Hugh looks to Samantha Barnes. "Any chance of arranging for a face to face, Director?"

Barnes looks back at Hugh and gives him a confident smirk. "You don't work for as many quasi-legal DC agencies as I have and not develop a good relationship with the DC Metro PD, Captain." She takes a step towards Hugh. "There will be some ground rules, and those rules are like going to your rich aunt's house: Look, don't touch, and if you break it, mom's going to be really, really mad." She leans towards Hugh as she says the last part of her sentence, her smile vanishing in a heartbeat. "Are we clear, Captain?"

"Crystal," Hugh says. "I'll stay with Zaef while you make the arrangements."

Ten minutes later, Hugh finds himself in a small room off a back hallway in the station. Unlike any of the TV shows he'd ever watched out of the corner of his eye while doing something else, there was no big one-way mirror in the wall, just a single security camera in the corner - and two more hidden in the clock and thermostat on the wall. One of the men who tried to attack Zaef is seated in a chair facing the door, handcuffed to a shackle mounted on top. He's got bandages on his face, marking him out as Houston Becker, the first one through the door, and the one who passed out when Zaef tried to question him.

Hugh walks into the room in his green Class As, complete with ribbons and his GRHDI service patch on the shoulder. Becker's eyes go wide when he sees the uniform. "Shit!" His eyes are locked onto Hugh's uniform. "Err, what's going on? I mean, Sir? What's the Army doing here?"
"Relax," Hugh says. "I'm here, the Army isn't. You ex-service?"
"No, Sir," Becker says. "I tried, but I didn't pass the physical." His eyes settle somewhere around his collection of tour ribbons. "Are you here to get me out of here? Or tell that bitch detective that we weren't doing anything wrong?"
"The cops are doing their jobs, that's all," Hugh says. Okay, here goes nothing. "I'm more interested in how you fucked up yours."
"He must have had some kind of alien gizmo!" Becker says. "Maybe he had his eyes replaced like that one 815 sympathizer, or some kind of scanner, or maybe tiny robots..." Becker trails off. "Or maybe super hearing. There's no way he could have gotten the drop on us otherwise. We did everything like we were taught. It's that fucking alien shit, man. Some kind of unnatural shit."
"Is that what you want me to write in my report?" Hugh asks. "Alien shit? Level with me, Becker. You weren't ready. You shouldn't have gone on that mission."
"No! We were ready!" Becker says. "We've been practicing for weeks at Eddie's place. It's because he's a fucking alien freak! Do you know what shit they can do? We've been reading up on them, and if this is the start of the Army throwing them off our planet and back where they came from, that's fine by me."
"All that training didn't do you any good when your intelligence was obviously faulty," Hugh says.
"That's because those traitors at the Gateway Research and 'Homeworld Defense' Initiative have been keeping it all a secret," Becker says, the cuffs stopping him from putting air quotes around the HD in GRHDI. "I know that the sympathizers in Congress are keeping you from raiding those bastards and shutting them down, but..." Becker looks around, and leans forward. "We can't wait much longer. Rumor has it that they're going to start bringing in the mind control devices soon, and by then, it will be too late," he whispers.
"Damn straight," Hugh says. "Now, I can't walk you out of here, due process and all. In fact, I wasn't here at all, got that? But I've heard enough. You're not alone, soldier. Remember that."
Becker nods. "I just have to know who I can trust. Tell my contact that we're all keeping quiet for when he gets us out..." His eyes finally drift over to Hugh's name badge pinned above his right pocket. "Verrill?" It takes a second for the name to rattle around inside of his head before it connects with something, and his eyes go as big as dinner plates. "FUCK!" Becker explodes upward, his hand straining against his restraints as his face turns bright red with rage. "TRAITOR! TRAITOR!"
Hugh smirks. "You have a good day now."
Becker continues to scream himself hoarse calling Hugh a traitor, alien sympathizer, freak, and a long list of creative slurs and epithets even after the door shuts behind him.

----

Barnes is watching the video feed from the interrogation room with Zaef back with all the detectives' desks. She's got a bemused smirk on her face. "Not exactly the brightest bunch. What's your assessment, Captain?"
"Low-level stooge with not a clue to his name," Hugh says. "The mention of a contact is concerning. We should have the police check out Eddie's house, if they trained there, they might have guns or other incriminating materials there - and the cops need to move fast before somebody beats them there."
"Manassas PD have been there for..." Barnes checks her smartphone. "Ten minutes. Found some printed rants about the coming alien invasion and a cell phone in his office, but that's all."
"Sounds too neat. They rock up with guns and there's no cleaning supplies, no ammo, no nothing?" Hugh scoffs.
"Gun was registered to Gordon Fulton, who apparently had a few others and your ammo and cleaning supplies," Barnes says, still staring at her phone.
"Okay," Hugh sighs. "Okay. Occam's Razor, right? Assuming they acted mostly alone, that leaves us with Becker's 'contact', but I don't see a way to run that down without him or one of the others giving it up."

Barnes puts her phone back in her pocket. "I will see what I can do, but don't expect any miracles." She furrows her brow. "What's more concerning is that they knew where to go at all. I booked that hotel less than 24 hours before they attacked, and the first I heard about Luis' attempt to gather intel was the message Garrett sent me on the plane. That doesn't leave many options for how they knew what we were going to do."
"Not it," Hugh says with a nervous smirk, but it quickly disappears. "There aren't that many candidates for an inside job, though. I don't know how many tables our stuff crosses at GRHDI, but it can't be a lot, right?"
"Not many, but that doesn't mean our security isn't compromised," Barnes says. She looks at her watch. "And you and Luis have a date with a Congressional committee in four hours. I'll let Ngawai know about the possible mole, she's sifting through Luis' haul right now. You focus on Congress, Captain. The rest of the team can handle the mole."
"Yes, Director," Hugh replies.

Barnes turns to Zaef. "Are you ready to get out of here, Zaef? Garrett messaged to say he's found a much more secure hotel."

Zaef arcs an eyebrow. "Am I the only one worried about the 'weeks of practice' thing? This has been in the works for a while, but we haven't been back from Hedion in much longer than a week. Someone's had a beef-is it a beef, or a steak?-a beef with us for quite a while."

Punkey wrote:

Barnes turns to Zaef. "Are you ready to get out of here, Zaef? Garrett messaged to say he's found a much more secure hotel."

"'Out of here' sounds like the best place to be right now. These...kinds of places always make me nervous." Zaef turns to Hugh. "Watch your ass, Verrill. All bets are off now. No pressure, you know." he adds with a smirk.

As he and Barnes head out of the station, Zaef starts to chuckle and shakes his head. "Alien tech, ha! What do you call those things, Miss Barnes? 'Self-onnes?' I think it's 'self-onnes.' Foiled by a self-onne!"

Luis and Arketta leave the Capital after the tour, and head to grab a late lunch at the Air and Space Museum before checking out the exhibits. Luis is distracted slightly from the greasy pizza and overly expensive drinks by Arketta. She’s been antsy and distracted for an hour or so, fidgeting, rubbing her arms, and running her fingers through her hair. It’s a state Luis has seen her in before, the warrior unable to act, cooped up, wanting to do something, but unable to do anything. He saw her like this on the plane to and DC, on the way into Whirr, teaching on the Needleships back on Boronai. He looks around the room, carefully not allowing his eyes to loiter too long on their new friends. They’re at a table a few meters away, noticeable for being the only ones in the cafeteria trying not to be caught staring at the 6’3” warrior woman and the guy with the golden eyes.

Luis waits until they’re carefully looking the other way, then taps Arketta on the shoulder and whispers, “Watch my back.” He covers the distance to the other table quickly but nonchalantly, and looks down at the two guys in suits. “Hey, can I borrow your salt?” he asks politely.
Both be-suited men double-take when they see Luis’ eyes looking down at them. “Ah, err...” the one with the brown buzz-cut sputters.
Luis waves at their table. “I’m sorry, but ours is empty and you don’t seem to be using yours.”
The black buzz-cut recovers first. “Yeah, sure.” He practically throws it at Luis.
“Thanks,” Luis says with a grin. Hey starts to turn away, then turns back like he just remembered something. “Hey, weren’t you in our tour group at the Capitol?”
They’re both standing up to go when Luis turns back. “Oh, maybe,” black buzz-cut says.
“We really have to go,” brown buzz-cut says.
Luis nods. “Yeah, I know what it’s like to be trying to do the museums. Never seems to be enough time to see all the things you want to.” He smiles pleasantly. “Enjoy your time in DC.”
Neither of them look back as they hustle towards the exit.

Luis looks after them for a moment, then walks back to the table where Arketta’s still sitting. She’s beaming at Luis as he approaches the table. “Pity they had to leave so soon,” he says, settling back into his seat. He sets the salt on the table next to their shakers and points at it. “Remind me to return that before we leave.”
“Sure thing,” she says, putting a hand on Luis’ thigh. “That was amazing,” she whispers in his ear while rubbing his leg. “Thank you. I probably would have just punched one of them, and then we’d have gotten in trouble.”
“Surprising sometimes how much you can get done with a friendly smile and a cheerful attitude,” he says. “So, did you see anything in the main gallery you wanted to see?”
“Oh, sure, there were a few galleries, but there’s something else I want to see right now,” Arketta says as she leans up against Luis and gives his thigh a squeeze.
Luis grins. “I appreciate it, but...later.”
Arketta’s smile stays, and she gives Luis a peck on the cheek. “Okay, but if we’re going to wait until after this, you might be all worn out for the big meeting with...the people you’re going to see.”
Luis grins. “I’ll take a shower before I leave.”

A half-hour later, the SUV with Barnes, Zaef and Hugh pulls into the multi-level basement of a 17th Street office building. The streets are busy, and inside the garage, a few work-a-day drones are heading in or going out of the building. The SUV comes to a stop in a reserved-marked parking spot by the second floor entrance, where Davis is waiting for them, lit by the flickering overhead fluorescent lighting.
“Welcome to one of the best hotels I’ve ever stayed at,” he says. “Found out about this from one of my old friends from my Afghanistan days. No stars, they’re not listed on Zagat, and there’s no turn-down service, no WiFi, no cellular reception, no continental breakfast buffet, but it is the most secure hotel in the city.”

“If you’re done being dramatic, Davis, I’d like to check it out for myself, thanks.” Zaef arcs an eyebrow and smirks. “Or is this it, and you’re trying to warm me up to sleeping in a parking garage for a week?”
“Hey, at least it’s out of the weather,” Davis replies. “But no, the hotel’s inside.”

Davis leads the other three into the office building, into the elevators and up to the fourth floor.
“I don’t remember this being on any of our DC-area safehouses,” Barnes says as the elevator ascends the building.
“That’s because it isn’t one of our safehouses,” Davis replies. “I said I heard about it from one of my friends, I didn’t say which side he played for.”
“Cozy,” Hugh quips. “Does the room service wear balaclavas?”
“No, and they’re not all blind, either,” Davis shoots back with a grin.
There’s a pause before Zaef pipes up again. “I don’t get it.”
“There’s nothing to get,” Hugh says. “Let’s check in.”

The doors open to reveal Swims-the-Black standing next to the elevators with his overnight bag over his shoulder. He joins the group and everyone heads further into the building, down a hallway with commercial-grade black carpet and beige walls.
Davis pushes a buzzer next to an office belonging to “International Asset Disbursements Fund”. “Mr. Smith, six to check in.”

The door buzzes open, and Davis holds it open while everyone else files inside, walking into what’s actually a rather tastefully apportioned waiting room. However, instead of the stereotypical concierge desk, there’s simply a woman in a suit sitting behind a flat-pack furniture desk in front of a computer.
Davis walks up to her with a grin on his face. “Mr. Smith, with Mr. Smith, Mr. Smith, and Mr. Smith to check in,” he says, motioning to Hugh, then Zaef, and finally Swims-the-Black in turn. “Do you have our room keys?”
The woman rolls her eyes and picks three keys out of her desk. “You do not need to do this every time, Mr. Davis,” she says. There’s a bit of an accent in there, but it’s been so thoroughly destroyed by practice it’s hard to tell where it’s from.
“Yes, but what would be the fun in that?” he says, and hands Hugh one of the keys. “Come on, rooms are this way.”

The hotel hallway seems just a bit too small for the office building it’s built in, and the flat grey wall coverings don’t help.
“EM shielding on the walls,” Davis says. “Keeps the bugs out.”
He leads everyone into his room, and closes the door. The two beds, dressers and table and chairs set are nice enough, nothing like the hotel they just left, but not stolen from the Days Inn, either. Everything’s in a red and grey color scheme, with the sheets matching the red carpeting, and interestingly, everything seems to be rather new. For a former Soviet safehouse, there’s not a lot of Soviet-era items.
Davis sits down on the bed. “They sweep every week for bugs, and the walls are reinforced with an extra inch of concrete and steel. Trust me, we’re safe in here.”
“Great,” Hugh says, not very taken with the decor. “I’m on a bit of a schedule, so can we get to the intelligence we got from the hack?”
“Ngawai’s been sorting through the information, let me just hook up my computer so we can actually vox out of here,” Davis says.

A minute later, Ngawai appears on Davis’ holodisplay. In a bit of synchronicity with their surroundings, she’s lying in bed with her own vox display up in front of her, balanced on her stomach. She’s sweating a bit, but whether that’s from the tropical climate or something else is hard to tell at this point.
“Afternoon, boys,” she says. “How are things going?”
“Zaef got arrested after some thugs tried to tune him up,” Davis replies.
Ngawai cocks an eyebrow. “Already in trouble? And do we have an ID on who they are?”
Zaef clears his throat. “I’m right here, by the way. Nice to see you too.”
Ngawai nods and smiles. “I know, and it’s good to see that you’re all right, Zaef.”
“Well, we got their names and records. They’re not government, but they were put up to it by someone who must have a very, very low opinion of how capable I am. Verrill got one to mention a contact. We’re thinking it’s an inside job.”
“Maybe from inside the GRHDI?” Ngawai says.
“That’s what I’m thinking, yeah,” Hugh says. “Doesn’t get more inside than that.”
“No need to just think it, I have the proof right here,” Ngawai says. She slides a stack of data across her screen and onto Davis’, where he brings it up full size. “Found a series of messages from Russell to Ms. Barnes.” She looks at Barnes through the connection.
“What?” Barnes exclaims. She flips through the emails on Davis’ display. “I didn’t send any of these, Ngawai.” She looks back to her on the holo. “You know me, I believe in what we’re doing.”
“I take that as given,” Hugh replies. “Who else has access to your computer, though?”
“Just me and my assistant, but the door isn’t locked half of the time,” Barnes says, running her hands through her hair. “It could be anyone in the office.”
Davis cocks his head sideways and peers closer at the messages. He quickly expands the top line of three emails. “That was there after the office closes? All three of these emails are time-stamped well after 5 PM.”
“Okay, that just leaves my section heads, myself and my assistant,” Barnes says.
“And that’s enough of a place to start,” Davis says.
“Don’t you people lock your PC when you go away?” Hugh asks. “Even I know that.”
“Ehh, you guys don’t think you have people looking through your mail all the time, and it shows. No precautions, no security. I’m sure even if you bothered to lock it, Verrill, you’d let someone you trust use it every once in a while.”
Barnes snaps her fingers. “That’s it. It has to be Carolyn, my assistant. She’s the only other one who has my desktop password.”
“Good catch, Zaef,” Hugh says.
“So, Swims-the-Black and I will put a bug on her, and we’ll sit on her until she makes contact with Russell again while Hugh and Luis deal with Congress,” Davis says.
“Go carefully, we don’t need this blowing up into a scandal right now,” Barnes says.
“I’ll keep an eye on Barnes here. No offense,” Zaef says to her, “but I’d like to keep all my bases covered.”
Barnes glares a hole straight through Zaef’s head. “I’m not the mole, and I’m not waiting around here. I’m going with Verrill and Luis to the committee meeting. If you want to keep an eye on me, you’re going to have to do it from the audience.”
“We’ll be sticking together for the next few hours,” Hugh says. “In the unlikely event that Director Barnes is pulling the wool over all our eyes, I’ve got it covered. In the still unlikelier event that we’re both in on it, there’s still Luis. Everybody fine with that circle of trust?”

“Fine by me.” Zaef shrugs and turns to Ngawai. “Did you find anything else in there, or is that all?”
“Yes, I believe I have found the leaders of this little organization,” Ngawai says. “I haven’t had time to look up who they are beyond names: Dennis Blake, who seems to be your Director of National Intelligence, and Simon Hamilton -”
“Joint Chiefs head honcho,” Hugh cuts in, “and I don’t mean the band.”
Davis shakes his head while Barnes crosses her arms and stares at the emails as Ngawai slides them across. “Guess we made some friends in high places,” Davis says.
“The messages say that Blake is more interested in keeping ‘alien influences out of our government’,” Ngawai quotes in English, “while Hamilton’s primary interest seems to be...‘stamping out the alien infiltration’ and ‘putting control of this war back in the right hands’.”
”Lovely,” Swims-the-Black says.
“I’m not sure I appreciate the distinction here, they both sound like bigoted idiots,” Hugh says. “Who are they dealing with? I figure they’ve each got flunkies doing the legwork.”
“Russell seems to be Blake’s go-to guy,” Ngawai says, “while Hamilton is mostly talking with leaders in your military’s special forces.”
“Special Forces doesn’t really narrow it down,” Hugh says. “Hamilton is Navy, so I’m guessing SEALs?”
“I don’t know for sure, I’m not as familiar with how they’re structured,” Ngawai replies. “But it looks like Navy and Army.” She looks up at Hugh. “It could explain where Simmons got that letter to get you exiled from.”
“Gotcha,” Hugh says. “Anything on ties to the Congressmen? News I can use?”
Ngawai flips a few more pages around on her display. “It seems that the speed at which Samantha and Garrett have pushed our agenda forwards caught them off guard. They seem to only think that two of the people on this committee are on their side for certain, but none of them seem to be actually in on it.”
“Okay, who are the two they’re taking for granted?” Hugh asks.
“Doesn’t say, sorry,” Ngawai replies. “Guess you’ll have to figure that out for yourself.”
“I guess I’ll just piss all of them off and try to tell who isn’t surprised,” Hugh quips. “Anything else?”
Ngawai rubs her temples, and for the first time during the call, looks very tired. “Not that I have tonight. I’ll take another look in the morning.”
“Hey, don’t knock yourself out, okay?” Davis says, concern in his voice.
“It’s fine,” Ngawai says, and yawns. “Just doing what I can for the team.”
“Do something for yourself and get some sleep,” Hugh says. “We’ll nail a few balls to the floor in your name.” After a moment, he adds, “Figuratively. Didn’t bring any nails.”
“I’d loan you a few if I was there,” Ngawai says, and waves at the display. “Good luck.”

Davis stays behind to talk with his wife as everyone else files out of the room.
”So, a spy in the GRHDI,” Swims grunts, his fur a dull reddish tinge. ”I know how I handled traitors on my ship, but I am curious what your plans are.”
"A little less frontier justice than that," Hugh says. "Dead traitors don't sell out their co-conspirators and they don't go on the record about them, either. Like I keep saying, you scuttle cockroaches with light. We drag that shit through the media and they'll have to back off. They've got a ton more to lose than we do."

“Because they’ll be so willing to cooperate. Right.” Zaef rolls his eyes. “I’m sure we can trust whatever they say...if they were told anything at all.”
“If they don’t say anything, they can rot in prison,” Hugh counters. “I’m not running a catch and release thing here.”
“Suppose that’s the best we can do. Never thought I’d miss the days where cycling the airlock was the best option, but it was...refreshingly simple in hindsight.”
“I can get you privacy when you need it,” Barnes says. She checks her watch. “I have to go put up a smoke screen for Carolyn, keep her on her toes and out of your business at the hearing.”
”Good luck,” Swims says. ”I will contact you when we are ready to advance.”

----

“So, how are you two doing?” Davis asks, giving Ngawai a warm smile through the vox connection.
“I’m fine, Garrett.” Ngawai tries to return the smile, but then she shifts uncomfortably and takes a drink out of a hidden bottle of Pepto-Bismol. “Just feeling a little tired, that’s all. It is way past my bedtime.” She manages to smile at her own joke.
Davis scoots closer to the holo. “Then what’s the medicine for?”
Ngawai waves Davis off. “It’s nothing, just some stomach pains -”
“Is it stomach pains, or something else?” Davis asks, the anxiety rising in his voice.
“No, Garrett, it’s not Naloni,” Ngawai says. “Well, not directly. I’ve just had some stomach pains over the last week or so, and today was a bad day, but I’ve been getting by.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Davis says, reaching out for Ngawai and inadvertently putting his hand through the holo. “You didn’t need to come to DC with us, and I could have handled all this intel -”
This time, Ngawai cuts Davis off. “Garrett, no. I want to help - I need to help.” She starts to tear up, which makes Davis start to tear up. “I just feel so useless right now, with you and the rest of the team off chasing down moles and running down leads, that’s what I do, and I’m not there to help...” She takes a breath. “I need to do this, so I can help the team, so I can pull my own weight. So, please, Garrett, don’t stop me.”
Davis smiles and wipes his eyes. “I haven’t found a way to stop you from doing what you want yet, so why start now.”
Ngawai laughs and blows her nose. “Except for binding me to a chair.”
“But you cut your way out of that with a piece of shrapnel, so that says how well that went,” Davis says, keeping his smile. “I love you both, Ngawai. Just...take it a little easier. For me.”
Ngawai nods. “All right. Good night, Garrett. I love you.”

The connection clicks off, but Davis doesn’t move at first. After a moment, he takes a stuttering breath and leans back into the chair, eyes focused on the now-empty space in front of him where Ngawai’s image was.
There’s a knock on the door a second before it opens and Swims-the-Black steps into the room, his bags in hand. He places his bags next to his bed before he notices Davis slumped in the chair. ”Do you need a moment, Garrett?” he asks. ”I know how hard this can be -”
”No, it’s fine, don’t worry about it,” Davis says, sitting back up right and moving to unpack himself.
Swims follows Davis with his eyes as Davis walks across the room. ”If you’ll pardon me, this does not seem like nothing to me,” he signs. There’s a pause while Davis starts unpacking, dejectedly throwing his bag open on the bed. ”On Whiirr, you would not leave me be until I told you the truth of what was bothering me, and I felt immensely better after having shared myself. So,” he signs as he moves across his bed to face Davis, ”talk to me.”
Davis sighs and drops his shirts back into his bag. ”It’s just that I miss her, Swims-the-Black. I feel bad about being away from her right now, and about asking her to push herself when she already has so much on her mind as it is. I feel this enormous need to be in bed with her right now, and I can’t do that. I should be there, helping her feel better, not on the other side of the planet, putting this extra weight on her shoulders.”
Swims-the-Black nods. ”Understandable. And she wishes she was here with you and the rest of the team right now, I’m sure. We will be heading back to Diego Garcia tomorrow, and then you will have a whole day to spend at her side.”
Davis spins his wedding band around on his ring finger. ”I guess so, yes.”
”But that is not all that is concerning you,” Swims says. “Garrett, you do her and yourself too little credit. I know that you are concerned about the duties of both being a good parent and partner her and for Naloni, and the duties of fighting the Imperium, as is she. And, Garrrett, let me assure you that you and her, out of all people, have nothing to be concerned about.”
Davis scoffs.
Swims gives Davis a hard look. ”Garrett, there is a reason why every Turai, Kansat and noble across the Imperium fears the names Garrett Davis and Ngawai Lea Holoni. You are both symbols of indomitable, unstoppable will, people that accomplish the impossible twice before lunch and will convince you to join their side over dinner. She is every bit as capable and strong as you are, and yet you have thought of her as helpless throughout her pregnancy. You know that this is not true. She has more than carried her own weight, and while gravid with your child. She is not helpless, and if she was here, she would say so herself.”
Davis smiles. ”And she’d punch me for even suggesting otherwise,” he says.
”And like I said before, I will make sure you both take the day off when we return to Diego Garcia,” Swims continues. ”There will be nothing for a spy and a Apprehender to do by that point, so you both might as well spend the day away from all of this.”
Davis manages his trademark smirk. ”Or else?”
Swims bristles his fur and flexes a forearm. ”Or else.”
Davis turns to face Swims-the-Black. ”Thank you, my friend.” He embraces Swims, his face vanishing into his fur, and pats him on the back. “I love you, Swims-the-Black.”
Swims returns the gesture, and they both sit back on their respective beds. ”And I as well, Garrett.”

There’s an awkward silence as they both rest in the shared moment. ”So!” Davis says, and claps his hands together. ”Shall we find a mole?”
Swims grins. ”That sounds like an excellent plan.”

A few hours later, Gorlan suggests that he and Angel head out for the afternoon. With nothing better to do, Angel agrees and the two men soon are flying through Akis in Gorlan’s skimmer, with Gorlan behind the controls under the filtered light from the Hedion sun. Gorlan looks over to Angel momentarily. "So, I was thinking that it might be a good idea for us to go shopping. Make a few purchases, choose the interior for your quarters, office, and associated rooms in the estate, buy a skimmer. My legal advisor agrees with me that you should spend a few...million lats or so."
"A few...million lats." Angel's voice is a mix of his usual deadpan and outright shock. "No problem. An afternoon's work." He sets his head back, sighing sightly. This bit, incorporating Angel's brand new Kesh-family persona into the background of the Imperium, still wasn't sitting quite right with him.
Gorlan laughs. "Hardly. I did not become the most financially stable of my siblings by going on spending sprees, but it would help to establish your credentials as my brother. Plus..." Gorlan goes silent for a moment, something that Angel has noted is one of Gorlan's habits when he's not sure about what he's doing - something that is more common than usual right now. "Plus, I want you to feel comfortable as my brother. I meant what I said when we were drinking earlier. You are my brother, Angel, and I'm glad that you are." He places a hand on Angel's shoulder. "Consider this part of my effort for you to feel more like a Kesh."
Angel nods. Whatever bond he and Gorlan have made, it's fragile and its probably not a bad idea to go along with this. Angel had the sneaking feeling that one day, things might very well come down to Gorlan choosing between Earth and the Imperium and he wanted every bond to the former that he could get. Besides, Gorlan was clever and taciturn. What wasn't to like? "Fair enough...just be patient with me. There's a lot of this that's new to me, and it still doesn't feel quite..." he shrugged. "Right isn't the right word. But something."
Gorlan drew his hand back and maneuvered the skimmer onto the parking spot high up in Akis. The small skimmer park only has a dozen spaces, half of them are vacant and all have elaborate designs in them, leading Angel to suspect this is some sort of VIP parking. "Of course. Which is why we're starting with some place I think you might like. I mean, I hope you might like. I'm not sure." He swings the door on his side upwards and exits the skimmer.

Down a flight of stairs, and Angel and Gorlan are deposited onto a gorgeous covered shopping avenue. Plants with bright blue blossoms sway back and forth in time with the electro-orchestral music playing through the PA system, and a tasteful water feature splits the lane down the middle. The wealthy and upper crust of Akis stroll by, window shopping for what seems like everything from skimmers to satellites.
Gorlan leads Angel towards a shop with a decidedly harder edge to its decor. Matte tan foamcrete block with metal strapping and thick windows form the front, and a stylized version of the Turai crest sits over the door, backed by a scarlet banner. Yarim Arms & Armor is printed in gold on the banner. It seems that even in the Imperium, tacticool sells weapons.
"So, here we are!" Gorlan says nervously. "You like weapons, yes?"
Angel chuckled slightly as he walked into what had to be the most singularly posh mall he had ever seen. He didn't even know one could buy their own broadcast satellite. They stopped in front of a store that looked like the bastard love child of Soldier of Fortune magazine and an Apple Store. "This...is probably a decent place to start." He straightened his immaculately tailored 'sport coat' slightly. "Shall we?"
Gorlan motions for Angel to lead the way, and they both step into the shop.

A weathered man with braided long grey hair sits in a kiosk in the middle of the room, with the rest of the floor given over to display cases. Some holding only two rifles displayed vertically, others with shelves of smaller arms on stands, while the armors are all in their own individual display cases. Each case looks to Angel to be about an inch thick of plastic - probably the same stuff they use in spacecraft windows. White light from above and below in each case illuminates the weapons and armor.
"Good day, Mr. Kesh," the man says and gives a slight bow. His voice has the characteristic growling bark of any career non-commissioned officer.
"Good day to you as well." Gorlan returns the bow with a nod. "Is the proprietor of this shop in today?"
"That would be me," the man says. "Name's Yarim, like it says on the shop. What can I do for you, sir?"
"The question more is, what can you do for my brother here?" Gorlan motions towards Angel.
Yarim gives Angel a curious look. "What can I do for you..." He lets the sentence trail off.
"Angel. Angel Kesh." The last bit still feels a little weird on the tongue. "I'm in the market for some new hardware. Some...specialized weapons, now that I'm back in civilization."
Yarim nods. "You're going to need some, what with the terrorist threat that's out there these days. It's almost safer on the frontiers than in our own cities." He stands up and walks to a case containing a chamakana with an oversized shroud. "The newest in Harumdor Tech long-range chamakanas. 200 meters, less than 0.1 degrees of variance, and still able to put down a Tarantek or a Narsai'i cultist in one shot."
Angel nods approvingly. "An interesting start. But its the Tarantek that concerns me more than the Narsai’i. I'm looking for something...exotic. But still has a sense of refinement. A sense of purity." Angel pulls the line out of his ass, channeling his 12th grade poetry teacher talking about Robert Frost. "What do you have in the way of a projectile rifle?"
"Projectile weapons aren't cleared for purchase on non-frontier worlds without some kind of Kansatai or Turai clearance, Mr. Kesh," Yarim says. "But maybe I can pour you a drink. I've got something that you might like in the back, if you and your brother would follow me."
"Of course they aren't. And a drink would be lovely." Angel is suddenly reminded of a local fixer named Ammar, from back when Iraq was still the most dangerous place he would ever be. Man could get ahold of damned near anything - tried to sell his squad a decommissioned tank at one point. Just in case.

Gorlan politely declines the invitation, and Yarim and Angel walk through a door completely matched with the rear wall into the back room of the store, where Angel immediately finds himself in more familiar surroundings. Steel racks and shelves filled with crates of weapons, equipment and ammunition on top of a dusty foamcrete floor. Crank up the heat and spread the smell of curry in the air, and Angel would swear he's back in Iraq, or replace the curry with hickory smoke and he'd be back in the Southwest. Recruitment holos for the Turai decorate the wall above a metal desk, with a display case containing a Turai-issue chamakana and pantaki, along with the torso of a well-worn suit of Turai armor and a half-dozen medals and awards. From what Angel can tell, Yarim used to be a Rav-Turai, and had a long career at it, too.

Yarim slides a few crates out from underneath the shelves and places them on some crates of chamakana rods. One by one, he flips them open, and they all contain what are obviously projectile weapons, but not like any Earth design Angel recognizes. It seems that the Imperium pan-industriums have just started to put out the first generation of top-to-bottom Imperial designed slug throwers. Some are rifles, some are handguns, but all of them are decked out in matte-finish chrome, gold and bronze highlights, with black, brown or tan sections as well. Some are more beauty than function, but most of them look like they could be used to club that six-legged river beast back on Whiirr to death and still fire a kill shot while looking fantastic.

While Angel oogles the hardware, Yarim comes back with two glass tumblers with a double of some kind of fruit-smelling clear liquor and ice. He passes Angel a glass and nods at the weapons. "I gotta give the Narsai'i credit for one thing. Projectile weapons are the way to go. Smaller ammunition capacity by a long shot, but better one-shot-kill potential, more accurate over longer range, and battery times ranging from years to never." He takes a sip of his drink. "Of course, our versions are better than their backwards tech could ever handle. And really, you don't need the ammo count if you can put shots on target, right?"
Angel smiles somewhat wistfully at the suddenly far more comfortable surroundings. "Indeed." He traced his finger along the barrel of one, a thoughtful expression on his face. "I will give them this though - it is a clever design, and even primitives can be dangerous if you give them sufficiently sharp sticks." He taps the stock of the gun. "I'm looking for something rugged. Reliable. Can take a hard rain and a worse hike and not need a day's fussing to get it recentered. I'm sure a man with your experience can appreciate that. What have you got?"
"Well, for longer range, I favor this." Yarim pulls a sleek matte gold-and-tan rifle out of its case. It looks like the love child between a M-14 and a Transformer, with a big digital scope on top. "Onakan's improvement on recovered Narsai'i tech. Fires an improved Narsai'i projectile up to 1.3 kilometers away with accuracy of less than 0.01 degrees. Interfaces with anything compatible with Turai armor for use in the helm display, or you can use the built-in zoom." Yarim hands Angel a sample cartridge - it looks and feels for all the world like a 7.62mm NATO cartridge to him. "30 round magazine, fires on single shot or burst mode for more up-close problems, and has less recoil than a insect bouncing off your shoulder in a sand storm."
Angel takes the rifle carefully, turning it over in his hands, appraising it with a decidedly critical eye. And he has to admit, it is an improvement - a big one. "How many rounds in a burst?"
"Variable," Yarim says. "There's a coded stop at ten rounds, but there's an update from the manufacturer that removes the limit, if you want."
Angel snorts. "No, if you need more then ten rounds there's not a firmware update in the world that will save you. All standard interfaces? And is Onakan trying to corner the market with proprietary rounds?"
Yarim raises his trigger finger. "Nothing more standard in the galaxy than this," he says with a smile. "And no, it'll even fire Narsai'i rounds, in case you're ever really in trouble."
Giving the weapon a final once over, the Delta scout turned Imperial trillionaire gives an approving nod. "It's a magnificent weapon. I'll take two." One will almost immediately be handed over to the techies, Angel's own little contribution to the arms race. "Never know when you need a spare. I trust you have something more...discrete...to match. For protection closer to home. As you said, can't be too careful these days."

"Try this," Yarim says, and hands Angel a sleek, almost wind-sculpted chrome pistol. "Again, fires the standard round size, but Harumdor added something special. Have you fired a projectile sidearm before?"
Angel's nigh positive a lie now would give him away - he very much doubts he can hide his training that well. "Test fired a captured Narsai’i piece once."
Yarim nods at the pistol. "Then try working the action on that one."
When Angel pulls the slide back, there's the familiar resistance at first, but then after a moment, the force needed to pull back the slide drops to zero and the gun locks back and open. When Angel releases the slide (ergonomics being what they are, all the controls are in the same spots), it snaps forward with the familar force and metallic clap, but when he opens the action again, he's able to do it with just his thumb and index finger.
"Narsai'i version uses springs, but Harumdor replaced them with an electromagnetic locking and recoil system," Yarim says. "Holds the weapon open or closed, and absorbs almost half of the recoil from the shot. 12 shot magazine, and the smoothest weapon to draw and fire I've ever held. This is my new carry weapon for every day use, I've got two crates on order."
"Impressive. Single fire, or burst?" Angel tests the weapon in the palm of his hand, finding the odd, decidedly curvaceous pistol remarkably comfortable.
"Single fire, but supposedly, Harumdor and Faxom-Io are working on weapons that combine the shoulder stability of the long weapons with the compact form using the smaller rounds could offer," Yarim says. "Probably another six months out."
Angel chuckles. "Well, if these turn out to be as good as you promise, I may have to come back. I'll take a pair of these as well, and a case of ammunition. I trust you have a frontier subsidiary the shipping papers will be coming through, or shall I provide you with the relevant details?"
"Well, if you have purchasing authority with an industrium, I could have them couriered to your estate today, Mr. Kesh," Yarim replies.
"Lets go consult with my brother on that question - if nothing else, I'm sure there's one account or another all of this needs to go under, and they probably change it daily just to keep things interesting." He downs the rest of his drink.

Yarim nods, and they both reemerge to see Gorlan looking at the armor selection intently. Yarim asks about industrium purchasing authority, and Gorlan nods. "Of course, he's half owner of Kesh Pharmaceuticals," Gorlan replies. He waggles his fingers in his vox's command-sensitive airspace, and a message chime sounds in Angel's vox. Bringing up the message reveals that Gorlan has sent Angel the rotating account information for not only the Kesh estate and fund, but his own personal number for the Kesh Pharma accounts. "That should be sufficient, I think," Gorlan says.
"Find anything you like, Gorlan?" Angel grins, in a somewhat better mood than he was earlier in the day as he conveys the essentials to Yarim.
"Something about being ambushed by Iyuzo thugs and then having to go on the run makes one reconsider their approach to personal safety, that's all," Gorlan says. He seems to have become more at ease along with Angel.
"That it does. Want to add anything to the order? My treat..." He winks slightly at Gorlan.
Gorlan shakes his head. "I need to do my research first, I think. This isn't exactly something I'm familiar with."
Yarim hands Angel a tablet, its plastic surface asking for account information and ID verification via handprint. "I'll have the equipment sent to your estate today, Mr. Kesh."
Angel places his hand on the pad, nodding. "I look forward to it. Thank you for the drink."
Yarim nods. "Any time, Mr. Kesh. I'll vox you when anything new comes in, if that's all right."
"Please do." Angel nods.

Pleasantries concluded, Angel walks Gorlan out of the store. "I'll give you credit, that was a decent first stop."
"I'm glad my snap decision based on loose stereotypes turned out so well," Gorlan jokes. "So, next, I was thinking that we can get your quarters furnished."
"Makes sense." Angel nods slightly. "Man cannot, after all, live on extravagant weapons purchases alone."
Gorlan chuckles. "I think you might wish that you had taken one of those sidearms to go," he says. "Tangesa can be a bit...pushy."
Angel shakes his head. "Wonderful. So who is this Tangesa? A designer, I assume?"

"The best in Akis," Gorlan says as they arrive out in front of a rather reserved storefront. Red metal inlays with restrained gold highlights and the word "Tangesa" written in black glyphs over the door are all there is to announce that this is their intended destination. "She knows what people want without them saying it. Just...answer her questions and go with the winds with her."
"Understated. A good sign." Angel was decidedly of the belief that the more you had to brag, the less it was likely you could actually pull off your claims. "I'll do my best."

Gorlan opens the door for Angel, which leads into...a blank room. Not just empty, completely blank. The entire store has been given over to grey textured walls, floor and ceiling, all 15000 square feet of it, in Angel's estimation. In the back corner are two frosted glass walls with the outline of a desk showing through, but aside from that, there's not a single bit of furniture in the room.

Gorlan stands there with his hands behind his back and waits for a moment before part of the glass partition slides open and a slender woman with her dark hair sculpted up from her Imperial average height to an inch or two taller than Angel walks out.
"Gorlan!" Tangesa says, and with her black and red dress waving behind her, she walks up and embraces Gorlan in greeting. "How have you been?" Gorlan's face falls for a moment before Tangesa realizes what she said. "Oh, my, I'm so sorry, my dear. To lose your brother and sister in the same week, I can't even begin to imagine what you're going through. My condolences, Gorlan. If you have time, we must sit down and talk of your family over lunch."
Gorlan nods and manages a smile after the accidental gut shot. "Thank you, Tangesa, that would be lovely."
"And who's your friend, Gorlan?" Tangesa says, looking Angel over. "I see you've loaned him one of your suits, is he your new partner?"
Angel's face tightens into a somewhat bemused expression. "Not exactly. A family friend - Tora and I were...close."
Tangesa looks like she's about to fall over. "Oh my, but I am just making every kind of faux pas imaginable today. And since you're wearing the Kesh family crest..." She gasps. "You must have been given peerage! Gorlan, tell me it's true!"
Gorlan nods. "Tangesa, meet Angel Kesh."
Angel bows ever so slightly.
Tangesa bows in return. "Such a fine member of the Kesh family he will be," she says. "And I assume you're both here to enlist my aid in appointing his quarters in the estate?"
Gorlan hands Tangesa a holodisk. "The particulars of the his bedroom and office, the rest we can sort out later."

Tangesa takes the holodisk and inserts it into a reader integrated into her dress, which Angel only now figures out is plugged into jacks in each of her arms. The room shimmers, and suddenly they are standing in a nearly perfect recreation of Reno Kesh's bedroom, minus the blood and gore that is still being cleaned up in the real version.
Tangesa looks around, confused for a moment. "Isn't this Reno's bedroom?"
"Yes, it is," Gorlan simply says.
She takes the hint. "Right! Beautiful views of the rising sun and a clear view north to the desert beyond the dome, anyway. So!" She points to Reno's bed and snaps her fingers, and the bed is instantly highlighted in gold. "This is my studio, Mr. Kesh. Anything that you want, I can design and place in here before a single piece is made." As an example, she waves the bed up into the air, and mounts it on the wall. "Just be honest, and I guarantee that you will never want to live without my aid again."

She snaps her finger again, and the bed vanishes entirely. "So! Tell me, Angel..." She walks up to Angel with a smile on her face, keeping just out of what could be considered Angel's personal space. "...what would you like to see? What do you do? Tell me who you are, Angel, and I will make you a home!"
Angel was half expecting the holodeck act, though having it incorporated into the designer's...hardware...was a surprise. He paces around the room, marveling for a moment at the considerably more sanitized space. No footprint from Reno's violent death - at his hands. "I guess the first thing...I -" he pauses for a moment, "- am not Reno."
"Right!" She waves her hands, and the masses of black stone and brushed steel furniture from the room vanishes. "A fresh image! Do you want me to strip the walls as well, or are we keeping the deep blue?"
Angel nods in appreciation. "Something lighter. Emphasizes the desert view. Reminds me of home."
A twist of her hand later, and the walls are changed to a waving tan pattern, shifting between a shade darker and a shade lighter than the Hedion sands at midday as Angel looks around the room.
The scout nods in approval. "Impressive. I like the lighter feeling. Now - what about who I am do you want to know?"
"What do you do where you come from?" Tangesa asks.
"I'm an outdoorsman. A guide, a hunter when the occasion calls for it."

Tangesa spins around, her dress billowing behind her. "This calls for wood! Cold steel!" She waves her hands around, summoning a desk, lamps, a bed, all done in dark brown and red woods with black iron and dark steel details. "Something hand-crafted, not smelted out of a factory!" And indeed, each piece of wood flows into the next, with the wood on either side of the joins mated with its partner. A black granite and dark brown wood inlay appears on the floor under your feet, a ten-foot Kesh clan crest.
Angel jumps a bit at that, stepping a bit to the side so he's standing on a bit of the crest's background, looking around the room. "You're a very talented woman..." He paces around the refinished room, nodding in approval. "Very talented."
Tangesa smiles at Angel. "Aren't you a dear?" She summons a large sitting area in the front of the room near a large stone hearth, a thick wooden table fit for a feast, let alone whiskey and poker, with large crafted wood chairs backed with dark brown leather. A shaped black rug, at least an inch thick, appears around Angel's bed and dressers, and through the door, Angel can see that his massive walk-in closet has been decorated similarly to the rest of his room. Cabinets, weapons and armor lockers, all made from wood and steel fill the rest of the wall space.

Tangesa finally puts her arms at her sides, turns and takes a bow as Gorlan claps in appreciation. She gives Angel another smile. "So, how did I do, Angel? Is there anything missing? Just ask, and I can make it yours."
Angel nods in approval. "It's almost perfect." He runs his fingers thoughtfully, a scant millimeter above the simulated surface. "It needs something of her."
Tangesa nods respectfully. "Of course," she says, her tone subdued. She waves her hands once, and above the equipment cabinet appears a holo of Tora in what Angel guesses is her Expansion gear as she stands over a cliff: still wearing white, but instead of an elaborate dress, she wears well-worn pants and a tunic, with a brown leather belt festooned with gear. Her rings glisten in the alien sun, and she holds a scanner in one hand with a smile on her face. With one more wave, something that Angel recognizes appears at his bedside: a small keepsake box from her room, with a small holoprojector built into the lid, showing a bust of Tora, giving her special mischievous smile.
Angel pauses for a moment, his throat catching. "Perfect. Thank you."

Tangesa bows again to Angel. "I will start work immediately. Of course, as this will be hand-crafted rather than assembled via nanoforge, it will take a few weeks to finish and install."
"Not a problem," Gorlan says.
"Then all I need from you, Mr. Kesh, is payment before I begin my work," Tangesa says, and offers him a pad with the familiar payment interface.
Angel goes through the now familiar payment system, offering the woman his hand. "Thank you."
She takes it and plants a small kiss on the back of his hand before cradling it close to her chest. "I knew Tora well. I hope that what little aid and comfort I can give is enough."
“It is more than I expected, Tangesa. And I thank you for that."
She releases his hand and bows again, then looks to Gorlan. "I like him," she says with a smile.
"Yes, that certainly does seem to be a trend," Gorlan says.

Five hours later, Capt. Hubert Verrill and GRHDI Agent Luis Stanhill walk through the halls of Congress on the way to the first hearing of the ad-hoc House Committee on Interplanetary Affairs. The committee was thrown together from members of the committees on Homeland Security, Armed Services, Science, Space and Technology, and Foreign Affairs, but while they had convened several times before, this week has been the first major hearings they have had. The press had been waiting for them on the front steps of Congress, but neither Hugh nor Luis spend their breath making a statement. Instead, their contingent of bodyguards quickly escorts them up the stairs and into the halls of Congress.

Hugh wears a slight smirk - on the battlefield, this would signal an imminent victory. He hopes he can make that a self-fulfilling prophecy. Luis looks around calmly. It’s a bit of a different feeling than his trip yesterday as a tourist.He smiles. For one, he knows he’s being watched this time.

Outside the committee chambers, they find Barnes and a slew of press waiting for them. Barnes looks a little damper than usual, but not freaked out. She motions for them to stay quiet and follow her into the committee chambers.
Once inside, she pulls them both close. “Things are going well enough,” she says. “They seemed receptive enough to my proposed arrangement within the State Department, but the representative from the Pentagon made some headway convincing them of our supposed unreliability and ‘alien sympathies’. Plus, they’re still not convinced that the Imperium is as serious of a threat as we know they are - that damn memo is still circulating - and they have no idea about what our off-world allies have said about working with the DoD.”
“Sounds like a solid set of talking points,” Hugh says. “Thank you for having our back, Director. I promise I won’t fuck this up.”
Luis nods. “Let’s go win some hearts and minds, Hugh.”
“I get the hearts, though,” Hugh quips. “You can keep the minds.”

The flashbulbs reignite as Hugh and Luis walk towards the table in front of the committee and take their seats. Hugh has to shield his eyes momentarily from the overheads, while all Luis sees are a few moving dark spots in his vision that correspond to the overly-bright lighting. After a quick check to see the mics are working and the formalities of the moment, the committee starts their questions. Hugh recognizes the chairman of the committee: Rep. Robert Kleist, one of the two congresspeople that Hugh had spoke to previously in the week.
Kleist gives a respectful nod to the both of you. “Thank you for testifying before us today, Captain Verrill, Mr. Stanhill,” he says. “Do you have any statement you would like to make before the committee begins their questions?”
“No, Sir, we do not,” Hugh answers. “We are here to answer your questions.”
“Then let’s begin,” another congressman says. “We have a lot of questions to ask. Representative Kerry Skelton, 3rd district, Kansas. Can you tell us, in as few words as possible, what purpose the GRHDI serves that wouldn’t be better handled by the Department of Defense? After all, this is a war we are fighting. Shouldn’t this be left to those who are more qualified?”
“That is an important question, Representative,” Hugh replies. “Put briefly, the GRHDI combines expertise in matters of defense and state. In our struggle with the Imperium, we are highly reliant on our relationships with allies that operate differently from us; in this context, we are acting as equals. The sheer size of the Imperium eliminates any purely military solution to the conflict. We believe that a large-scale diplomatic effort is needed to shape future events and build a lasting peace that will benefit Earth and the United States of America.”
Skelton and a few other members of the committee look skeptical when Hugh starts to talk about “allies” and the “size of the Imperium”. “Captain, there is no visible reason to believe your organization’s statements on the size of the Imperium. The forces on Boranai numbered in the few thousand, at most. And the Department of Defense has only definitively shown the existence of a few dozen other planets, at the most. If they are all like Boranai, a mostly desert world with a population like a small city? This ‘threat’ that you suppose is vastly overblown. All they have is their technology, which has proven easy enough to defeat by your team.”
“Representative Skelton,” Hugh begins, “the Pentagon’s report is based on gate transfers witnessed by US forces only and does not take into account communications patterns or the size of the industrial base necessary to create some of the war machines we have encountered. I’m afraid it’s a little over my head, but Mr. Stanhill is our foremost expert on Imperial communications and weapons technology; if you have no objection to it, I would let him take this question.”
No one speaks up with an objection, so Luis proceeds. “Boronai is highly atypical, not only of the worlds presumed to exist, but of the ones we have visited so far in our initial missions. On our first recon mission, we passed through three systems: Aikoro, Jang-xur, and Botane. Aikoro and Botane were both developed and heavily populated, with extensive trade off-world and large populations. Even the Jang-xur shadowport, a single space station mostly focused on trade and transhipping goods, had a population in excess of 50,000. In addition to this, there is the Imperium’s capital planet of Napai, which was the site of Operation Checkmate. The planet is entirely covered in a single metropolis with a population of ten billion, with a population of hundreds of millions more living in orbital habitats and the outer system. Even just these worlds outweigh Earth’s population and industrial capability by several orders of magnitude, and this direct observation data implies numerous other worlds: the worlds Hedion ships its power to, the worlds Napai must import food from to be able to sustain its population, the network of trading ports that can keep a station like Jang-xur profitable. The Pentagon report fails to take any of this into account, and therefore significantly underestimates the scale of the Imperium and its war machine.”
“The glimpses we’ve caught of the beast are not the whole picture,” Hugh says by way of summary.
Luis nods. “Exactly.”

A good third of the committee looks incensed at Luis’ statement. “Are you suggesting that the Department of Defense is lying about the threat the Imperium poses?” Skelton asks.
“We are not here to speculate on the reasons why the Pentagon’s report does not represent the reality of this conflict, Sir,” Hugh says. “We are here to provide accurate information.”
Before Skelton can continue, a third member of the committee speaks up. “Rep. Connie Lewis, 1st district, Maryland,” she says. “How could this corrected information change how we approach the Imperium?”
“Because it’s the difference between stepping on a bug and trying to punch out a rhino, Sir,” Hugh says.
Even the detractors seem to accept that point. Kleist leans towards his microphone. “Debate about the true strength of the Imperium aside, we are here to determine whether or not the GRHDI is fit to remain a separate agency.”
“A matter of some debate,” Skelton interjects.
“In any case,” Kleist continues, “there have been serious questions raised about the fitness of the GRHDI, and Task Force 815. Allegations of undue off-world influence, not to mention confirmed fraternization with off-world individuals. What do you have to say about these statements?”
“We have adapted the Imperium’s technology and tactics where they have proven superior to ours, but we have also introduced US military doctrine to our allies where their approach proved suboptimal, Sir,” Hugh says. “We are all about finding the most efficient way to achieve our goal, which is as it always was the ultimate security of Earth and peaceful relations with the rest of the universe. I’m glad to say that in pursuing these goals, we have managed to turn several people who once fought on the Imperium’s side into steadfast allies who have proven their mettle and trustworthiness many times. Mr. Stanhill’s perspective on the matter is very relevant to your question, too, I believe.”
“Considering what he has done to himself, the committee is certainly interested in the reasons why he chose to be mutilated,” Skelton says.
“I would regard ‘mutilation’ as a mis-characterization, Sir, unless you would also characterize laser eye surgery or prosthetic limbs as mutilations,” Luis says. “The cybernetics I have received supplement and enhance my ability to carry out my duties. I can interface more closely The onlAs with a prosthetic or a
Skelton looks at Hugh and at Luis’ golden eyes, and...well, he doesn’t nod or otherwise look like he agrees, but he doesn’t continue with that line of attack, either. “And the relationship between Garrett Davis and Ngawai Holoni, or the apparent relationship between you, Mr. Stanhill, and Arketta Quis? What justification does 815 have for carrying on with an alien?”
Hugh coughs. “I am obviously not in the position to speak to the particulars of the relationship between Mr. Davis and Ms. Holoni, but from my perspective, they are as loving a couple as any I’ve met, seriously committed to each other and do not let their relationship interfere with their duties in the least. If I had any concerns about them, they have long since been satisfied. So Ms. Holoni’s not from around here, but I don’t see a problem with that, Congressman.” Hugh nods to Luis. Tell your story.
Kleist cuts in before Luis has a chance to speak. “This committee is not concerned with the status of their relationship,” he says. “The concern that faces this committee is whether or not it is wise to be in a personal relationship with off-world elements, given their status and possible influence on the decision-making of Task Force 815.”
“Not to mention having them working at the GRHDI, something that the Pentagon would never allow,” Skelton adds.
“Others are concerned that they will create a ‘pro-alien’ bias in the decision making,” Kleist says. “And as Rep. Skelton has said, the Pentagon has avowed to remove any possible alien influence from Earth’s decisions about how to deal with relations with the Imperium.”
“With the best of intentions, I’m sure,” Hugh says, “but from where I’m standing, Sir, the Pentagon seems more interested in making sure the decision-makers toe their party line. We’re playing with our cards on the table, Sir. We’re here to answer questions and show ourselves and bring the facts home. If we’ve grown a little fond of the Imperium’s people - people like you and me, a decent people who have aided us and who are willing to cast aside millenia of stagnation for a chance to share in the dream - if we have come to like them in the course of freeing them from their genocidal rulers, then we will own that flaw. But that is not bias, Sir, that is fighting with our hearts. That is believing in our mission. We talk about reality and we have skin in the fight; I don’t see where the Pentagon gets off calling us biased, Sir.”

Skelton starts to say something before Kleist cuts him off. "A complaint noted by others on this committee, as well."
"How can we trust their motivations, Robert?" Skelton shoots back. "Quis was one of their soldiers! How do we know that they're not Fifth Columnists, trying to spread the Imperium's culture and ideas to Earth?"
Luis starts to reply, but before he can, Hugh shoots him a “Let him dig his own grave” look and settles back into his chair to await the next question, for when the circus ends.
"I think their service record speaks for itself," Kleist replies. "Quis, Holoni and Utari have proven to be exemplary members of 815."
"Yes, but to what end?" Skelton shoots back. "The Pentagon already believes that Garrett Davis has gone completely native, and the rest of the GRHDI cannot be far behind. What is more concerning than their supposed effectiveness is whether or not the GRHDI has simply turned into a cultural propaganda machine for the Imperium."
“Pardon me, Sir,” Hugh speaks into his microphone. “Do you have a question for us?”
"Yes, Captain," Skelton says. "How can you demonstrate to the committee that your priorities and the priorities of the GRHDI remain with Earth, and not whatever off-world organization you have been running around with? How can we trust you and your team, given your blatant disregard for Pentagon authority and deep association with off-world elements? Have you or have you not been swayed by the Imperium?"
“Our priority is the safety of Earth, our team is trustworthy and the Imperium’s government could not sway us to their side in a million years, Congressman,” Hugh replies. “I will say this on the record, I will say this under oath, I will swear this on the honor of my commission as an officer in the United States Army. Sir.”
Luis nods emphatically. “I agree with every word of that, and I believe the same is true of every other member of 815.”
“So, you see, Sir, the Pentagon has no idea of the size of the threat - and if they do, they are deliberately concealing it to paint this conflict as a military adventure they can win by themselves. Their campaign to remove so-called alien sympathizers from the decision-making process will not lead to better decisions, it’s just fixing the outcome to what’s ideologically convenient for them. And their allegations about lacking loyalty are straight from the Red Scare. I see a hefty dose of myopia and hubris from them. They have decided how the war will be fought and they will not let such details as real enemy strengths or actual field experience get in the way. In a sentence, Sir, they have learned nothing from the worst military decisions the United States has made in her history.” Hugh’s eyes narrow. “I don’t know how the DoD defines that, Sir, but I call that bullshit.”
Skelton doesn't have a quick return question this time. "And what makes your team and the GRHDI so much better, then? What do you have to offer instead of the largest military force in the world?"
“The knowledge and assistance of allies like the Sheen and the Bashakrans, who have had decades to understand how the Imperium works and how to disrupt them,” Luis says. “They have familiarity with the Imperium’s technology that we lack, they have access to industrial capabilities and techniques Earth would take decades to match on our own, and in the case of the Bashakrans they already have a network of contacts that stretches across hundreds of worlds.”
“Now, Congressman,” Hugh says, “imagine all that fighting alongside the largest military in the world. Instead of sending the 50,000 men we might be able to spare from Iraq and Afghanistan right now to conquer the entire known universe. It’s a no brainer.”

"And that is something that could be handled by the Department of Defense," Skelton says.
"Not if these statements from the Wherren, the Sheen, and Diego Garcia and Mesas Negras can be believed," Rep. Lewis said. "All of them have made statements that their working relationship with the GRHDI, and in some cases Task Force 815 specifically, are essential to the war effort. The Wherren and the Sheen have even hinted that their continued participation in this war depends on the GRHDI staying intact."
"That's if we need them," Skelton grouses. "But fine. If the war is as dire as it is being made out to be, and if a similar attitude exists with the Bashakrans and on Boranai, then that will have to be considered in our final recommendation."
Kleist gives Hugh and Luis a sympathetic look. "Thank you for your time, Captain, Mr. Stanhill. You're dismissed."
“Yes, Sir,” Hugh replies. He waits for Luis to get up with him, and then the two walk back the same way they came in, braving the camera flashes again. Halfway through, Hugh chances a look to the side. Huh, how about that - looks like there’s some dirt on his shoulder.

Better brush that off.

After several hours of fitting, sampling, test-driving and all-around immersion in wanton consumerism, Gorlan and Angel arrive back at the Kesh estate ready to sit down, kick their feet up and maybe eat a good meal, or two.
Angel sheds his jacket, sitting back in one of Gorlan's clean-lined office furniture. "That was...remarkably exhausting."
"Yes, it's been a while since I've done something as financially exhausting as it is physically exhausting," Gorlan says, settling into his office chair.

One of the Kesh estate servants, Iyim, walks into the room and bows to Angel. "Mr. Kesh, the couriers with your weapons and spirits have arrived, and those bearing your clothes, communications devices and cogitator, and skimmers will be here shortly." He extends two envelopes to Angel. "And Nga'a and Khalkiota both have sent welcome packages, which are with your things in your quarters."
Angel smiles at the servant, taking the envelopes. "Thank you..." he pauses for the servant to offer their name. "Thank you, Iyim. Let me know if anything goes awry, otherwise just leave it in my quarters. I'll sort through it."
Iyim bows again. "Do sirs want anything while I am here?"
"Ah, yes, we are starving, thank you," Gorlan says. "If we still have any of that quint flank, let Zarohan know that I will take that prepared however he sees fit. Angel, do you want anything?"
Shaking his head, the Delta scout laughs. "Honestly, whatever the kitchen can come up with sounds delicious."
Iyim nods with a sly smile on his face. "A chance to show off - a more sure way to make a chef fond of you, I do not know." He bows to both Angel and Gorlan individually. "I will let the kitchen know right away. A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Kesh."
Angel nods. "You as well, Iyim."
Iyim closes the door behind him, after which Gorlan looks back to Angel. "So! How do you feel, Angel?"
"Odd. It will take awhile, before this feels like me. If it ever really does."
Gorlan shifts in his chair. "Well, if there's anything I can do to make you feel more at home..."
Angel smiles. "You've done a great deal, Gorlan. I mean that sincerely. It's just a great deal to take in. Speaking of which - have I done enough to appear 'on the grid' to your satisfaction?"
"Oh, yes, both financially and socially," Gorlan says. "Actually, I wouldn't be surprised if you get invited to the solstice ball coming up in a few weeks. You wouldn't be able to attend, would you? I'm sure Tangesa is spreading news of you all around the gossip circles of Akis as we speak."
"If it’s useful enough for me to attend, it would probably behoove me to be there. Frankly, getting you...and now the entire Kesh clan...firmly on the right side should be more than enough to cover."
"Oh, useful or no, it's still worth attending," Gorlan says. "The seasonal social events tend to be among the...least ostentatious and absurd social events in Akis. Less yet another excuse for debauchery and more an actual chance to socialize and network." A sour look crosses his face. "You can actually talk to people without them propositioning that you suck on some part of their body."
That elicits a genuine laugh from Angel. "Then it’s probably a good place to test out my High Society training wheels. I'll make sure I'm there, unless things...spiral a bit more out of control than we were anticipating."
"Good, I will let people know that you will be available," Gorlan says.

Gorlan's desk holo chimes. "Ah, Vortala must be back." He waves the vox connection to the full-size holodisplay, where it shows the Cyllan in its encounter shell. "Greetings, Vortala. How was your time on Cyllia?"
"Blessedly short," Vortala replies. "I return with our first shipment of the supplies for Kesh Pharmaceuticals we discussed. And greetings to you, Angel Riviera."
"Evening, Vortala. Everything go alright?" Angel asks in his somewhat more professional 'Is there anything I need to go take care of' tone.
"The acquisition of the required items proceeded smoothly," Vortala says. "I just prefer to spend as little time as possible in the Cyllia system."
"That's probably a preference that's good for your long term well being." Cyllia seemed like somewhere one didn't want to linger too long, especially when engaging in on-going treason.
"My people care very little about Imperial affairs," Vortala replies, "I just find them...rather annoying." Its tentacles quiver slightly with distaste. "So, if there is nothing else..."
"Actually, I have to correct you, Vortala," Gorlan says. "Angel here has been given Tora's peerage and chosen to take the family name. Let me introduce you to Angel Kesh."
Vortala bobs in respect. "Greetings, Angel Kesh. I presume you will be the more...security-minded of the two brothers."
Angel nods. "If for no other reason than force of habit, I suspect that will be the case."
"Good," Vortala says. "I will be at Akis in two days. Until then."

Vortala's vox connection winks out, and the door slides open. Iyim walked back in, pushing a hovering cart with two golden domes on it. One was placed in front of Gorlan and the top removed to reveal a seared red fish steak crusted in brown spices, and the second placed in front of Angel. A cloud of spiced steam and vinegar attacks Angel's eyes and nose, and clears to reveal two large rounds of white flesh, each 5 inches in diameter, sitting in a still-bubbling pool of fire-red sauce in the middle of the plate, with an outer ring of greens. The dome must have acted like a condenser, as the greens are covered in not only a light oil, but drops of reddish water, forming a dressing for the greens. Placed next to the plate is a glass of what looks for all the world like beer, smells like beer, and after a sip, tastes like beer - with a strange kind of bitter edge instead of what Earth beverages Angel is used to.

Gorlan thanks Iyim for the food and gives him leave for the next several hours, then tucks into his food. Angel's first bite of the meat reveals it to be from what has to be a simply mammoth crustacean, buttery and smooth, but the spiced liquid blows away any crawfish or crab boil Angel's ever tasted. The alien beer pairs perfectly with the meat and the greens, the sweetness of the greens and the spice of the meat alternately enhanced by the beverage.
Angel takes a few thoughtful bites of his meal, before taking a long, slow drink of notBeer. "That's...very good. Any idea what this is?" Angel takes another appreciative bite, using a bit of the as-yet unidentified meat as a sauce-scooping tool at the end of his fork.
Gorlan looks over at Angel's plate as that last bite of meat and sauce burns a hole through the back of Angel's sinuses. "Ah, we had some of that ramon meat left after all! Zarohan really has an incredibly potent spice blend he uses for that, but I guess you can already tell that," Gorlan says, smiling as Angel's eyes start to water.
Angel sits back, letting himself have an appreciative breath. "Not the worst I've had...there's a curry place that I'm pretty sure was actively trying to kill me, and a taco truck back home...but definitely in the top three. And this has an odd kick to it...more front loaded. And damned good."

Gorlan nods, and after a moment and a few more bites, takes a deep breath and looks back to Angel. "I want to thank you, Angel, for accepting Tora's peerage. It's just that..." Gorlan sighs. "I have always had a sibling by my side, and I will be honest, the thoughts of being alone in this family while I was on Narsai was terrifying. And now that I have you as a brother, I feel...safer."
Angel nods gently. "It's my pleasure, Gorlan. And thank you, for making me feel welcome after...all of this. You didn't have to, and I appreciate it."
Gorlan smiles. "Well, it was not completely selfless. I want to give you a reason to come back, and maybe even stay here when you are not off saving the galaxy. It will be lonely in this house without my brother, and any time you spend here would be a gift. Besides, having seen you today, I can tell that you are as quick a thinker as you are a keen marksman, and your words have a way of convincing people to see things your way. You might be better suited to help the family businesses than you think." His smile drops once he realizes how much he's pushing. "Oh, not that you have to! Err, I'm sorry. You don't have to be involved any more than you want to be, I am perfectly capable of handling the family businesses, it is just that I thought you might appreciate the challenge, and, well, I was hoping that it might be a reason for you to spend more time here..."
Angel raises his hand to stop Gorlan's small flood of hedging. "It's alright, Gorlan. You're right - it is interesting, it's a new world to explore and well...enthusiasm never hurt anyone. I'm genuinely looking forward to seeing what we can do."

Gorlan nods and takes a bite of food to keep his mouth from running away from him again. Once he swallows and has composed himself again, he speaks up. "So, I understand you have a training program to operate for the Sheen soon?"
"Hopefully. They're something of a loose cannon on our side. I'd like to get them to the point where they can work beside our troops without...unpleasantness. That's the real problem - they're an atrocity looking for a place to happen right now."
Gorlan nods. "Teaching them to overcome more than a half-century of warfare with the Imperium. I wish you luck, Angel. And after the training, will you have time to settle in and spend a while here, or will you be simply in and out for the social?"
Angel shrugs. "I'll do my best to be here as much as I can, but to be perfectly honest, this is somewhat...unexplored territory for us. I imagine Davis and Barnes will need some time to figure out exactly how we proceed, and what's needed to keep this from going sideways."
"Ah, yes, the closed-mindedness of your leaders." Gorlan shakes his head and takes a drink. "For a race so threatened with destruction, the Narsai'i certainly are determined to place as many obstacles in their own way as humanly possible. Well, when you do get a chance to return, be sure to bring whatever Narsai'i food and drink you wish. Zarohan is always looking for new things to try, and it might make your time here a little easier. Actually, bring anything you wish. This is your home, after all."

Gorlan raises his glass to Angel. "I know I've been saying this somewhat frequently, but it bears repeating. Welcome to the family, Angel. May we grow as close as siblings as we were with Tora." Gorlan smiles. "As close as I was with Tora, at least."
Angel chuckles and raises his glass. "I look forward to it."

Davis and Swims-the-Black walk through the bullpen in the heart of the GRHDI offices, nodding in acknowledgement to people they know as they head towards the back, and the offices of Samantha Barnes and Carolyn Yang, Barnes’ assistant. The offices are busy - they are in the middle of planning a war while trying to justify their own existence, after all - but not in panic mode as of yet.

“Almost in,” Davis says, his vox tuned into the group connection between himself, Swims-the-Black, Zaef and Arketta. The other two are sitting parked by the gated entrance in one of the GRHDI’s fleet Lincolns. “Has Caroyln left the building?”
“No,” Zaef says. He keeps his eyes near the gate as he takes in various surroundings-and possible escape routes.
“Okay, I’ll let you know when she’ll be coming out,” Davis replies.

Zaef’s fingers, meanwhile, drum a beat on the steering wheel. Arketta looks over at Zaef to see what he’s doing, then resumes her watch. “What do you think we should do with her, if she is the spy?” she asks.
“Clap her in restraints and throw her in jail,” Zaef growls, “Though I’m not opposed to kicking her out an airlock.”
“We’ll have to borrow Brinai’s,” Arketta says. She smiles. “I’m sure she won’t mind.”
Zaef snorts. “Oh, she’ll mind. She’d want a crack at her, first.” There’s a pause. “Probably won’t be much left to space after.”
“That not so bad,” Swims replies in his gutteral Imperial over the vox.
“Says you. You’re not the poor guy who has to clean it up, and wring out the mop in the airlock.”
“Fantasy time’s over, guys,” Davis says. “We’re heading into her office. Remember, the go word is ‘Mexico’. Just dial her office phone when you hear it and get her out of her office for a moment.”

----

Davis knocks on the doorframe to Carolyn Yang’s office and pokes his head inside. The woman is typing diligently away at her computer with a few files open on her desk next to her and a stack of papers split between her In and Out work boxes. “Hey...Carolyn, right?”
She looks up and smiles at Davis. “Yes, what can I do for you, Mr. Davis?”
Davis returns the smile. “Well, Samantha hasn’t seen fit to give me an office and someone to help me out like you yet, so could we borrow you for a few minutes? Swims-the-Black and I could use your help.”
She nods. “Sure, what can I help you with?”

Davis and Swims both walk into her office, the Wherren taking up most of the space in front of her desk in the smallish office and blocking the en-suite door to Barnes’ office. “Well, to be honest with you, Carolyn, Luis’ attempt to get into the New Horizons servers was a bit of a bust. Most of the data turned out to be junk, but we did manage to recover a few emails.” Davis hands her some printouts of select emails from the haul, just enough to incriminate the mid-level members of the conspiracy, but leaving out any direct link to the head of the Joint Chiefs or the Director of National Intelligence. “Do you recognize any of the email addresses? Samantha and I both drew a blank.”
Yang takes the papers and looks them over. “Sorry, don’t recognize them.”
”They seem to be talking about orders from someone higher up in the organization,” Swims says. ”We suspect either your leader of the Joint Chiefs of Staff or your Director of National Intelligence.”
Caroyln’s eyebrows raise after Davis translates for Swims-the-Black. “That would mean this goes very high in the Administration.”
“Yes indeed,” Davis says. “I’d fax this to my friends in the White House, but I’m trying to keep this hands-off for now, which is where the favor comes in. Do you know any aides or officers at the White House that could help?”
Carolyn thinks for a moment, then nods. “Yes, I do. I’ll fax this over to them right away.”
Davis and Swims-the-Black both smile and bow slightly in gratitude. “Thanks, Caroyln. You’re a life saver. I’d hate to have to go and run off to Mexico.”

Zaef holds the self-onne out to Arketta and whispers, “Showtime, kid.”
Arketta hesitantly takes the device and pokes at the screen until it reports that it is attempting to call Carolyn Yang. After a second, Arketta and Zaef, as well as Davis and Swims-the-Black, hear Yang’s phone ring. “Director Barnes’ office,” Yang says.
“Yes, this is Arketta Quis,” Arketta says in accented English. “Is Miss Barnes there?”
“Sorry, Miss Quis, Director Barnes is out of the office,” Yang replies while Davis and Swims wait respectfully.
“Oh,” Arketta says, and pauses for a moment. “Umm, can you look in her office for a file? I think it is about our mission on Hedion.”
Carolyn looks up at Davis, who waves at her to do what she needs to. “Sure, one second.” She gets up and Swims presses against the exterior wall to let her past. On the vox, Davis and Swims hear Arketta audibly sigh with relief when Yang puts the receiver on her desk and stand up. While Yang is in Barnes’ office and with Swims-the-Black blocking her vision back into her own office, Davis taps a few of the nano-bugs from Brinai into Yang’s purse and on her coat before quickly returning to the other side of the desk.
Yang comes back into the office empty handed and picks up her phone again. “I’m sorry, Miss Quis, I didn’t see it.”
“Oh, that is not a problem, I will look here again,” Arketta quickly says. “Thank you and have a good day.”
“You too, Miss Quis,” Yang says, and hangs up. She looks back up at Davis and Swims-the-Black. “Anything else?”
“Nope,” Davis says. “Let me know what your people say, all right?”
“Will do, Mr. Davis,” Yang says, and both Davis and Swims-the-Black take their leave.

----

A few minutes later, Davis and Swims-the-Black pile into the back of the car with Zaef and Arketta.
“Any contact yet?” Davis asks.
“No.” Fingers dance to a faster, almost tribal beat. Eyes zigzag about, looking for anything unusual.
Arketta fiddles with her holodisplay, which is currently showing the controls for the other end of the listening devices Davis just planted. “I don’t like these listening devices, they’re too complicated. Are you sure you did it right?”
Davis rolls his eyes. “You too? Ngawai said the same thing -”

At that moment, the bugs pick up Yang speaking to someone and everyone in the car falls silent. “Yes, it’s me. Davis and the Wherren were here, they said they found something in the server.” There’s a pause, but no reply before Yang starts talking again. “Yes, I’m sending you images of it now. Was there anything that connects me to you in there?” Another pause. “Don’t say that, just tell me if anyone mentions me in what Stanhill took.” Pause. “Fine, but let Blake know that things are getting too hot around here right now. I’m heading home now, and I’ll contact you when it’s safe again.” The audio feed returns to background noise only, presumably Yang’s done with her call.

”Well, now we know,” Swims-the-Black replies. ”I think we take her here, in the parking structure, and talk to her in the back seat of this vehicle.”
“Agreed,” Davis says. “Arketta, Zaef, Swims-the-Black, you three on foot and contain her, and I’ll keep the car moving in case we need it.”
Arketta and Swims-the-Black nod in approval, and Zaef simply hops out of the driver’s seat and heads for the garage, batons thumping against his leg, fingers tapping against the batons. The beat’s slowed down to something like a dirge.

----

Down a few rows and crouched behind a car, Arketta is just about to ask if Yang could have spotted them when the door to the parking garage opens and Yang steps out, with Zaef hiding behind the door on the blind side, Swims-the-Black behind a wall and Davis waiting just outside. She takes a look around, but sees the shadows produced by Zaef’s feet on the other side of the door! Yang breaks into a flat run towards the entrance to the parking lot.
“She’s on the run,” Arketta says as she takes off after Yang.
Zaef takes off as soon as he hears her sprint towards her getaway. She’s got a good lead, though, and he doesn’t gain much ground at first. Arketta’s pretty far back in the garage, and drops further back as she has to clear the car she’s hiding behind. Swims-the-Black, however, vaults over the concrete divider between him and the exit ramp, and is right alongside Zaef and running fast.

Zaef, seeing an opportunity, runs up the bumper of a nearby sedan and starts bounding from roof to roof while Swims-the-Black simply pours on the speed. The Wherren catches up with Yang and grabs her by the arm just as Zaef bounds off the car at the end of the row, tackling her into Swims-the-Black. Swims grabs both of her arms and pins them behind her back as Arketta shows up and Zaef picks himself up off the ground.
“Let me go!” Yang shouts. “Get your furry hands off of me, you ape!”

“Swims isn’t in a very forgiving mood,” Zaef growls as he brushes dust from his scraped arms. “And after that little workout, neither am I. Would you like to twist her arm here, Swims, or shall I?”
”I would, no problem,” Swims signs one-handed as Arketta shows up and Davis pulls alongside, rear door open.
“Tell you what,” Zaef says, “I’ll take one, you take the other. S’only fair. One good yank should be all you need.”
”Agreed,” Swims says, and lets Zaef grab one of Yang’s arms while he takes the other one with both hands above her elbow.
Yang screams when Zaef grabs her. “No, wait, please,” she begs, tears and terror on her face. Arketta and Davis don’t budge and instead look away to keep watch.
Zaef frowns. “Been a bit since I’ve done this. Let’s see...” He places a tight grip just above her elbow and around her wrist and holds it just above chin level for leverage. “Should pop cleanly this way.”
”Ready,” Swims replies, and gives a slight yank, which elicits a shriek from Yang. ”One...” Yang screams again and starts crying. ”Two...”
“Three!” Zaef shouts.

On three, Zaef and Swims-the-Black act in unison, but instead of pulling Yang’s arms out of their sockets like a demented tug-of-war, they both toss her through the door of the parked car with enough force that she clears the doorway in midair and slams into the door on the other side.

Zaef grabs the door and slams it shut with a flourish, big shit-eating smirk on his face. “Yep! Still got it.”
Swims-the-Black puts his hand up for a high-five with an even bigger smile and Zaef reaches up and returns it. ”I have missed doing things like that,” Swims signs. ”I used to do that with captured pirates and boarders. You?”
Zaef laughs. “Same. Lots of practice with it. Some of them actually broke their wrists trying to get out of the hold, the idiots.”

----

Inside the car, Yang hauls herself upright in the seat, still crying from almost being torn in two.
“So, Carolyn, why don’t you tell us who you were talking to?” Davis asks.
Yang shakes her head. “I - I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says. “You fucking psychopath!”
Davis shakes his head. “Now, Carolyn, listen to this.” He plays back the first few seconds of the recorded conversation. “Now, you either tell me who was on the other end of that line, or I let Swims-the-Black and Zaef have a second go with you.” He points back outside, where Swims and Zaef both wave at Yang.
Yang gasps and sobs when she sees Swims-the-Black and Zaef. “Simmons! Walton Simmons,” she says.
“Figures,” Davis says. “Well, here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to go home and stay there until Samantha tells you otherwise. You talk to the police, Simmons or anyone else about this, and Barnes will destroy your career, and maybe we’ll pay a visit to your house. Got it?” Yang nods. “Good. Get out.”

Yang bursts out of the car and starts running down the embankment towards her car. Davis rolls his window down and nods for the others to climb in. “Come on, we’ve got what we need. It was Simmons.”
“That was pretty fun,” Zaef smirks. “Do we get to pay him a visit too?”
“We gotta have a plan when we take a run at Simmons and Russell,” Davis says. “Right now, we have another planet to be on.”

The cell phone video starts centered on a young boy standing behind a table with his arms on top, hiding his eyes behind his hands with a big smile on his face.
A female voice, presumably his mother, asks, “What you doin’? Huh?” The boy shakes his head. “What you looking at? You looking at him?”
The cell phone pans around to show Garrett Davis talking to no one, presumably into the little ring clipped onto his ear, and Swims-the-Black looking over at the little kid. He waves at the kid, his fur rolling a few slight color changes as he cracks a big toothy smile around his jade-capped tusks, the fur on the back of his hand waving with the motion. In the background, most of the other people in the restaurant are either staring at Swims-the-Black or taking pictures of their own.

The cell phone turns back to the kid, who laughs and waves back. There’s a pause that some could interpret as the mother enjoying the moment of her son playing with the big hairy alien, or her being pensive with fear over the inch-and-change long claws and pairs of pointed incisors showing from his mouth. “You want to go give him a high five?” she asks. The kid gives a big nod. “Then you go give him a high five, okay? Be careful.”
The kid nods again, and runs up to Swims-the-Black. He stops a few feet short, his hands folded up against his chest like a mantis, unsure of what to do next. Davis watches as Swims puts his hand up in front of the kid and waits for him to gain the confidence to come up and actually make the high five.

The kid slowly creeps forward until he’s just a few inches away from Swims-the-Black’s hand, which is close to the size of the kid’s whole head. He suddenly strikes out with his right hand, slapping it against Swims-the-Black’s hand. In response, Swims ruffles his fur in a wave outwards from his hand, a wave of yellow and green rolling over his body. The kid squeals in delight, and slaps his hand against Swims’ again, who responds with the same display of fur and color as before.

He turns back to his mother as a few errant camera flashes go off, and before his mother can say anything else, he leaps towards Swims-the-Black and climbs up on his knee. Swims’ fur ripples a surprised shade of yellow and blue as his mother gasps, but as she stands up, Swims-the-Black simply embraces the boy and gives him a hug as the boy wraps his arms around Swims-the-Black’s neck. They both close their eyes for a moment before Swims-the-Black lets him go and he hops down off his leg and runs back towards his mother an instant before the footage ends.

---

If You’re Feelin’ Like Verrill, Don’t Brush Off Your Shoulders Just Yet

Today’s committee hearing in Congress on the future of the tongue-twistingly named GRHDI was, as the saying goes, dinner and a show – and the first real public appearance of Captain Hugh Verrill, a man who is either a visionary and a ringleader, depending on who you listen to. Polarization was the theme of the evening, and both sides could have done better. But who won?

Verrill’s past life as a commercial spokesman for the Army showed itself in his showman’s attitude – watch him and you could see gears switching, from a deliberately cool and passive start to displays of passion and strong words at the end. This was Verrill’s narrative throughout the questioning. He’s the harbinger of truth, the man who sees things for how they really are. The argument is not about him, he’s saying, it’s about whether we’re being realistic – which just happens to be his side. What his opponents should be asking themselves is why they let him run with this, because when Verrill – and other interviewee Luis Stanhill, he of the cyber eyes – let loose their steamroller of facts, they clearly ruled the debate. Representative Skelton, taking the Pentagon’s side throughout the evening, certainly couldn’t match or discredit that, even if their presentation was more fantastic-sounding tale and less cold numbers. Then again, the GRHDI can, I think, back all those up with dry reports; hearing Stanhill talk about the vast interstellar empire we’re up against was honestly more entertaining and certainly more relatable. Verrill seemed quite pleased with that. But this is politics, Captain, and just the facts aren’t the slam dunk you so clearly wanted to place here.

The question of loyalty led to histrionics from both sides. Verrill’s seemingly unbreakable conviction in the reliability of his teammates was both passionate and calculated; you half expected him to have someone shout “Have you no decency, Sir?” at Skelton, who kept digging himself in deeper until Verrill could unironically use the phrase “Red Scare” as comparison and seem justified in it. Again, you got the feeling that this is what Verrill wanted, but he seemed less in control here and in danger of overselling it, turning people off his side when he previously made the effort to appear reasonable at all costs. Verrill’s speech here was peppered with strong words and even, on one occasion, strong language – this could be the first time “Bullsh*t” entered the congressional record, but don’t hold me to that. His demolition of the Pentagon’s strategy was particularly brutal, though stopping short of accusing them of conspiracy against him in favour of pushing another maxim – don’t attribute to malice what can be explained by incompetence. Skelton seemed lost against that, his talking points exhausted and nobody backing him up. We’ll see how the Department of Defense spins one of their soldiers tearing them down like that, but the damage is certainly done.

The debate, then, went mostly to Verrill, who certainly didn’t score every point he could but made out better than most of us expected, despite losing a bit of control towards the end. He’s a curiously underpromoted man, which may speak to previous troubles with the Pentagon, but that fits with GRHDI’s narrative as the eternal underdog, the beleaguered agency that wages an interstellar war on the cheap. If the fates were reversed, you would expect a Colonel, maybe even a Brigadier General, to explain the DoD’s reasoning to the congressmen. Verrill’s clearly quite satisfied with being the most important Captain in the US Army and seems to relish hitting far above his weight class. If he leans too heavily on it, though, he’ll turn into Rodney Dangerfield’s act, the eternal unfavorite officer who can’t get no respect – so maybe the way forward here is for the Department of Defense to make gracious noises, act thankful that he speaks truth to power, and promote the man to take the wind out of his sails a bit. They might end up with a good flag officer in the bargain, too.

Either way, Captain, you may have won this fight, but don’t forget the road ahead of you. Your closing act, the “dirt off your shoulder” gesture, was also your weakest one – you haven’t earned that. But do give yourself a pat on the shoulder.

The flight back to Diego Garcia sees Hugh having a miserable time of it. The excitement of the last days is catching up to him - speaking in front of Congress, armed assaults on the team, finding a mole within the GRHDI - it's all a little much to take in, and he's been running on a quantity of sleep that is both clearly not enough but still too much to get any sleep bumping around in the back of a C-130.

Fortunately, Luis had the foresight to bring a laptop with some interesting stuff to look at, which passes the time. Hugh smiles nervously at the blog post about him - yeah, that shoulder brush was a bit much, wasn't it? - but finds himself engrossed with the YouTube video of Swims and Garrett in the restaurant. It's like finally seeing the world acknowledge aliens for real, and the cuteness of the little boy high-fiving Swims-the-black is overwhelming. Hugh quickly watches it again, then spends the next five minutes wandering around and trying to show it to everyone.

There's a lot of work still to be done at the homefront, so much so that plain no-politics Captain Verrill is seriously worried about handing the reigns back to Samantha Barnes, but at least his head knows that she'll do just fine here. They're needed elsewhere. (Hugh wouldn't mind a little kid running after him shouting "Shane! Come back!" as he rides out of town, but then he remembers that Shane probably died a couple minutes later and the comparison becomes less pleasant. Damn you, Westerns!) In any event, maybe it's a silly thought, but seeing a kid play with Swims - that means there's hope. Good enough.

Time to get some fucking sleep.

Luis brings a laptop full of distractions on the flight back to Diego Garcia. After all, there's so much to do: analyzing how their showing went over with Congress, looking through other reactions to the events of their visit to DC, digging through more of the data from the New Horizons hack. Certainly, he's got too much going on to just sit and be alone with his thoughts. He's not avoiding thinking about them, just too busy. Right.

However, after he shows Hugh the YouTube video of Swims and the kid (which is cute, Luis has to confess), Hugh asks to borrow the laptop to show it to everyone, and Luis has nothing left between him and the thoughts he's been dodging. Is Earth still home anymore? He wants it to be, and until this whole DC thing, it always has been, but now...it's like coming home only to have your family disown you. Can a place still be home if it finds you and everything you stand for scary? The video Hugh's so pleased with is cute, and maybe a sign of hope to come, but for now it seems like the answer is no. The question that really sticks deep into Luis is that if Earth isn't home anymore, what is? Does he even have one? It's an uncomfortable thought, and one he can't shake even after Hugh finally returns his laptop and he can try and re-immerse himself in his work.

Cleaning knives is probably not the safest thing to do on a flight, but Zaef is far beyond caring. The smudges and scrapes on the blades are all that matter to him right now, and exist only to be wiped away with his twitching fingers. These knives have served him well today, and making sure they are cared for properly is a just reward.

After all, he’ll be needing them in the near future.

Zaef inspects the blade he’s working, and grunting in satisfaction, replaces it with another that is meticulously kept-though apparently Zaef doesn’t think so, as he scoffs and starts wiping it down. It’s possible the others don’t think it necessary, or maybe just find it weird or even compulsive. Well, they might be right about the latter, but keeping his equipment ready always helps Zaef relax, and damnit does he need that right now.

Things seem to be going their way at the moment, see. Verrill put on a good show for the Congress, and the shrill from the DoD served as the perfect punchline to Verrill’s straight man. They had ousted the mole in GRHDI, and had some fun with her in the process; she definitely wouldn’t take a step out her door anytime soon. And their enemies had been leaving them alone, excepting those punks who tried to kill Zaef in his own room, but they were so sloppy that they couldn’t have threatened a spink. They didn’t really count. And always, almost always, when things were going Zaef’s way there was sure to be a whole crate full of misfortune already stored in the cargo hold.

Zaef flips the knife over so he's gripping the blade, and there on the hilt are flecks of dried blood where someone’s broken nose had gone and dirtied an otherwise pristine handle. He starts to worry at them, but the cloth he has just smears the blood a little.

They weren’t done yet, but the team had made a good start, and they certainly left a favorable first impression on the committee. But their enemies hadn’t even waited ‘til after to try and make people “disappear,” and they still had some power to influence the final decision, sounds like. If these men in power ever started actually feeling desperate…

Zaef may well be getting more blood on his knives.

Arketta leans back into the webbing on the outside of the C-130 and tries to get some sleep. The more she sees of Narsai, the more she's fascinated with the history and the beauty of the planet - but her fascination stops when it comes time to deal with the people that live on it. She knows in her heart that she believes in the ideals that the Narsai'i hold dear: liberty, freedom, rights as sapients, but the Narsai'i seem to be more driven by fear than by their beliefs, something she has seen coming since the embarrassing moment of her breaking into tears in front of that First-damned Walton Simmons. Of course, not all of them are hostile, a good portion are even inviting and fascinated, but it has been made clear to Arketta that there are more than enough Narsai'i that see her as a threat to be eliminated to make her want to spent as much time away from Washington DC as possible. If the Narsai'i want her to stay out of their capital so badly, she's more than happy to get out of their way. There's plenty of galaxy, and as long as she has Luis by her side and a battle to fight, everything will be fine.

Of course, Luis is her biggest concern. Not that he will not be there with her, but what was made clear to her since their arrival back from Hedion with her parents has been a long and hard path of discovery for Luis. She feels horrible about the pain he is obviously going through, something that she partially blames herself for. After all, how many of the slurs against him are aimed at his relationship with her?

She looks over at Luis, his eyes unfocused as he flips through his onboard vox through his optical implants, and wishes he would work up the courage to just talk to her about his inner anguish over the Narsai'i reaction to their homecoming. She could breech the subject herself, but she knows him: what Luis needs most is to open the topic himself, so he can talk himself into reaching his own conclusion.

And maybe he's more ready to talk about it than she thinks. She smiles, and puts her hand on Luis'. After all, he did eventually ask her if she wanted to have a drink.

----

Swims-the-Black cringes when he thinks about that video of him with the Narsai'i cub. Sure, it was fun, and the cub certainly was cute. But now, his face is available for every Narsai'i to see, something that there certainly was no shortage of already. Swims-the-Black definitely does not like it, but he is used to the prejudice against his species, against his caste, being cast as the Other, but what is new for him is notoriety. More than anything, the fact that he is famous, infamous, or otherwise notable off of Diego Garcia is unnerving. That, combined with the prejudice, the stares, the name-calling and the out-right attacks on his person, makes Swims-the-Black very glad that they are returning to Diego Garcia, where he is free to be himself again. He's already planning on taking a sail, however brief, around the lagoon upon his return.

His talk with Garrett was...liberating, as well. He looked over at his friend, working away on his vox, and feels his fur shift to a happier shade. Garrett might be persistent, even nosy, but one thing that Swims-the-Black is most grateful for is his tenacity in service of a friend, and it's an attribute that Swims-the-Black has been trying to emulate. He saw the problem that was blocking Garrett from being able to relax and think clearly, spoke plainly to the root of his best friend's problem, and they reached an accord. It felt good to be on the giving end of such a talk - not that he plans to make such things a common occurrence. Still, it was a moment that he will likely never forget.

Well-settled with the events of the past week and feeling the rocking of the plane, Swims-the-Black settles down into his seat and drifts off into sleep.

----

Garrett Davis was completely unsurprised when Zaef called him to let him know that he had just been attacked. The fact that it was at their supposedly secure and secret hotel rooms was a concern, but in reality, Davis is more surprised that they hadn't been attacked more often. On his debrief from Hedion, Simmons made it more than clear that he was gunning for the entire team, and that he had some serious power brokers covering for him and providing firepower, political and otherwise. The use of paper tigers to try to provoke an inflammatory reaction from the team was something that he learned from Bob Russell, and to see it used against him and his team isn't surprising to him in the least.

What is surprising, and a little bit worrying, is the struggle that's written all over Hugh's and Luis' faces. They both wanted to believe so badly that Narsai would welcome them back as heroes with open arms, and those beliefs had been shattered, and then the pieces ran over with a steamroller. Davis, having already been down this road, knows better. Since his arrival at Mesas Negras a few months over a year and a half ago, the team has spent the vast majority of that time walking, talking and thinking like Imperials for one cover or another or for training purposes, and weeks at a time living in the Imperium itself. You don't spend that much time trying to pretend to be someone else without becoming that person to a decent degree, and Davis knows that. And from that premise, all the rest of what has happened makes total sense. He was hoping for a bit more wariness and a bit less open hostility, but that's the way things have gone. In his mind, his being branded as a too-far-gone Colonel Kurtz of the Imperium is fine by him. It beats the shit out of being what his accusers are.

What concerns him far more at the moment is Ngawai. He felt bad enough leaving her behind on Diego Garcia, and after yesterday's vox communication, he's never wanted to be with his wife more than he has at this moment. Swims-the-Black was right, of course, he had been more than a little condescending at times, something he plans on remedying first thing on return to Ngawai. His planning for that complete, Davis pulls the hood down on his jacket over his face, and passes out almost immediately, a smile on his face as he thinks of being back with Ngawai.

----

Ngawai lounges out in the shade underneath Garrett's and her's cabin. All Naloni has seemed to want to do over the last few days is kick, and it's felt like it's knocked everything else loose inside of her. She pops another antacid and thinks about what Garrett said about taking things easy. She knows he meant well, but it's bad enough she's stuck back at base and now the size of a double-height hab block, being on the sidelines while her skills as an Apprehender are precisely what the team needs right now would have been absolute torture. That she's manged to do all she has so far is little comfort. Narsai seems to be intent on proving just how unwelcome Imperials are, and keeping the GRHDI alive has been a great battle. She knows that no matter what, Davis and she will make sure that Naloni is raised on Earth, and having spent most of the morning pouring back over Luis' hack data, she's pretty sure they've got the conspiracy's number at this point.

As for her husband, Ngawai thinks about what Garrett said. Maybe she does need to slow down. She smiles. But, of course, if he wanted her to take a break, Garrett would have to slow down with her. No sense in him having all the fun, she thought as she drifted off to sleep in the sea breeze.

----

By the time dinner is finished, the last of Angel's purchases has arrived at the Kesh estate, and Angel has had a chance to pick and choose what he's bringing back to Earth and what he's leaving behind to be placed in his room when Tangesa finishes working her craft. The "gift packages" from Khalkiota and Nga'a turn out to be a mixture of high-end electronics (yet another top-of-the-line vox in each package), bath and sensual products (including some strange plastic-sealed device that is obviously meant to be used during sex, but Angel can't possibly see how), and an array of pharmaceuticals - all high-powered.

With packing finished, Angel taps the controls on his new luggage, and it dutifully rolls behind him as two Kesh servants load one of his two new skimmers.
Gorlan is waiting next to the skimmer in the hoverport, a nervous look on his face. "So, I will see you on the Narsai'i weekend for the solstice formal in a few weeks? I presume your Sheen training will keep you busy for a month or so."
Angel nods, clapping Gorlan on the should to try to ease his nervousness. "That's the plan, and if it changes, I'll let you know. You're sure you're alright...flying solo?"
Gorlan smiles nervously. "I will get by. With the lessened import restrictions on pharma, right now would be a good time for Kesh Pharmaceuticals to focus on new product development, anyway, which always keeps my mind occupied." The smile turns from tentative to real. "And I think that the Hedion division of Faxom-Io should focus on security and repairing our public image."

Gorlan embraces Angel. "Hurry back, brother. Be safe."
"Will do. And Gorlan? If something changes, and you need me back here...send word and I'll come. Alright?" Angel gives him a smile, but there is some concern in it - Gorlan was doing something very, very dangerous, and Angel didn't want to be in the position of failing a member of the Kesh family again if they needed his help.
"All right." Gorlan doesn't seem to know who to be more concerned for - Angel or himself. Still, Angel's promise of support calms him considerably. "And the same to you as well. I might not be as adept with resolving...more physical limitations, but I was not put in charge of the family affairs without reason. If you find bureaucracy in your way at any time, let me know, and I will lend what knowledge and influence I have to the cause of freedom and liberty." He thinks for a moment. "Hmm. Perhaps that would be the best use for Reno's distasteful collection of blackmail - influence the powerful of Akis and Hedion to support our cause, rather than their own shallow interests." His smile returns, his own take on Tora's playful grin. "Reno always was too impatient for irony."

"One of many failings. Take care, Brother." The title, which feels almost formal, has become more comfortable in recent days. Angel slides into the skimmer - into the pilot's seat. There wasn't any sense in buying a ludicrously swank skimmer just to have someone else drive it. And this wasn't even the fun one.

Angel guns the skimmer and quickly blends into traffic on his way back to the Akis spaceport and the Faxom-Io cargo hangar. He straightens his cuffs and jacket as he steps out of the skimmer as the first shipment of Faxom-Io products - mostly telecommunications and wireless power transmission equipment, by the looks of it - are loaded onto three freighters. There's just enough space for his skimmer to fit onto the last ship.

As he stands and waits for the loading to be complete, Angel hears a soft whistle from the wall behind him. He looks down and sees Buck McLean perched on top of the unpowered loading crane. He slides down a hydraulic line and lands, seated, on the crate below him.
"S'up, flash," he says.
"Evening, Buck." Angel smiles. "You playing stowaway, or just hanging around the docks with your misfit band because it seems like the start of an old novel?"
"Dad told me that you went and got yourself made all rich and powerful," Buck says, and he looks Angel's suit over. "Had'ta see for myself, and when I went out, dad said, 'While you're out fuckin' around instead of working, deliver Angel this message.'" He flips a small holodrive at Angel. "Then he mussed up my hair and told me to be careful poking around Faxom-Io turf."
"I dunno about rich and powerful, but I did buy a damned nice skimmer. Your dad say what was up?"
Buck shrugs. "Sheen server's working fine. Kicks out a lot of useless crap, but also some useful answers. Mira's been talking with it a lot. Creeps me out. Your farmer friends made it into their places all okay, my dad says." Buck smiles. "That explosion was really cool. You gonna blow something up like that again, let me know so I can get it on holo."
Angel chuckles. "I won't lie, it was pretty cool. I'll give you a heads up next time, or tape it myself." Angel palms a small bit of money into Buck's hand, not enough to get him in trouble, but a meaningful amount for the young man. "Don't spend it all in one place, and say hi to your dad for me. And he's right, watch your step."
The lats disappear the instant they hit Buck's hand. Not even Angel can tell where they went; he's just happy he still has all his fingers. "Thanks, flash. See you around." Buck nods to Angel, then chimneys back up between the crane and the wall and vaults over the top of the wall to who-knows-where.

Shaking his head, the Delta scout slides the holodrive into his vox. "Let's see what all this is about."
What follows first is a letter from Maq to Angel, reminding him of where he came from, and to remember to keep the war first in his mind. The rest is several hundred pages of raw intel, all gleaned from the tapped feeds strung into the Sheen server in Maq's Underhive base of operations.
Angel chuckles at the letter. "He stole the talk I gave to Davis. Bastard..." He gives the rest of the intel a quick once over, but most of it he can't make heads or tails of. The Sheen, and the spooks, will probably love it. Pocketing the drive, he locks the skimmer and waits for things to get underway as the last of the cargo gets packed in.

----

The rest of the cargo gets loaded quickly, and soon the three freighters are ready to ship out. One of the Shipmasters approaches Angel. "Mr. Kesh, we have your quarters ready." His gruff voice seems to join his eyes in giving Angel the once over. "Follow me."

The Shipmaster leads Angel up a set of steep stairs (or a ladder, if you're nautically inclined) to the crew deck, and to one door that's set apart from all the others for its clean, shining white finish. Inside is what could easily be described as a play version of the ultra-high-end hotel penthouse Angel now rents in Akis - the bed, the seating, the floor, everything is specced to the nines, just made smaller to fit in the 8x10 foot space.
"Here's your quarters, Sir. Ship announcement covers meals." The Shipmaster adjusts his belt over his slight paunch. "Any other questions, Sir?"
Angel tries to hide his shock - his mind had already transferred back to Earth, and as such was expecting something more along the line of "luxury means not having to hot bunk." He nods at the Shipmaster. "How long is the trip expected to be?"
"20 hours, Sir," the Shipmaster replies. "I'll make sure the crew stays away from your quarters or out of sight at all times, Sir."
Angel snorts a bit and shakes his head. "No need. I'll do my best to stay out from underfoot, but don't let my presence here get in the way of you all doing your job."

The Shipmaster must be used to carrying Faxom-Io officials, because his contempt for that statement barely carries. "Of course, Sir. First meal's at 5 hours after departure. What should we have prepared?"
Angel seems to think for a moment. "Do you and your officers eat at the same meal?"
"Yes, Sir," the Shipmaster replies.
"Then whatever the cook thinks is appropriate to be eaten during a game of Aket." Angel gives the Shipmaster a wry smile. "Say 10 hands, anything you all manage to pry out of me goes to the...crew morale and entertainment fund?"
The Shipmaster gives Angel a curious look. "Sounds good, Sir. See you in five hours."
Angel gives the man an amused nod and shuts his door.

----

It's a tough game - the crew are obviously old hands at Aket - but at the end of the meal, long after the crew should have gone back to their stations, the game comes down to just the Shipmaster and Angel. Angel runs his finger across the top of the cards, the holodisplays built into each one shimmering as his finger touched each one in turn. A quick glance at the Shipmaster reveals all Angel needed to know. It's time to move in for the kill.

The Shipmaster laid his cards down. He looked confident in his hand. "Four blacks, 9 high."
Angel grunts, looking over his hand. He had been hoping to lose the natural, wholesome way, but he had the distinct feeling the man across from him wouldn't appreciate being played down to, even if it meant winning the game. "Good hand." He lays his cards down, parallel to the first set. "All reds, 10 high."
A hush falls over the table as Angel reveals his hand. The Shipmaster nods for a moment, and ponders the table. Then, he simply presses the button to send the lats in the pot to Angel's vox and smiles. "Good game, Sir," he says, and raises his glass in a toast while the rest of the ship laughs and raises their glasses as well.
"You too, Captain." As the crew filters back to their stations, Angel pulls the First Officer aside. "Can I impose on you for a moment?"
She looks at the Shipmaster, who nods. "What do you need, Sir?"
"I need you to place an order for me when we hit port. I'll transfer the credits to the ships accounts, and I need you to see to acquiring as much alcohol and decent steaks as can be bought, for delivery to my estate. I'll give you the address, but I have notoriously poor handwriting, and I will entirely understand if the package fails to be delivered. Do we understand each other?"
She gives him an odd look, but nods. "Yes, Sir. Do you want to tell me what to buy, or should I ask the crew what they want?"
"I trust their judgement."
She nods. "I'll let you know what the crew decides, and you can place the order, Sir."
"Thank you. The necessary lats will be in the ship's accounts before the next shift. Please feel free to disturb me if I'm in my cabin." With that, Angel departs towards his undeniably posh quarters to nap off the meal.

----

20 hours later, Angel feels the motion of the freighter docking ass-first with Atea. He's standing at the airlock, luggage idling next to him, when it hisses open after decon checks finish up.

Brinai is waiting for him on the other side, and for the first time ever, Angel sees the old woman be taken aback by what she sees. She recovers quickly and takes on a more familiar expression of bemusement. "What have we here, Mr. Riviera?"
Angel gives her a somewhat sheepish grin, looking down at his suit. "Ah yes, this...there's been a...development."
"Do tell," she says, her smile not budging. "Bello tells me that you received some surprising news, Mr. Riviera. Or, should I say, Mr. Kesh?"
The Delta scout chuckles softly. "Is there anything you don't know before everyone else? But yes...Tora left her share of the Kesh empire to me, along with her peerage."
"And you chose to accept it," Brinai says. There's a hint of wariness in that statement. "Well, hopefully your association with Gorlan Kesh will prove fruitful and enrich our cause, rather than the other way around."
Angel's tone stiffens slightly. "I don't tend to ignore the last wishes of someone who gave her life for us."
"Of course," Brinai says. "Believe me, we Bashakra'i know how important it is to honor our dead loved ones. But...just a note of caution, that is all. Gorlan Kesh is a noble, and not one that I am familiar with. You might not have the whole vision of his intentions." Her tone hints at less of a mistrust of Gorlan specifically, but more a mistrust of Imperial nobles as a whole.
"He has his motives, and I don't know all of them. But to be fair, there's currently two Imperial warships orbiting the planet he's smuggling cargo out of. And I'm talking to an extremely dangerous, extremely intelligent guerrilla leader, who I'm sure also has her own motives." He winks, trying to soften the tone. "It's what we do."

Brinai nods, and asks something remarkably direct for the old rebel leader. "Do you really think he has accepted you as his brother? If so, then he might be serious. If not, if this is him honoring his sister's memory instead of his own desires, then you should not look back."
"I think so." Angel sighs softly. "Lord knows I gave him enough outs if this was just him obeying Tora."
Brinai nods again, and clasps a hand on Angel's shoulder. "Then, Angel Kesh, I advice you to exercise caution, both for and from your new brother."
"I will, Brinai. Anyway, how are things on Atea?"
"As well as can be expected. The rest of your team are expected here in 30 hours or so to transit to Boranai." She looks past Angel as his skimmer is hovered out of the back of the freighter. "I think it would be best for you to focus more on what to say upon your return to Narsai."
"Oh, believe me, I've been thinking about that for days. Well, mostly the expression on Davis's face."
Brinai laughs. "Oh, poor Garrett and Samantha. First knows what they will do when they hear about this." She walks towards Angel's skimmer, guiding him towards the door. "Good luck, Angel Kesh," she says with that glimmer in her eye.
Angel ducks back into the skimmer, giving the woman a nod. "Stay safe, Brinai. And thanks for looking out for me - it's appreciated." The truth was he had yet to agree with the older woman's advice, but he couldn't begrudge the effort.
Angel leads the procession of cargo haulers the half-mile or so from the cargo docks to the Atea Gateway, and when he arrives, the familiar Gateflash greets him and he pilots the skimmer on through.

The Army Lieutenant in charge of the Diego Garcia Gateway snaps to attention as Angel gets out of his skimmer. "Welcome to Narsai," he says in clipped offical language before he notices that it's Angel that stepped out of the skimmer, dressed in a grey-and-blue suit that looks like it cost a million dollars - only a few factors of ten off. He doesn't know what to do with his stance, and so he simply abandons any attempt altogether. "Err...hey, Specialist. Where'd you get the fancy clothes? And the flying car?"
Angel laughs slightly. "Long, long ass story L.T. Filled with intrigue and paperwork. Any particularly place I can park this thing?"
"Yeah, just outside," the officer says, and is quickly consumed with trying to figure out how to put the three ships full of containers coming through where they're supposed to go, leaving Angel free to move the skimmer out of the Gateport and go wherever.
Angel guides the skimmer into a gap between some containers, in a somewhat out of the way spot where hopefully it won't be too conspicuous. Locking the skimmer, he stretches, taking in a deep breath. "Good to be home."

Managing to snag an overworked looking Corporal, Angel manages to find out where Hugh and Davis are currently holed up, undoubtedly engaging in some last minute planning. He knocks on the door, a fairly serious expression on his face. "Captain? Davis? Secured conference room in 5 minutes?"

Hugh starts up from where he has sunk into his chair - the long flight and the semi-hypnotic effect of watching Garrett rub Ngawai's belly for what seems like an hour now have conspired to induce drowsiness in the good Captain, and he's been making vague noises in response to the two of them scheming between each other for the last few minutes. Hearing Angel's voice provides just the jolt he needs to engage with the situation again.

"Copy that, Angel!" he shouts back, perhaps a little too loud.

"We'll be there," Davis shouts back, not taking his eyes off of Ngawai. A second later, he stands up. "Come on," he says to her. "I'm not breaking my 'sticking by your side' promise, so get up."
Ngawai smiles at him as he simply stands there, waiting. She leans forward as far as she can with her swollen belly, trying to lean forward enough to climb out of the collapsed springs in the old sofa. But when she rocks forward, she leans back again before she can get all the way up and waves at Davis with a grin on her face. "Okay, this time I could use the help. Almost pissed myself on that one."
"Of course, babe." Davis helps his wife to her feet. He looks at Hugh. "Ready?"

"No," Hugh grins, "but when has that ever stopped me?"

Angel has secured a conference room, having managed to drive a meeting about upgrading the email servers out with an expression that read 'The maintenance schedule will be serious impacted by every single networking cord in the base mysteriously being cut'.

Remarkably effective, that one.

He smiles as Hugh, Davis and Ngawai enter the room, shutting the door behind them.

"Ngawai - looking good." He grins, entirely mischievously, and holds out a chair for her while Davis helps her down. "Captain. Davis."

Sitting down himself, he tilts his head back, sighing. "You can get Barnes in on this if you want, but you two need to know this first, before the rumors make it out of the gate. First, some opening pleasantries."

The scout slides two cases and a holodrive across the table. "I brought presents! Davis, the drive is what the Sheen have been pulling off their feeds. And in there," he nods to the metallic, clearly Imperial cases, "are production models of the latest in Imperial solid-ammunition firearms. Damned fine weapons if you ask me. Figure the techies would like a stab at them."

He taps his fingers on the table for a moment, trying to hold out for a moment before he clearly gives up and has out with it.

"There's also been a slight...change. You're talking to one-half of the Kesh dynasty's fortune. As far as the Imperium is concerned...my name is Angel Kesh."