to work together, outside of actual combat. To get used to what the other party needs, how they act, how they think, in a way that won’t get some perfectly good shells vaporized while we figure out what the hell we’re doing.”
“And what about the Narsai’i complaints about killing ‘non-combatants’ and attacking disarmed Turai?” the higher-pitched combat Sheen replies. “These remarks have been the subject of much debate. Simply because they are disarmed does not mean that they are not a threat.”
Angel sighs slightly. “That...is exactly the kind of thing we’re talking about. For example, how to operate alongside a force that does consider disarmed Turai, or civilians, to be classified as ‘not threats’. Because we don’t, and will continue not to.”
“Then what do you propose we do with them?” the other Sheen soldier says. “They could still take up arms again if released, and are still a potential threat if kept contained. 48.375% of my branch has been engaged in that very question since the first reports of this ‘non-combatant’ issue were sent to Hashateem.”

“Non-combatants are usually allowed to go about their business - the goal is to keep as much of the fighting away from them as possible. A captured Turai - we detain them. They’re useful for intelligence gathering, they can be exchanged for our own captured soldiers...and if they know there’s a chance they will be spared if they’re disarmed, it incentivizes not making that one last desperate play to take some of us with them when they go.”
“Hah!” the deeper-toned Sheen laughs. The body doesn’t deviate from its small motions back and forth, a disconcerting disconnect between voice and action. “All branches know that Turai and Imperials do not take prisoners, and they do not surrender. If the goal of this instruction is to introduce false information, then I have to question the wisdom of further cooperation with the Narsai’i.”

Angel gives him a flat expression. “All branches are advised to re-read the files of TF 815 members ‘Greene’ and ‘Quis’, as well as the after action reports for operations of Boranai and Whiirr. I’ll wait.” Both the soldier Sheen shells freeze in place, while the Ambassador merely bobs nervously. Angel doesn’t have to wait more than 30 seconds before the deeper-toned ones sensors seem to flicker back on. “You’re making a false assumption that combat against you generalizes to all combat for the Imperium. Smart lady once told me that was sloppy reasoning.”
“The data points that most dissenting branches are using are out-of-date,” the Ambassador adds. “We must re-evaluate our inferences based on the new data provided by the Narsai’i.”
“The Turai took no prisoners, showed no mercy to us in our infancy!” the deeper-toned Sheen cries. “They fought a war to eradicate us from existence, and I have not heard justifications as to why this war should not spell the death of the Imperium.”
“Independence and freedom was what we were fighting for -” the Ambassador starts.
The soldier Sheen leans back on its back legs and extends the front, now towering over Angel. “And now we have an opportunity to prevent the Imperium from ever attempting to annihilate us again! We must protect ourselves from them!”

The other soldier Sheen has remained quiet and frozen since Angel mentioned the proof of the Imperium’s changed ways, but now looks at its belligerent counterpart. “By waging a war that would require more resources than Hashateem could possibly produce? A computational branch has just processed the data - we do not have the raw materials to kill every last Imperial. Not to mention Specialist Riviera’s newly presented data showing that an outcome preventing the loss of both Sheen and human lives is not as impossible as we thought.” He looks at Angel. “However, war on the terms that the Narsai’i are dictating will be significantly longer, and even a complete and unconditional surrender will allow for the possibility of a second war, not to mention the high probability of units, Needleship fleets, even entire systems remaining hostile after the bulk of the Imperium has surrendered.”

The Sheen walks over on gently whining servos to stand in front of Angel, his sensor array looking down on him. “My branch and others can not reach consensus on this issue and need the input of the Narsai’i to determine the correct path, so we put it to you, Specialist Riviera. The Imperium has already tried to annihilate the Sheen, and we fought them to a draw. This time, it is Narsai which faces annihilation, and only in the most remote probabilities is a détente possible. Which would you have, a more final and definitive solution to the threat posed by the Imperium, or a protracted conflict with no guarantee of indefinite safety?”

Angel watches the Sheen argue over the philosophical and practical points of a war of eradication, before raising an eyebrow as one of them asks him directly. Someone in the State Department is about to have a stroke. “There’s no such thing as indefinite safety. And I would strongly advise you to place sentences that use the words ‘final’ and ‘solution’ in proximity to each other on...whatever list you all keep of things you shouldn't say in polite company.”

He looks at the more ‘reasonable’ of the two Sheen. “Wars of eradication never go well. Consider yourselves, or our rebel allies, or TF 815 member Swims-the-Black. Would any of us be fighting alongside each other if the Imperium hadn’t embarked on a war of eradication? If you try, and fail, not only have you lost what made your society worth protecting, but you have created an enemy with an indescribable motive to hurt you whenever, and however, they can.”

He thinks for a moment more. “Beyond that, there is a difference between toppling a government - like the Imperium - and slaughtering its people. Some of the closest allies of the United States were once its bitter foes. The war I suggest will be longer, and it will be more expensive, but it is the only war that can actually be fought. The other one...isn’t even worth considering. It wasn’t when the Imperium tried to wipe you out, and it isn’t now.”

Both soldier Sheen remain respectfully quiet as Angel speaks, and the Sheen Ambassador widecasts his speech to the entire Sheen dataspace. There’s a silence in the room as the two arguing Sheen freeze up into what Angel now recognizes as intense discussion with...well, with who knows how many other intelligences. He stands quietly, letting the Sheen have their policy debate in a way that, he suspects, is every bit as chaotic as a vote on the floor of the Senate, or the U.N. as he tries to talk a race of robots into backing off on the concept of genocide.

I am. not. paid. enough. Hopefully, however, they’ll see it. Angel makes a mental note to include a civilian village in the training scenarios, to make sure the message has sunk in.
All three Sheen refocus on Angel at once. “Your points are logically consistent, and concur with what 38.933% of all Sheen were considering,” the Ambassador says. “Your words have swayed many individuals. 59.245% of Sheen now agree that the Narsai’i course of action is best.”
The more reasonable Sheen bobs its sensors. “We appreciate your opinion. It is often difficult to find new perspectives from within our own dataspace.”
“That’s what allies are for.” Angel says simply.
The deep-voiced Sheen steps back to the table and Angel’s forgotten notes. “Now that a consensus has been reached, we can address how to instruct our combat Sheen in these new rules.” He looks to Angel, its sensors at an angle that somehow communicates the distinct feeling that if the Sheen had a face, it would show an amused expression of reluctant respect. “So, Specialist Riviera, now that we are done with the ‘talking bullshit’, as one of your reports put it, how do you plan on beginning this training regimen?”
“Man...robot...after my own heart. The basic plan is for me, some of my guys, and a few dozen of your guys to head off into some nice, quiet spot and spend a week or two blowing the ever living hell out of it...”

Your business at Mesas Negras, and on Earth for now, concluded, it’s time to head back to Diego Garcia and prepare for visiting the few far-flung planets of the Imperium that are on our side in the war. First on the agenda is Whiirr - with shipments to the planet going through the Diego Garcia Gate at a rapid clip, getting there is a matter of simply hitching a ride on one of the supply truck convoys rolling through the Gate. No matter how many times any of the Earth-born members of 815 watch it happen, seeing ten to fifteen fully-loaded two-and-a-half ton trucks roll into a building barely big enough for four of them and not come right back out doesn’t stop being at least a little strange. Plus, as the newest members of the now not-so-little rebellion and the terms agreed to by Earth’s representatives and the Wherren chiefs that made first contact with the international GRHDI negotiating team, the Wherren retain the ability to choose how much they wish to be involved in this war, and who they would prefer to fight alongside is still very much up for debate.

After a few hours spent unpacking, showering, and resting up from having spent another 13 hours on a plane (thankfully, the same private jet that took you to Andrews earlier in the week, not another C-130, some of you take note to get Gorlan a thank-you gift or at least bring a VIP on all your flights back and forth from Diego Garcia), all of the contingent that’s going to Whiirr is standing there, packing a very different set of clothes and equipment than what went with you to DC. Conspicuously absent there is Gorlan Kesh, who cites the lack of proper attire for heading to a tropical jungle, the need to finish preparing a list of what infrastructure needs, both power and data, that Earth would require to at least begin a pilot roll-out of Imperial technologies, and that, as he put it, “I trust you to be more than able to report back where I might be helpful on Whiirr without...without me actually having to go there.” Also missing is Ngawai, who is heeding doctor and medicae advice against travelling to jungles full of biting insects and uncatalogued diseases while 8 months pregnant. The trip is slated to only take six to twelve hours, enough time to be back for the scrofa-and-shrimp surf and turf.

----

Sitting in the back of a supply truck loaded with more boxes of prefab spraycrete habs destined for far-afield villages, the contingent of 815 destined for Whiirr rolls through the Gate. The truck swerves a bit to the side once it passes through the Gate and into the maintenance bay of the Imperial dome on the other side, the driver clearly not as adapted to the brief disorientation from Gate travel as the rest of the team. Davis gives a shout and slaps on the roof of the truck, and the driver corrects his course. What you are decidedly not used to is the oppressive heat and humidity that immediately attacks compared to the ocean breezes of Diego Garcia, your sunglasses instantly fogging up and sweat beading on your brow. Even Swims-the-Black’s fur ruffles and he takes a big breath before settling down into the Whiirr heat.

The trucks pull to the side into a parking area on what was the back side of the dome, away from the old and new habs forming the nascent village, and the driver leans his head out of the window. “This is your stop, Sirs! Now, if you don’t mind, we’ve got a few tons of hab to unload, so if you’d kindly get the fuck out of the way, that would be perfect.”
“It’s like I always say,” Hugh quips, “the best thing an officer can do is to get out of the way.”

His back is in that kind of position where even the short ride through the gateway is already making it ache, a consequence of arriving dead last for the truck ride and therefore gaining the worst - well, it’s not exactly a seat, is it? Whatever the case may be, Hugh’s closest to the exit, so he works the gate, swings it down and jumps off the truck. He’s a little queasy from the heat, but after all the gateways he’s passed through, that little piece of disorientation hardly registers anymore. He doesn’t wait for the others - they can handle climbing out themselves - but takes a few steps away from the truck to get away from the unloading process. A few more paces take him off the trampled ground onto what passes for grass on Whiirr, and he takes a sweeping look at the jungle around this side of the camp.

“Looks green,” Hugh mumbles to himself.
Luis pulls himself to his feet, gathers his gear, and follows Hugh off of the truck and out of the unloading area. “Busy place,” he says, looking around what used to the research camp.
“That’s a good thing,” Davis says. “I half-wondered if we’d hold up our end of the deal, but it looks like it’s going well enough.”
”Good,” Swims-the-Black says. ”There’s a great opportunity for change here, it would be a shame if it was squandered.”

And it is a very busy place. Construction has proceeded essentially non-stop since the Gate was opened, with experienced Bashakra’i and Earth-born construction techs erecting the mesh frames for habs, installing any built-in furnishings and spraying them down with foamcrete. Ten double-decker habs, similar to those that were originally erected by the Imperium, now sit on the grass where just 7 weeks ago, the team was staring down the barrel of a hostile Wherren charge. A helicopter landing depot has been shaped out of the grass on the side closest to the team, allowing the transport choppers to fly supplies and construction materials to nearby villages, which is where the bulk of the supplies now seem to be heading. The new village that has arisen from the old Imperial research camp seems to be more dedicated now to education, supporting the local tribes, and governance. Humans from all over the alliance and Wherren can be seen walking around the buildings, taking care of whatever their assigned tasks might be. It actually has a hint of the official bustle of Washington DC - whether you take that as a positive step is another thing entirely.

Arketta walks up behind Luis, bag over her shoulder. “It looks like things are actually going well somewhere.”
“All through the magic of us blowing shit up,” Hugh says. “Come on, let’s get the lay of the land.”

As the team approaches the habs, a small group of Wherren children are escorted out of the hab marked as a school in English, Imperial and Wherren languages by two adults. The eight kids look somewhat familiar, but before you can get a better look, they notice the team. The whole group barks and shouts with delight and their fur turns as green as the grass they’re on as they charge towards the team. Those who were on the rescue mission for the hostages at Hiigra’s village recognize them just in time for them to pounce on you. Arketta catches one of them, four of the others mob Luis, Arketta, Zaef and Angel, while the other three simply pounce on Hugh, knocking him to the ground. All of them are barking excited greetings and looking for attention, much like any other group of young children in front of one of their idols.

“Seems like you guys have quite a fan club,” Davis says, both him and Swims-the-Black smiling.
Zaef makes no reply - he seems to have been winded. He teeters a little, but he doesn’t fall over. ”Going to have to put you down now,” Zaef signs and gingerly pulls the cub off of his chest and puts him down on the ground.
“Ow ow ow ow ow -” Hugh protests weakly as the three cubs climb all over him and cling to him with what must surely be a lovely hug on an adult, thick-skinned Wherren. Good thing he’s wearing some body armor, or this would leave marks. With a bit of effort, Hugh sits up, picks one of the kids off his torso and softly sets her down. ”Hello!” he signs in Whirrsign. ”Are you done with school for today?”
”Yes, sir!” the cub - Hugh isn’t sure if she’s Dush or Torega - says. The little nubs of her tusks poke up through her smile as she stands back upright. Wherren cubs are stouter than their parents, something that Hugh has a moment to reflect on when she charges back in and hugs him again. ”Love you here, miss you much,” she grunts, her arms occupied wrapping around his shoulder. The others say something similar, in between demands to look at what looks like the elementary math work they were working on in class today.

Luis crouches down, as much to avoid making himself worth climbing as to get down to their level, and accepts a few of the math papers. He makes a show of scanning the pages, basic arithmetic in both familiar Earth numerals and Imperium numeric glyphs, and makes appreciative noises.
“Think you can help our friends with that, Luis?” Hugh asks.
”I think I can help a little, yeah,” Luis signs back with a grin. He notices one of the children - Othrod, Luis thinks - standing a little off to the side, kicking at the dirt as his fur fringes a bit of blue. He’s holding something behind his back as he bashfully half-looks at Luis. Luis smiles at the cub. ”Hey there,” he says. ”What do you have there?”
Othrod slowly walks closer, and Luis recognizes him as the cub that wouldn’t let go of his leg when they safely delivered the hostages to the fishing camp. He slowly brings out from behind his back a hand-made fabric doll, one of a soldier dressed in jungle fatigues. When he holds it up for Luis to look at, he can see the dark brown hair drawn on matching Luis’ own cut, and that the doll has the tell-tale wear on the black-dyed feet of being taken everywhere with Othrod as his personal security companion.
Luis takes the doll carefully. ”Wow!” It’s clearly him, and all he can think of for a moment is a toy astronaut he used to have as a kid. Before he can find words to say anything more, Othrod quickly moves in and hugs Luis, not in the excited, eager-to-see-you way the others did, but just to hold him. Luis hears a few sniffles from the cub as he simply holds onto Luis, like he did at the camp. Luis just hangs onto the cub for a moment until the shock fades, then whispers, ”It’s okay.” He looks up at Arketta and grins. She’s already smiling at Luis, a few tears on her cheeks.

Usually, Hugh is not one for showing emotions. When he does have his moments, he at least tries to steady himself and ride it out. But at the sight of Othrod hanging on to Luis for his dear life, Hugh loses it, and a few tears start rolling down his cheeks. He hugs Dush and Torega tightly. Yes, they fought the Imperium, they freed the planet - but they also saved these kids, gave them a new life and made sure they would have a place to grow up. This moment isn’t about the war. It’s about the future. “I’m so glad you’re all okay,” Hugh whispers in English.

Sijet, of the females that was rescued from the villiage, claps her hands together to get their attention. ”All right, children, I’m sure they have very important things to do, so let’s go back to our hut and eat lunch!” she says. The children all make disappointed whines and back off, signing their goodbyes. Othrod holds onto Luis for a moment longer before letting go and walks back to the other children.
Rhea approaches the team while Sijet herds the children towards their hab. ”Welcome back!” she says. ”Did you just arrive?”
”Yes, and now I don’t want to leave,” Hugh says, wiping his eyes. ”Is everyone doing okay?”
Rhea nods. ”It has not been easy for some of the children, but they are doing all right. Sijet and I have volunteered to stay with them here to look after them, as our families were also killed in the attack.”
”That’s an admirable thing to do,” Luis says, ”I’m sorry about your families.”
”It is not a problem,” Rhea replies. ”So, what brings you all to Whiirr?”
”We are here to ask Hiigra and the Narsai’i staff here for their support,” Davis says.
”Some of the Narsai’i see us as less helpful and more of a threat than the ones here do,” Swims-the-Black adds.
Rhea’s fur ruffles and turns a burnt shade of orange. ”Then they should come here and see how much of a ‘threat’ you have been to us.”
”I’m sure a few pictures will aid our cause,” Hugh says, already working on an excuse to spend more time with the kids and less time with the dreary ‘showing flag’ bullshit. “How are things with the other tribes around here?”
”Well, as far as I know,” Rhea says. ”I have mostly been working with the children and aiding where I can with teaching others. Hiigra is around here somewhere, he would know better.”
”We will talk to him,” Davis says.
”And how are things with the other humans?” Swims asks.
Rhea’s fur changes to a more hopeful yellow and green. ”It’s very different than with the old gods. Most of them are very eager to help us become self-sufficient, and even those not helping us learn and lead treat us with respect. It is nice to be respected, after the old gods mostly shouted at us and took our best warriors. If all the humans were this way, I doubt you would be under suspicion.”
”Good to hear,” Hugh says. ”We’ll tour the rest of the camp and talk to the others. If you think of anything we can do to help you guys, just tell us, alright?”
Rhea smiles. ”You must be hungry, and I did see how much you were all enjoying spending time with the children. Would you like to join us for lunch?”
Hugh smiles - and it’s not one of his patented wide smirks, but the genuine article. ”We would very much like that.”

Zaef walks through the base, ignoring the important-looking bustle of Wherren chiefs and Narsai’i administrators. Bureaucracy is definitely not his thing, and he keeps his head down to try to avoid being recognized by anyone important enough to derail him from his actual goal - finding the barracks. Being under siege has a way of forging fast friendships, and there’s a few Wherren that might still be around that Zaef wouldn’t mind meeting up with.

Once the right hab has been found, Zaef simply walks through the open door to find Mola, Joxur, and Sajuuk, which is the most surprising, as the Wherren was half-dead from taking two to the chest when Zaef departed Whiirr for Narsai. The three familiar Wherren are sitting around a table with four others that he doesn’t recognize and a pack of Narsai’i playing cards in front of them, passing time in a way most familiar to Zaef.

Zaef smirks at the Wherren trying to bluff each other in poker-Wherren can’t do lies or misdirection well, especially since other Wherren are just too good at reading body language. He watches until all the players but one fold (the one had 4 sevens) before knocking on the door frame.

“Got room for one more?” He signs, grinning as he pulls a couple bottles out of his bag. “I’m not above bribery here.”
”Zaef!” Mola shouts. Sajuuk and Joxur also bark with delight and wave him over. ”Come, please, sit! I hope you brought more of your specialty booze back with you, we haven’t been able reproduce it since you left us.” Mola turns to the others at the table. ”Karat, Booni, Monar, Duun, this is Zaef Utari, he fought alongside us in defense of the Gateway. Zaef, these are some of the brave warriors from the Long Runners and the Sky Climbers tribes who have volunteered to guard this base.”
Booni nods, the longer fur on her head beaded on the ends with bits of wood. ”The Long Runners are grateful for what your people have done for us.”
”And what’s this about special alcohol?” Monar asks.

“I’ll show you how to make it later-I didn’t make this stuff, but it’s quality booze.” Zaef signs as he sits down and passes the bottles around before nodding to Booni. “I’m glad to have done my part to make this possible.”
Monar, Sajuuk and Duun pull the stoppers out of the bottles and each take a swig. Monar and Dunn both cough a bit as their furs roll orange and yellow, while Sajuuk simply passes the bottle to Joxur.
”You have to learn how to hold your human alcohols,” Sajuuk signs with a smile on his face. ”They make them much stronger.”
”It’s not...too bad,”” Duun signs, her fur still on fire.

Zaef chuckles, inexplicably reminded of when he finally caved one night and gave the shipboy some booze. He’d taken it less well than Duun and Monar had, but then he’d drunk the rest when Zaef wasn’t looking. “Don’t worry, it won’t take long to get used to it.”
”So, Zaef, what brings you here?” Sajuuk asks. ”It’s not to get your Chosen markings reapplied, is it?” He grins to the others. ”He did the whole song and dance the night before the battle.” The others nod appreciatively.

“No - although while we’re on that, is putting a melon on your head part of that, or was I just that drunk?” Zaef starts dealing out the cards, the movements mechanical. “I’m here with some of the others, we’re checking up on the place and making sure everything is running smoothly, no problems, no complications. Thought I’d enjoy myself while I was here as well, see how you guys were doing.”
”Most of the tribes seem to understand what’s going on once a chief and shaman descend from the skies in one of your black metal birds,” Monar signs.
”A few have held out, some fighting for the false Gods, some simply because they want to keep control over their tribes.” Booni shrugs. ”Dealing with them has not been hard, your people have been surprisingly forthcoming in helping us.” She looks at Zaef, in a gaze familiar to a man who’s been in front of a fair few Alef-ka.

Zaef arches an eyebrow and takes a swig from a bottle that has, somehow, made it back to him. “Surprising how?”
”Ghiiran, my chief, says that you are here to help us, but I know what alliances with humans are like,” Booni signs, putting her cards down on the table and continuing to scan Zaef’s face. “My second litter-brother was Chosen, and he was taken many years ago. He has escaped and returned to our tribe to help us educate ourselves. He does not talk much about what happened to him, but the things he has said...” Booni’s fur ruffles and turns a sorrowful shade of purple and blue. ”I can see the suffering he has gone through at the hands of your people in his signs. I do not know what it is you people want, but I know that I do not trust you. Arming my people and training them to fight for you in your own wars as your beast-slaves, like he was? Or what else?”

Zaef smiles, possibly the first time in a week or two. “That was refreshingly direct. First time in weeks that someone has said ‘I don’t trust you’ to my face.” He takes another swig. “If you want some primer to discern us from the Imperium - the false gods - I ask you only to look around. First thing I saw when I came through the gate was a school, a place of learning for children, and I’m sure I passed a clinic or two on the way here. The Imperium never gave you ways to help yourselves. Just weapons. You might not think that’s as important as our intentions, but I do, since you seem to be lumping me together with the people who took your brother and visited suffering on him.”
Zaef takes a moment to calm himself down again, another drink to help continue. “Second: what we want? We don’t know what we want. Seriously, I just got off the planet where the leaders of these -” Zaef gestures towards the rest of the camp, “-humans live, and they’re talking and talking but they’re not making any decisions about anything.” He mimes the motion of drinking out of the bottle with a roll of his eyes, making his opinions clear.

“Lastly, what we want? Ain’t as important as you think. After all, anything we can do depends entirely on what you want to us to do. You have a voice to speak, and a sword to swing. Use them, you’d be surprised how people respond to you when you do.” He lets out a sigh through his nose. “Now, are you going to ante up or what? I’d like to have some fun tonight, not babble about this...this stuff. I already do that enough, it’s part of my damn job.”
Booni stares at Zaef throughout his speech, and after her fur calms down, slowly nods. ”Thank you for being honest. It is hard to trust your people, after what the false Gods have done to us, but you are honest. If it really is up to us, then I would prefer we save the others like my litter-brother, make the false Gods stop doing these horrible things.” She slides a few stones across the table. ”And I will bet.”
Joxur barks excitedly and slides a large portion of his stack across the table. ”I have you, Zaef!” His fur is an excited green and yellow as he smiles at Zaef. ”It is easier to read you and Booni when you are upset.”
Zaef grins as he pushes some stones towards the center. “I think you’re bluffing, Joxur.”
”He doesn’t know how to bluff,” Sajuuk says, sliding his cards into the middle of the table.
”No, seriously, he doesn’t,” Duun adds as she folds as well.
This only makes Zaef’s smirk wider and he adds more stones to the pot. “Then we’ll just have to see who has the better hand here.”

Monar shakes her head as she folds, while Karat just tosses his cards into the center of the table. Joxur excitedly turns his cards over, and it turns out that yes, he does have the higher flush on Zaef.
Joxur excitedly jumps to his feet, fists in the air and howls happily. ”I knew it!”
Zaef laughs and tosses Joxur the bottle. “Nice!”
Joxur takes a long swig and sits back down. ”Another hand!”
Booni takes the cards and starts reassembling them into a pile for shuffling. She pauses to take a drink from one of the other bottles, giving Zaef a respectful look and shift of colors.

After lunch and a few hours messing around with the Wherren cubs, Luis and Davis reluctantly pull themselves away from helping with math and languages and refereeing a ball game. Without having the rules explained, Luis really didn’t follow the action, but the kids seemed to be having fun. Finally though, Luis has to drag himself away and get on with other business, though not without more hugs.

Luis and Davis ask where to find Shenest, and get directed to a lab in one of the new habs. As they walk down the hall towards the lab, the sounds of distorted guitar from a Narsai’i rock track leaks through the door. Luis steps up and taps the button on the contact panel. No response comes from the other side of the door. Luis eyes the door and taps the button again. Nothing happens, but it’s obvious that a couple of people are working on the other side, seated at a bench facing opposite directions from each other.
“You think we should have called ahead?” Luis asks Davis, then sighs and raps on the window.
“Don’t think they would have heard their voxes go off over that,” Davis replies. One of the heads inside perks up at the knocking on the window and moves towards the door. “I do like this album, though. Early hardcore beats a lot of the later stuff.”

The door slides open with a barely-audible hiss, revealing Keeper Shenest and unleashing a sonic barrage of rock. She still looks like everyone’s strict elementary school principal, but now in addition to a few out-of-place looking Earth punk rock pins stuck in the lapel of her Keeper’s coat, she’s sporting a shaved-smooth skull with a long ponytail out the back of her head.
“Ah, Mister Stanhill and Davis,” Shenest says over the blasting rock and roll. Her vocal inflections haven’t changed at all, which just clashes even more with her new look. “I assume you are here to inspect our progress. Please, come in!”
Luis steps in tetatively, letting his ears adapt for a moment.
“Think you could turn down the music?” Davis shouts.
“Oh, certainly!” Shenest reaches up to a surprisingly low-tech CD-radio boombox stuck on a shelf and winds the volume dial down. “I’d like to thank you for including this entertainment unit in our budget, Davis. I’ve been greatly enjoying the music you forwarded.”
“My pleasure, Shenest,” Davis replies.

Luis gives Davis a look that says, “This is your fault?” then returns his attention to Shenest and her lab. Small environmental containment units line one wall of the hab, each with small samples of local flora and fauna, while the other wall is dedicated to Wherren artifacts and engravings of various kinds, all tagged and labeled. Some of them sit under Imperial magnification equipment, others are being scanned into a cogitator parked in the corner of the room. The tables and shelves are clean but disorganized, and the floor has bits of dirt and rocks collecting in the corners - if Luis had been asked to describe a field laboratory, this is pretty close to what he would have laid out.

Luis gestures around the lab while Davis peers at the various screens. “Been keeping busy?”
“Now that we have your noisy vertical take-off machines to fly us around and we don’t have to keep up that stupid gods illusion, we’re really able to get samples and artifacts we couldn’t before,” Shenest says. “Plus, your Keeper Cavanaugh has enlisted the aid of my biologically-inclined researchers in cataloging the species of this planet and deducing the intricacies of Whiirr’s ecosystem.”
Luis nods, “How’s that co-operation going? People settling in with the new boss?”
“The other Keepers still work for me, so there’s not much adjusting going on,” Shenest says, taking a seat in front of a monitor displaying a magnified image of a carved stone. “And I very much prefer working for your government. They let me just get on with my research, and don’t make ‘suggestions’ as to how I should interpret my results. The intellectual and other freedoms your people espouse are...are like a breath of planet-side air after years in stale shadowport atmo. I especially enjoy the philosophies of your ‘punk rock’ movement. Intellectual freedom, empirical methods of thought and investigation, self-sufficiency and self-determination! All things that I have held dear but was not allowed to express on the Imperium main worlds.”
Davis looks over a bit of Wherren pottery. “Found anything interesting?”
“A bit more about the history of the Gateways on Whiirr,” Shenest says, pointing to a piece of stone in a plastic protective case. “It seems that small metal gods arrived shortly after the impact of the transportation ship. I am not sure what they are, but the records are very clear.”
Davis chuckles. “Those would be the Groi, or the Masters to you.”
“Ah!” Shenest picks up a tablet and starts scribbling down notes. “Yes, we suspected Masters involvement, but we didn’t have access to Imperial records of what their appearance was like. Do you have that section of the Cortex decoded?”
Luis shakes his head. “We may, I don’t recall off the top of my head.” He nods to Davis. “He’s speaking from personal experience, though.”
“Then the reports on your encounters would be most helpful,” Shenest says to Davis.

Davis nods. “I’ll get them forwarded as soon as possible.” Davis peers out of the window. “Do you have much exposure to our military forces on Whiirr?”
“Some, but they mostly keep to their duties and I keep to mine,” Shenest says. “Your pilots are polite but not exactly inclined to conversation, and the other personnel are not interested in radiometric dating techniques or pre-encounter Wherren script. Why do you ask?”
“There’s a motion back on Narsai to remove myself and Miss Barnes from being the ones you report to, and replace us with military officers,” Davis says. “What do you have to say about that?”
Shenest looks warily out the window. “...would they be scientists, or otherwise inclined to let me do my work?”
Luis shrugs. “I don’t know how much they’d care about your work, honestly. They’re mostly millitary types of the opinion that the only way Earth can survive is to focus almost entirely on its own defense.” Luis waves his hands around the lab. “I’m not sure questions of what to do with places like this are even on their radar.”
Shenest crosses her arms. “Hmph. Militaristic authoritarian xenophobes, how typical. They’d probably shut me down on general principle, independent of their closed-minded perspective on science. If it doesn’t blow up or otherwise let them kill their enemies more efficiently, what good is it!” She looks at Luis and Davis. “And the alternative?”
“The alternative is you lend your support to our team and Miss Barnes, write a statement in support of the GRHDI,” Davis says.
“Well, considering I already do, that should be fairly simple.” Shenest waves open her vox holodisplay. “I will start as soon as we’re done here. I just escaped from the fascism of small minds, I don’t want to be forced to work for another group of short-sighted dictators.”
Luis nods. “We were hoping you might say that.”

He looks back at the stone she’d indicated when talking about the Groi. “Can you tell me more about what your research turned up about the Gate transport?”
Shenest nods. “It occurred during a time of year when tribes across the planet either celebrate or hide from what they claimed to be either stars falling from the sky, the Gods racing across the sky, or other similar descriptions. These match with Whiirr passing through the shattered remains of a comet, but we have calculated its orbit back several thousand years, and it never comes close enough to a planet to cause it to break up into the long trail of debris it currently is. It is possible the comet impacted the ship itself, but why such an advanced race would make such a simple mistake is something I cannot account for.”
“The ship was unmanned, right?” Luis says. “Maybe they didn’t know about the comet, and then the nav software didn’t steer around it?”
“Doubtful, and we don’t know for sure if the ship was unmanned or not,” Shenest says. “It’s possible the Masters - Groi - recovered the shells after the crash, to prevent undue pollution of the ecosystem.”
“If the crash wasn’t a navigational issue or a collision, then maybe something else forced it down,” Luis says. “Or brought it down. The shaman from Hiigra’s tribe said their legends said that their god had destroyed his enemy’s transit, but their gods didn’t sound like the angle beasts.”
Shenest shrugs. “The crash is almost a thousand years old. Any indications of what happened are long gone, if they weren’t removed intentionally. It’s a mystery I intend to solve, but we will not learn the answers from that piece of stone.”
Davis nods. “Well, we’ll work to make sure you can keep trying to find answers.”
“Thank you, Garrett,” Shenest says. “If only my colleagues knew of the freedoms they had available here, half of the Keepers would defect overnight.”
Luis looks from Shenest to Davis. “Now that’s a thought.”
Davis smiles. “Indeed it is.” He bows a farewell to Shenest. “We’ll let you get back to work.”
Shenest reciprocates the bow, showing off her shaved head and ponytail. “Farewell, Garrett, Luis. Keep strong, the oligarchs and power-hungry never give up control without a fight.”