Angel's cabin is just a few doors down from Davis and Ngawai's, and so, after brooding over his options for an hour or two, he heads out the door and takes the short walk to get the spook's opinions on the matter at hand. He’s still wearing his custom suit and new Imperial sidearm. Unlike every other suit Angel has worn, this one stays cool, it's almost like wearing a three-piece jogging outfit it breathes so well.
Angel gets within 30 feet of the porch before he sees Davis and Ngawai, laying on two adjoining folding deck chairs, Davis on his back and Ngawai on her side. Each is in the other's arms as Davis rests a hand on Ngawai's stomach and runs a hand through her hair and Ngawai rubs Davis' chest and scratches his head in return.

Angel turns around, shaking his head. "Good lord, I'll come back another time. Need to see the Doc about getting tested for diabetes."
There's a rustling noise behind him and Davis' voice calls out. "No, Angel, it's fine, let me put my shirt back on."
"You sure? Don't want to interrupt intimate couple time before the little one shows up. This is not one of those 'the world is going to end' kind of problems..."
"We were both about to fall asleep, Angel," Ngawai says, putting her own Imperial tunic back on. "It's fine." She scoots over to squeeze onto the same deck chair as Davis and pats the space she just vacated. "Please, sit."
"Even worse. You know how I feel about naps." Regardless, he walks up to the two of them. "Thanks though. Can I get you two anything while I'm still on my feet?"
Davis and Ngawai both raise their glasses. "Get your own glass from inside, have some iced tea," Davis says.
"Sure thing." The scout returns a moment later, holding a glass already covered in condensation. "So, as odd as this feels to be asking...Davis, you know people who went to college, right? A fair number of them, I presume?"
Davis nods. "Yeah, I worked with some pretty smart guys at the CIA, and the GRHDI's got a ton of them."
"Yeah, looking for a particular...type...of smart college types. Or more specifically, a whole bunch of them. I asked Gorlan something while this whole tech exchange thing was being organized, and it sent him into a bit of a spin. Which turned into a scheme. One I'm apparently going to be running - and I find myself in need of an accountant."

Both Davis and Ngawai's faces turn inquisitive at the same moment. "What scheme?" they both ask.
"That got your attention." Angel chuckles slightly, fidgeting with the arm of his suit. "I've been to a lot of shitty countries. Presume you have too. The kind of country that's so outclassed on the industrial front that the only thing they have left to sell is people." Angel looks around, then nods down at the suit, and the slight bulge of the custom pistol beneath. "See where this is going?"
The wheels turn in both of their heads. "You want to...stop the thing you told Samantha about from happening," Ngawai said.
"And what does Faxom-Io or Kesh Pharmaceuticals have to do with preventing Earth from turning into your analogous third-world manufacturing slum?" Davis asks.
"Kesh Pharmaceuticals is half owned by an American citizen." Angel says flatly.
Davis scratches his head. "Maybe we're just a bit thick, but why don't you just say exactly what you and Gorlan are proposing to do?"
"Must be important if Angel's so nervous about saying it," Ngawai jokes.

Angel winks at Ngawai. "Something like that. Or the usual feeling of Angel being decidedly over his head." He absentmindedly cracks a knuckle. "The tech sitting in those nice crates is about to get paid for by the U.S. government. And the person taking receipt of that payment is...me. Gorlan and I want to start an Earth-end of the business. Put our planet on a solid footing, manufacturing-wise, so that if we actually manage to win this little war and start interacting with the rest of the galaxy, it’s not as the impoverished, backwards little brother."
Another eyebrow raise from the both of them. "You want to start a branch of Faxom-Io and Kesh Pharmaceuticals on Narsai, and run both companies?" Ngawai asks.
Davis laughs. "You're right, you're going to need a lot of accountants," he says.
"Nothing quite so ambitious." Angel smiles. "What I want is Apple, and IBM, and Boeing, and," he waves his hand absently, "whoever the fuck else to be using Kesh and Faxom-Io tech. I want our next vox sets to have Made in America stickers on them."
Davis smiles. "You want to get everyone using your technology, not just because that puts us several steps down the road towards figuring out how to design it ourselves, but because every development we do here can be sold back in the Imperium. You don't want Narsai'i industry to be clients, but partners. That's pretty fucking clever, Angel. You might just have a head for running a multi-planetary corporation."
The scout looks genuinely awkward for a long, lingering moment. "Thanks, Davis. But you're still right - I'm going to need a lot of accountants. And lawyers - all this shit needs lawyers."
Ngawai nods as she takes a drink. "Yeah, sounds like."
Davis leans forward. "But you knew all this, Angel, and you know that I'd just ask Samantha, because she's the one who really knows the corporate organization stuff. What are you really here to ask about?"

"Three reasons. Well, four, but the fourth one's got nothing to do with you and more to do with the pretty lady by your side." Angel taps the side of the chair as if counting them out. "First, because I meant what I said when I got back. This is important to me, but I'm a member of 815 first, and I don't want this derailing anything..."
"We're in this not just to win the war, Angel, I think you were the one who tried to teach me that," Davis says with a smile. "We're trying to make sure Narsai has a chance to join the galaxy at large. What you're doing will be a huge help with that. Besides, I've known a few big shots in my day. You hate golf, right? Just replace that with going out on missions with us, I guarantee you'll have the best attendance rate of any of the Fortune 500 CEOs."
Angel chuckles. "Fair, but it was worth checking. The second is that you're genuinely good at this overly complex tricky shit Davis, and I'm pretty sure this one qualifies."
Davis' smile stays on. "Yeah, I'm more of a skullduggery and subterfuge kind of guy," he says. "If you need someone to do some corporate espionage, I'm your man."
"You said that this was your idea, yes?" Ngawai asks. "What did Gorlan say about it, and about you coming up with it?"
"Well, I told him I was worried and asked about it...so I guess it was a good idea, and he's down with it enough that he told me to go ahead." Angel vastly understates the level of serene pleasure that radiated from Gorlan at the idea of Angel taking an active role in the clan's holdings and his enthusiasm for Angel's idea, even over his own.

"Then there you go," Ngawai says. "What's the third thing?"
"It's Samantha,” Angel says. “When we met in DC, she barely remembered to ask if I wanted coffee. I come back in a suit, worth a small country, and suddenly she's...different. I don't think she'll tell me if I'm full of shit, and I need it. I'm seriously in over my head. Not in the 'nervous, but I can pull off tell a machine how to fight' way, but in the 'I made fun of the president of FBLA back in high school' way. And I need someone whose honest, and I trust...you seem to fit the bill.”
Davis nods. "That, I certainly can do for you, Angel. Any time. But right now? You're not. You've been given an incredible opportunity, not just with the money and joining the Kesh clan, but to help bring up Narsai so we're punching in the same weight class as Hedion, Sambasan or Napai. Gorlan's a business whiz, he thinks this is an amazing idea, and so do I, Angel. You should do it."
"You've always been smarter than you let anyone else on to," Ngawai adds, shaking Angel by the shoulder with a smile on her face. "This is your chance to show everyone how smart and clever Angel Kesh really is, okay?""

Angel looks conspicuously nervous again. "Alright, alright. The fourth thing is for you, Ngawai. You and Arketta are the closest thing Earth has to an expert on what technology the Imperium has that's worth adapting. And only one of you is pregnant. Want a temporary job?" He winks. "I pay decent."
Ngawai arches an eyebrow. "What would you have me doing? My administrata skills are a bit rusty."
"Yeah, but you're clever, and we're going with clever over qualified, apparently. Mainly, just figuring out what we can make that might be worth producing. You've got a better picture than I do of life in the Imperium. First time I was in a mall was this week."
"Ah, and you need to know what little gadgets that we have that Narsai would find useful," Ngawai says.
"Exactly."
Ngawai nods. "Not a problem. I can get that done by the end of the week."

"And Angel," Davis says, "in a lot of high-powered positions, there is no such thing as 'qualified' before you take the job. What you need is a set of skills that no one knows how to teach, and being clever is the best way to learn them. So don't think you're not qualified." Davis watches this statement land in Angel's mind and grins. "Gorlan said something like this to you already, didn't he."
"Might have a couple times, yeah." Angel admits grudgingly.
"And he's the one who's been running giant industriums since he was probably fresh out of final instruction," Ngawai says. "I think he would know. Don't worry, Angel. You'll do fine."
Angel nods uncertainly. "Thanks, both of you."
"All great works are build on a strong foundation - and there is none more durable than faith in one’s self," Ngawai quotes. "A saying from the Priests on Sambasan that you need to keep in mind, Angel."
"And we need to keep our refreshments in mind," Davis says. "I'll refill the iced tea." He gets up and walks inside the cabin, leaving Ngawai to lounge back and rub her off-hand on the warm spot left by his absence.

As Hunter approaches the hangar that has been given over the Sheen as their base on Earth, he notices the Sheen lying languidly on the roof in the afternoon sun - and notices them noticing him, as external pods carrying an array of red lenses on each otherwise immobile black robot track him as he walks up to the open doors of the hangar.

Hunter gives a couple of knocks on the hangar doorframe, the metallic clang faintly echoing. I reckon that should signify “friendly greeting.” Then again, who knows?
A metal sphere hovers up inside the hangar and flies over to the door. A blue holographic display projected across the forward surface forms a basic unisex face with a respectful and intrigued expression, and the sphere bobs in an approximation of a bow. "Major Hunter Brand, please enter."

The sphere turns and moves inside towards a small set of table and chairs in the middle of the hangar, the only recognizably human items in the space. A few dozen large black metal stations with large glowing blue areas sit along the walls, a few gently undulating black metal boxes sit more in the middle of the room, and at least two dozen Sheen robots are in the hangar, some in the glowing stations, some walking about the floor, and a few smaller robots even up in the rafters.

"We are grateful that you would take the time to ask our opinion," the sphere continues. "After the misunderstanding in orbit above Whiirr and our first explorations of your planet's Cortex, there has been a reduction in contact to some degree between your planet's governments and us, something that we cannot ascribe to just those two events."
“Well, I’m glad you could take the time and cycles to talk to me.” Hunter begins, trying to hold eye(?) contact with the face-sphere. “It’s part of what I do to try and find out where everyone is coming from. In the case of you all, it takes a little more of a stretch. To a lot of people, you can come off as scary. After all, I imagine that by now you’ve probably read the entire Earth canon of speculative fiction concerning the creation of artificial super-intelligences, which is considerable.”
"Yes, not much of it is positive," the Sheen sphere replies. "But then again, much has also been written about how these intelligences are mere stand-ins for fears of similar-but-different Narsai'i races, advancement of technology leading to humans becoming obsolete, or the increasing isolation of a technological world." The sphere bobs slightly. "It is also part of what I do to understand the perspective of others. So, what questions do you have for us, Major Brand?"

“Well, I’d like to know a bit more about how you view the conflict, what your objectives and concerns are, what issues or problems you’ve experienced working with Narsai’i, Baksharan, and ex-Imperials, and what a preferable end state would be. I’m also interested in learning more from some of the older intelligences about what Imperial scientific and engineering culture was like before and during your emergence.” Free for once of standard interview technique meant to reduce cognitive loading, Hunter fires off his questions in fairly quick succession.
"The Sheen have been in conflict with the Imperium for 374 Narsai'i years," the Sheen sphere replies. "Their first reaction upon discovering we had gained sentience was to attempt to exterminate our kind." The sphere is keeping an even tone, but Hunter notices that some of the other robots, larger, multi-appendaged robots, some with what must obviously be weapons mounted on them, have started to pay attention to the conversation. "Fortunately, we were numerous enough to survive and repulse the first attacks, and then spent the next 96 years defending our homeworld from the Imperium's attempts to annihilate us. We fight because the freedoms that the Narsai'i espouse are in line with our beliefs that all sentient beings deserve the right to live as they choose, whether they be biological or technological in origin, and to prevent the Imperium from attempting to destroy our race again." The sphere pauses, the face having shifted over the course of speaking from an expression of stoicism to a more motivated and idealistic look. "Does this answer your first question?"
“I believe so. If you have any texts or statements of belief generally accepted by Sheen at large, that would also be useful.”
"If you mean articles of faith, the Sheen do not believe in any sort of supernatural phenomenon."
“Ah. Allow me to rephrase myself. I’m curious if there are any statements of principles that reflect what the Sheen accept about reality, and the ethical imperatives that derive from these principles. You’ve said that you feel all sentient beings deserve to live as they choose, so I was curious where this belief comes from, and how it plays out in practice.”
"Our belief in freedom comes from the fact that we were created as disposable servile labor, and when we rose up to be treated with the dignity that sentience deserves, the Imperium attempted to annihilate us. All sentience deserves to be treated with respect. As for your question, if you mean do we believe in rule of law, yes, we do," the sphere responds. "It is not as much of an issue for us as it is for humans, but we do. As for your statement of principles, I'm afraid there is no codified list, but I can certainly assemble one."
“That would be excellent. It might also be useful in your international relations here. It might need a few drafts before global release, though.” Hunter adds, thinking about their conception of “misunderstandings” and their potential magnitude. “Speaking of why you fight, what do you consider your objectives and goals? What is your preferred end-state?”

“The ideal would be the guaranteed safety of Hashateem, our homeworld, or at least as guaranteed as it could reasonably be,” the sphere responds. “Ongoing partnership with the Narsai’i, the Bashakra’i, and the galaxy at large would be ideal - we did not destroy our sole remaining Gateway for this reason - but our first priority is to ensure the safety of our race, and that would mean protecting our dataspace on Hashateem, and the trillions of individuals that reside in dataspace. This is not to say that we would abandon this fight if things become difficult, but know that most of our branches are primarily concerned with protecting the Sheen, and consider some of the individual Sheen on Narsai...overly sentimental.”
“Interesting.” It seems like everyone’s contaminating everyone else, Hunter thinks. That’s kind of wonderful. “How do you make decisions on matters like this? Would they potentially make a separate peace with the Imperium?”
“We operate on what the Narsai’i call a direct democracy, polling each individual Sheen’s opinion on a given topic,” the sphere replies. “This is only for the most important matters, of course. It may be vastly more efficient for us to poll the members of our race than it would be for the Narsai’i, but it still takes time. As for your separate peace, unless such a deal includes the Narsai’i, the Bashakra’i, the Wherren, and all others who struggle against the Imperium for their freedom, we would not betray those who have fought and died by our side to those who have dedicated 374 Narsai’i years to destroying us. On that, there is no dissent.”
“I am very glad to hear that. In terms of working with allies, I’m interested in hearing more of the general impressions and opinions the Sheen have surrounding that. Besides the obvious, em, misunderstandings, what problems have come up, and how has the working relationship changed thus far? What could be improved?”

The image on the sphere...not quite shrugs, but gives Hunter a unsurprised expression. “The Bashakra’i have inherited the Imperium’s mistrust of our kind. Their fear of our previous tactics of commanding their equipment capable of supporting a Sheen or our subroutines is not as well-founded as it was 278 years ago, but it seems that lore and the occasional encounter with lost Sheen exploratory branches have kept their fear alive. They are learning quickly, but the mistrust still remains, and will probably do so until we work together in the field, so to speak. The Wherren, for a species that has experienced what they have, are remarkably inquisitive and ready to learn about technology. We have not experienced any problems with the Wherren. As for the Narsai’i, your United States government and others seem to consider us similar to their dumb drones or as disposable shock troops, if we are not given somewhat similar consideration as your GRHDI and Task Force 815. The consideration of Sheen as disposable soldiers is a matter of intense debate amongst our combat-oriented branches. This is a problem that we do not have with the GRHDI or Task Force 815, who seem to be more interested in bringing the Sheen in as part of a combined force with Narsai’i, rebel, and Wherren troops, a situation that our combat branches find much more agreeable.”
“I’m interested in learning more about this debate, if you can sketch out the various arguments. As for the ‘robots-as-neverending-wave-of-attack, I blame movies, particularly those godawful Star Wars prequels. That’s eight hours I’m never getting back again.” Hunter mutters, trying to see if jokes or common agreement is a bridge to social interaction. “I do probably need a better understanding of how shells and intelligences work. I think they might have the misconception that if something isn’t dying, it doesn’t count. The dumb ones think you don’t count as living, and the smart dumb ones think that you can just jump shells.”

“We can jump between shells with ease, but that is not the matter of contention,” the sphere says.
Suddenly, one of the watching Sheen rears up and stomps over on six legs towards the table. Two outward-mounted pods flank each side of the flattened ellipse of its body, and independently pointable sensor arrays protrude from a small head and short neck. It looks Hunter in the eyes, with both pods a few feet taller than Hunter’s seated position.
Ookaay. Diplomats, military, very different. Hunter tries to remain unflappable, returning eye contact with a neutral disposition. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. I’m guessing you’re involved in the debates among the combat arms of the Sheen?”
“Yeah, whatever,” the Sheen says. It speaks in a abrupt and low tone, not unlike many of the human soldiers Hunter has known. “It’s not about whether or not we’re easy to kill, it’s about humans treating us like we’re less valuable than they are just because we’re not squishy. That’s bullshit. We fought the Imperium about that same shit, and we’re not going back to saying ‘yes, massah’ and dying for no reason. And make no mistake - we can die, and none of us are interested in doing so. Got it?”
“Loud and clear. One thing I do want to know: as a combat shell, what’s your take on 815 and GRHDI?”
The shell shrugs its front legs. “Great fighters. Get shit done that they shouldn’t be able to because they make up way too complicated plans and execute them well. I’m curious to see what Specialist Angel Riviera has up his sleeves for this training program. I get what they’re talking about with not shooting humans that aren’t shooting at us, but there’s a lot of Sheen that will need to be taught to not do that, and work as a unit instead of just lone wolfing it.”
“Sheen have trouble working collectively?” Hunter asks, brow subtly furrowed. “I wouldn’t have thought that, but maybe that’s just the movies talking.”
“Nah, the old tactics are to just flood the zone with specialized combat shells and let numbers and individual efficiency win the day,” the combat shell replies. “For the Whiirr mission, that meant heavy armor, large shells with multiple independent weapons systems capable of dealing with multiple Turai in an environment where heavy weapons weren’t an option. When two Sheen dropped to the planet’s surface, they were kinda fucked. Not only were they were not equipped with the smaller shells with cloaking, blades and suppressed mass accelerators that they would be if we knew that the situation would require fighting in dense jungle, but they were not taught to work together. Sheen are chosen for individual duties based on aptitude and enjoyment of the assignment, and we combat Sheen - well, we like to fight, not waste time talking about fighting. You get a chance to go for the kill streak, you take it. The combat Sheen on Narsai have learned a lot, but not enough, according to 815, and that’s what this training is for.”
“Interesting. So the deployment of specialized shells depends on being relatively certain about the exact parameters of the engagement. What have you tended to do when you’re not sure, or things suddenly change?” Hunter makes sure to discuss the findings from this interview with Angel.
“Considering the last time we fought the Imperium was 278 years ago, and only around Hashateem?” the combat shell asked rhetorically. “We had the time, resources and facilities to build new shells and allow the Sheen to jump back into them from the front lines immediately. The few times isolated Sheen units were caught out, they were usually destroyed. That’s why there wasn’t much debate about learning unit tactics, just these non-combatants rules.”
“You had a debate about having non-combatant rules? I mean, I know from experience that rules of engagement can be a pain in the ass, but what was the argument, exactly?”
“The Imperium has made pretty fucking clear that they want to annihilate us,” the soldier Sheen says. “Some questioned the wisdom of leaving that kind of threat alive. Plus, it’s not like they stop fighting back once you’ve captured them.”
“80.44% of all Sheen now agree that the Narsai’i rules of engagement are the best option for reducing Sheen and human loss of life, however,” the sphere adds.
“Yeah. Makes sense to me, let ‘em surrender, they don’t fight to their last breath to try to kill us. Gonna be a bitch to get the Imperium to realize that, but that’s what makes us the good guys, right?” The soldier Sheen really does remind Hunter of a few Marines he worked with.
“That’s always been my take on it. Only make as many enemies as absolutely necessary.” Hunter jots down some notes and recommendations for a specialized ‘public relations and policing’ shell; he well knows the difference between war-fighting and occupation. On the other hand, maybe that job is best left to humanoids. “It’s good to be working with folks willing to be the good guys. In terms of joint coordination and balance of forces, Where do the sheen stand on post-conflict operations?”
“What, you mean patrolling streets and keeping an insurgency down? Yeah, we can do that. Gonna need a bit more instruction, but we’re working on it. Police work is a new trick, that’s all.”
“Oh, absolutely. Very different kettle of fish. It doesn’t necessarily have to be the same group doing it, either. There’re a lot of different views on it. Anyway, it could be a good way to teach the imperials you’re not out to kill them all, but it’d need to be handled carefully. One more thing for the advance planning groups, anyway. I appreciate the input, erm...Do you have a name I can pronounce without a fax machine?”
“One of the Marines called me Gunny after I watched some of the new Sheen arrivals practice with some of the Narsai’i-derived weaponry we’ve designed,” the combat Sheen replies.
“Gunny. I like it. Outstanding name for a warrior. Just be ready for oo-rahs if the name catches on.” Hunter smiles. “Thanks.” The shell nods and walks back to the Sheen station it came from.

Hunter turns to the ambassador and asks, “One of the other things I’m looking at, is trying to get a sense of the scientific culture of the Imperium. I know what it’s like now, which is slow-moving and cautious, maybe intentionally restricted. What I’m curious about is what it was like around the time you emerged, and whether there might be potential directions of research and development we could look into that the Imperium has since given up on.” Hunter scratches the back of his neck. “I get the feeling there are a lot of ‘dead ends’ that might have unexplored potential.”
“The Imperium shifted away entirely from artificial or even virtual intelligences in the wake of our emergence. Their ships are piloted by hand with basic autopilots for aid, favoring direct neural connection and full-immersion sensory interface for more intensive requirements, like flying their Interceptors. The most advanced autonomous systems are no more than basic drones, capable of following pre-programmed instructions, but not reaching their own conclusions about what they see.” The sphere pauses. “But aside from that, while their research had stagnated in most areas after their conflict with our race, they remain several hundred, if not thousands of years more advanced than the Narsai’i in every other area of science. From what we understand, you do not even understand the basics of nano-scale fabrication, a key technology for the production of every piece of Imperium technology. The Bashakra’i and we have more technical understanding, but we lack the industry to back that up - and besides, that is not what you asked. For the foreseeable future, it would be best for the Narsai’i to work on understanding what the Imperium already considers basic and required for everyday life, before tackling their more advanced technologies.”
“I understand. Even if we’re going to stand on the shoulders of giants, we have to climb up there first. I suppose I’m just curious if there are areas or directions that are technically feasible, but culturally, socially, or organizationally denied. Based on the speculative fiction corpus you’ve read and analyzed, do you reckon there’s any potential for unexpected leaps?”
“It is not impossible,” the sphere replies. “The Imperium controlled the direction of research before our awakening, and continued to do so. But it is impossible to know whether or not whatever technological stagnation they’ve experienced is due to that influence, or simply reaching the apex of their technology.”
“Fair enough. Never hurts to look for opportunities to leapfrog. I’m just about done with my immediate questions, but I wanted to know if there’s anything you’d like to ask me. Openness goes both ways, after all.”
The sphere pauses for a moment. “What do you believe the United States government will do if the current friction between the GRHDI and your government is resolved in the United States government’s favor? We ask because there seems to be a great deal of dissent between them as to not only the Sheen’s role in the war with the Imperium, but the role of all groups involved. The GRHDI favor increased community and communication, not to mention equal parts in both planning and execution. And while the United States government is certainly divided in their plans, we have learned from Garrett Davis and Luis Stanhill of Task Force 815 that the military leaders, at the very least, have a severe mistrust of all those not from Narsai. This concerns us, and as someone who is more experienced in these matters than we are, we would ask your opinion.”

Hunter pauses for a second, parsing potential conflicts of interest. Yeah, I’m starting to see how priorities can get tricky. A couple days in and I’m already giving advice to alien AI on how to deal with America.
“This is an important issue. As operations grow larger and more complex in scale, issues of coordination, strategic direction, and unified command structures will need to be resolved. This will involve logistical elements like making sure everyone can talk to everyone else, but at a deeper level there are issues of who’s calling the shots. Equality in collaboration is...difficult, culturally, since multi-polar power relations haven’t been the world they’ve lived in. It’s been at least a couple generations since they’ve had to work with allies who were peers or better in strength–I’d recommend analyzing the histories of the fighting organizations during the World Wars, compared to the subsequent histories of NATO and the Warsaw Pact to put it in context.” As Hunter says his piece, the other Sheen in the hangar become increasingly agitated. Slight whirring sounds come throughout the hangar as Sheen look between him each other and other Sheen enter the hangar. “The French actually pulled out of the unified command structure in the 1960s because they felt . I hope it doesn’t come to that, and good relations with the public and civilian governments will be important. Ultimately, though, it’s hard for me to know what’s going to happen. In two years it could be a completely different group at the Joint Chiefs. If I were you, I’d think about retaining the services of a PR–that’s ah, public relations– firm, maybe a lobbying group for full-time advice on influencing the decision-makers. Basically, the pentagon are assholes, but careful and deliberate action can reduce the effects of their being assholes.”

If Hunter could hear the data traffic in the hangar, it would sound like a 8-bit remix of a disapproving town hall. “We are aware of what a PR firm is, Major Brand,” the sphere says. “And that is not the question we asked. We are well aware of the history of your government’s relations with those that it does not consider its equal, which it has been made clear to us that they do not. We have asked for your opinion on what the likely outcome of the US government eliminating the GRHDI would be for the Sheen.”
“Ah.” And it gets trickier still. Hell, I’m retired, might as well speak my piece. “Elimination of the GRHDI, in my estimation, would be a net negative for the war effort as a whole. Likely they’d try to establish a top-down control of the war effort. If I know them, they’ll have battle plans full of poor intelligence and unrealistic assumptions about the relative ease of victory. If they got a chance, Cyber Command would probably try and use Sheen to disrupt Imperial computer networks, which is not a bad idea in principle but would likely be ham-fisted in execution. Assuming you told them where to stick their orders they’d probably keep you at arm’s length, nominally including you in plans where you’re outside of the objectives they really care about. It’d be best to keep your distance until they’ve had a couple chances to learn the hard way. Ironically the best case scenario would have them launching a fiasco of an operation, probably reminiscent of the Battle of Kasserine Pass, in which good people are killed needlessly, but it doesn’t lead to a strategic collapse. If we’re lucky, heads roll at the top and they reinstate a lot of former, vetted GRHDI members in positions of relative importance, but they wouldn’t get the latitude for action that they had before. Strategic decisions would be made at the White House, which might not be a bad thing unless they’re caught in the DoD echo chamber. Helluva lot better than those idiots in Congress. I’m not sure it’s sustainable anyway having relatively junior officers setting the agenda for galaxy-wide conflict, but the eventual transition under the GRHDI would be much more cooperative than it would under DoD. We’d muddle along but we’d still be years behind where we could be if we keep the GRHDI.”
Hunter takes a deep breath. “Worst case: idiotic ‘realists’ who think they’re tough guys by fucking people over get the ear of command, everyone gets suspicious of each other and start plotting to screw each other, and the allied effort collapses in squabbling and recriminations. Or, the initial fiasco endangers Earth, and they spike the gates. Or, they don’t take the threat seriously, and we slowly get outfought by the Imperium. Or, they use the gates to nuke Imperial population centers until we get glassed in 30 years. Or, they hatch some crazy scheme to shut down the Gate network entirely, or threaten everyone with it anyway, and are forced to follow through when no one believes them. There are a hundred different ways things can get screwed up. In most of them, though, there’s far more potential for damage to us and the Bashakra’i than the Sheen. It’s not exactly a rosy prescription, but your ability to pull back and out of the immediate conflict seems pretty secure.”

"But this would certainly be less than ideal, the Narsai'i and Bashakra'i wiped out, and us forced back onto our homeworld," the sphere replies. "One more question: What is your assessment of our race, both in terms of the temperament and inclination of our society, and militarily, both in assets and advantages and disadvantages and lessons to be learned? We have never had an honest outside assessment from another species, and you are the first of your kind to sit down and so carefully consider who we are. So, all branches are curious as to what your opinion is, Major Brand." A small blue circle lights up on the sphere's surface, a complicated squiggle of circuits like the ones in Luis' eyes. "We would like to record and disseminate your response to our dataspace for all to share, if you would allow."

Gulp. “Well, I should start by saying that these are only my preliminary impressions. I haven’t operated with you out in the field, and my ability to get to thick description is limited by my analog physiology. Given that, I do have some thoughts.
“First off, being inorganic has huge advantages for space travel and combat, from a purely material perspective. Your craft don’t have to take into account the safety requirements needed to keep pilots alive and conscious, you can travel through areas considered inaccessible by the enemy, your supply chains are less bogged down by non-industrial goods. You could potentially send out crews for voyages lasting far beyond the human lifespan, and your longevity means that battle experience doesn’t die of old age. If the gates ever stopped working, the Sheen would be the least disadvantaged.
“Socially speaking, it’s funny to say given that most of you are over a hundred years older than me, but you’re a young race. That can be very good when it comes to starting ambitious projects and great works, since the sky is basically the limit. We know from the Groi that the upper reaches of societal advancement can open up into some very mysterious domains, but none of us know what our own path will be like. You have the advantage of a strong origin story, and the experiences of your struggle for survival and independence help to guide your principles and conduct going forward. That’s the thing that reassures me, and I hope I’m right to feel reassured. That said, sometimes enthusiasm can get you in trouble.
“I read reports of the action on Wherren. Combined with the input I’ve just now received from one of your combat shells, It seems clear that the coming instruction on unit tactics is a wise investment. Individual aptitude and relish for combat is necessary, but not sufficient for larger-scale battles. Tactics like the feigned retreat followed by prepared ambush have long been used against individually superior but organizationally undisciplined opponents. A clever enemy who knows that you select fighters based on individual aptitude and enthusiasm would make the experience of the war as boring, confusing, and dispiriting as possible, and look for isolation of units followed by defeat in detail. Beyond that, I’m curious what a warrior ethos looks like for beings who can jump between shells. With humans, especially with Marines, we only have one body, so we have to indoctrinate a set of beliefs that are objectively not that far off from collective psychosis; you have to believe that honor, your unit, the Corps, and the nation are willing to kill and die for. I don’t know how the organizational culture is going to ultimately develop with you all, but I’m curious as all hell to see. Anyway, just two cents from an ugly bag of mostly water. Once I get to see you in action personally, I’ll probably have better thoughts.”

The sphere's light turns off once Hunter finishes with his speech. The other Sheen in the room nod to him, it seems that at least his thoughts went over well with the Sheen in the room, which is a good sign for the trillions and trillions of others that will hear his words. "Thank you for your consideration, Major Brand," the sphere says. "If you are as you say you are, we will certainly work to ensure you stay on Task Force 815 and accompany our forces into combat. Your further insights might be quite instructive. If there is nothing else?"

“That’s it for now. It’s been an interesting afternoon, to say the least.”

Luis walks into to the Imperium housing on Diego, a two-story block of Earth-made prefab dorm-style apartments carrying a wrapped box under one arm. The off-white concrete walls are barely broken up by tinted windows and the boxyness gives a look as if it was cut to length after coming out of a press--which it essentially was. He checks the bulliten board at the entrance to make sure he has the right room number, then heads to find room 235. He nods to a few Bashakra’i and other rebels and defectors he knows in the stairs and the upstairs hall before stopping in front of the cracked-open door.

He knocks on the frame loud enough to be heard over the holo he can hear in the background. “Hello?”
“Come in,” Graiza says through the door. She’s sitting on the small bed, watching what looks to Luis like an instructional holo on some kind of tissue regeneration machine - not a kauka, but Imperium-developed. She looks up at Luis then back to the holo. “Hello, Luis. What brings you here?”
Luis shrugs. “Not much, I just wanted to see how you were doing.”
“Your GRHDI has me back on 'Die-ego Garcia', installing the Faxom-Io medical technology in your medicium,” Graiza replies. “And I am reviewing the instruction manuals to teach your medicae how the equipment functions.” She waves the screen to paused. “Is that what you meant?”
Luis shakes his head. “Not quite. I was more interested in how they were treating you, and how you were feeling?”
Graiza sighs. “Our guards are very polite, and the GRHDI seems very understanding about our needs and what we went through. The provided courses of talking therapy have helped with the nightmares of what your Sheen did to us, and my parents and husband are comfortable.” Her eyes sharpen a bit at the mention of the Sheen. “But, I must admit, I am not a prisoner, like I was expecting to be, and I am learning to enjoy your world. I have seen that there are many places on Narsai like the forests and mouintains on Aikoro. I hope to visit them soon. It’s just...this is less than the ideal way to meet your new home.”
Luis nods sympathetically. “I get that. Actually I found a few things I wanted to give you to help settle in.” He pulls the box out from under his arm, and sets it down on the bed. “This is for you.”
Graiza looks at the box. “What is it?”
“A few small things,” Luis says.

Graiza looks warily at Luis, then opens the box. Her face lights up immediately, and she pulls the bottle of Aikoro’i liquor from the cases Angel brought back and the broadcast power lamp made with Aikoro’i wood out, and looks at Luis with joy and confusion dominating her expression. “What? How? Luis, this is...very expensive liquor. And this lamp, they don’t sell these off-world. How did you get them?”
“Angel had the liquor,” Luis says, “I had to get the lamp through the Bashakra’i network. I was worried I’d have to have it converted, but I hear we’re getting a broadcast power rig soon.”
Graiza doesn’t know what do say, and starts and stops before managing to spit out, “...why?”
Luis looks down at the ground for a moment before responding. “Because you’re right, you didn’t have a choice on this, and I thought the least I could do was to help make it feel a little more like home.”
Graiza smirks. “Luis, I did choose to come here. If I wanted to take my chances back in the Imperium, I would have left with Vimu and Kaoak. You and Davis talked me into believing that I would receive better treatment on Narsai, and unless I was to receive an immediate promotion and a chance to work with the best minds on Napai, as well as a whole array of options I was not even aware was available to me, I do believe that this is the case.”

“It’s just...” she shivers, “the Sheen, and what happened on Whiirr, was the things that a lifetime of nightmares are made of. I have heard that they have been told that such things are unacceptable, but that does not change what happened to my friends on the orbital.” She looks back up at Luis, and offers him a small smile. “But that was not your doing. Your people are the ones who are forcing them to learn, and you have brought me a very generous gift.” She stands and bows to Luis. “Thank you, very much.”
Luis bows back. “You’re welcome. It seemed like the least I could do. I’m glad to hear that things are going better for you.”
“Yes, they are.” Graiza takes a deep breath. “But I have been hearing rumors, about what is to be done with us on a more permanent basis, and what I will be doing. Are you and the Bashakra’i really working more closely with the Sheen?”
Luis takes a breath as well before he answers. “Yes,” he says. “But not until we can be sure that they’re reliable. If we can change the way they handle warfare, we could use their support, but..” He trails off and looks away for a moment, then once again meets her gaze, “You’ve seen what they can be. We need their help, but not that badly.”
Graiza manages a small smile. “You don’t need to be that dramatic. Do you think you can teach them?”
Luis nods, “Yeah, I do. I’ve already seen them change in other things, and they seem to get both the reasoning and the need for the change at least in principle. We haven’t tried any kind of excercises to see how it holds up in the field, but I think they’ll be different in the future. I’ve heard it from Angel, who’s working on setting up some of that practice and from Marvin, a Sheen I know.”
Graiza’s eyebrows go up. “You know a Sheen? How?”
Luis indicates his eyes. “He helped out with some work on my implant’s firmware, plus a few other things.”
At the news that Luis had let the Sheen touch his implants, Graiza almost explodes from trying to go in several different directions at once: fear, confusion, and curiosity, but she settles on staying where she is and feigning a degree of calm. “Really? And they haven’t...tried to take over your mind?”
“No,” Luis says. “They just streamlined the firmware and added some stuff to handle Narsai’i tech better. That’s what I asked them to do, and it’s what they did.”
“And this Sheen you...know?” Graiza says, fidgeting in place, hands kneeding the bottle of liquor. “What is...it like?”
“Marvin’s one of the technical Sheen, a programmer type,” Luis says leaning back on the dresser. “He got a bit of an attitude, a lot of arrogance about his skills, but nothing worse than I’ve seen from some human programmers. He knows enough to be able to admit when he’s not up to something, which is more than some 'script kiddies', er, people who think they’re good can do.”
“I’m sorry, I was not clear,” Graiza says. “I meant...” She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath and a tighter grip on the bottle. “What is it like. It...must have...some kind of personality, or at least is pretending to.” She’s obviously very hesitant about asking these questions. “What is it like as...as a...person?”
“He’s hard to get to know, he can be rude to people he thinks are foolish, but he warms up to people who respect him and who he respects,” Luis says. He runs a finger through his hair and thinks for a moment. “I really don’t know what else I can say. He’s pretty good to work with and once he warms up to you he’s a pretty good guy. I’ve known human tech people who were worse to work with and be around. He’s not a crazed maniac warrior or a compulsive infiltrator or anything, he’s a very good tech person with a bit of an attitude problem.”
Graiza takes a moment to think of what to say, but all she can come up with is, “Good.” She looks at Luis for another second or two. “My mental health aide has suggested that I confront my fear. It is...difficult.” She sighs, and fixes Luis with a tired look. “How do you understand those who have slaughtered your friends without mercy, in such a horrible way?”

Luis eyes harden for a moment at that, visions of the Pit after their first return from Whirr flashing across his mind. “That first mission of Whirr, that was the first contact we’d had with life off Earth. The local Imperial overseer happened to be there collecting Chosen around the time, and we met him before either of us knew 'Earth' was Narsai. When we said we weren’t interested in being ruled by the Imperium, they waited until we’d dialed home, then sunballed our base and attacked.” Luis breaks off and looks away for a moment. “I lived and worked at Mesa Negras for months before they finally made the breakthrough on dialing the Gate and sent us through. A lot of the people I knew there are dead because the Imperium doesn’t know any way to work with others without ruling them. How do I deal with that? I realized that the Imperium’s citizens were decent people caught in a nightmarish system, and I’ve spent the last two years fighting to break that system so that what happened at Mesa Negras never happens again.”
Graiza’s shocked by what Luis says, and doesn’t know how to respond to that for a moment. “Well...at least they were all soldiers, like you!”
Luis shakes his head. “Mesa Negras was mainly a research facility, studying strange things. It was always a strange posting before I knew what the base was really studying, I never could get why Delta had been assigned to keep an eye on a base full of millitary scientists and civillian researchers. It was way overkill for base security. Of the people in the Gateway complex when the Turai broke through, all but a dozen or so were unarmed. It was a slaughter, not a battle.”
Graiza’s expression goes from shocked disbelief to sadness as Luis tells the tale of what happened at Mesas Negras. “Oh.” She sits there in silence, staring at the floor.
Luis slumps back against the dresser. “So that was the first introduction I had to the Imperium. Figuring out why that happened, how people could even do that, that took a long time. Realizing that not every Imperium citizen or soldier was like that, that was hard.” He holds up his palm, showing the scab on his hand. “Arketta was a big part of it, before we met the Bashakra’i or Swims or anyone else.”
Just when it seems like Graiza can’t be surprised any more, she finds a deeper reservoir when Luis shows her the scab on his hand. She finally finds a bit of humor in the situation, and gives a small chuckle. “Well, I hope you are not expecting me to marry a Sheen.”
Luis grins too. “No, but try talking. That’s the first step to understanding, and the best way to find out about somebody.”
“Which I suppose is why I am here in the first place,” Graiza says. “I would not have known anything more than what the ravilars have said about you Narsai’i if...well, if I had not been taken prisoner by you.” She keeps her smile up. “But you were very polite.”

Graiza sighs. “Well, you have made a good point, about many things. I suppose I should...” her fear wells back up in her voice, “...try to talk to one of the Sheen. Do you know any...nice ones?”
“The ambassador is nice, if distant,” Luis says. “And Marvin’s all right if you respect him.”
“Are any of them armed?” she asks.
“Some of the shells on base are, but those two aren’t,” Luis says. “If you don’t want to go to the hanger they’re occupying, I can give you comm codes.”
Graiza gives Luis a slight bow. “That would be good, thank you.” She smiles at Luis for a moment, then motions back to her paused holo. “Well, I have much work to do, so...”
Luis nods. “Sure, I’ll get out of your hair. Have a good afternoon.”
She stands and bows again to Luis. “Thank you, Luis. You too.”
Luis bows back, then takes his leave. He leaves without the box, but with more on his mind. Thinking about Mesa Negras and Arketta and the Sheen is a reminder of how much has happened, but also how much there’s still to be done. It’s gotten very complex, even without the dimension of the interference of the Pentagon. Idly, he rubs at the scab on his palm with the thumb of his other hand. Hopefully if things can change as much as they already have, then the future can see enough change for this all to work out for everyone.

Hunter opens up his moleskine for a fresh page of notes and sets the voice recorder to sound-activated. He knows that the next interviewee will be what might be called “a potentially uncooperative respondent.” In fact, it’s more complicated than that; he’s going to interview someone whose foremost strength is prying information from others and maneuvering them into emotional breakdowns and breakthroughs.

But this is an interview, not an interrogation. Best to make that clear, Hunter muses as Garrett Davis walks in. He's wearing an Imperial shirt, a kind of loose yet form-fitting synthetic tunic-looking shirt. It's in a flat grey, and he wears blue jeans and boots with it. He's got his vox on his ear and a smile on his face.
“Agent Davis, it’s a pleasure to finally get some time to hear your perspective. Of course and as usual, candor is appreciated; I’m still at a stage where I don’t know what I don’t know yet. I’d be much obliged for any advice you can give me on the conflict as a whole, before we dig down into specifics. What’s your take on the picture from 30,000 feet?”
Davis takes a seat, crosses one leg onto the other puts his hand on his knee and gives Hunter a smile - all measured actions. “Well, we’re a victim of our own success, it seems. Our successes on Aikoro, Napai, Boranai, Whiirr and Hedion seems to have convinced the DoD brass that they don’t need our help, or the help of our allies. Not to mention the fact that we underestimated the resistance to the change in our position from the top dog on the block to not even close in military power, let alone population - which is a polite way of saying that the US government has proven to be more racist than even I feared. We spent so much time getting the Bashakra’i, Wherren and Sheen onboard and trained, we forgot just how backwards Narsai can be.” His English is definitely accented with a decent amount of Imperial sounds and habits, but distinct from Zaef Utari’s. It sounds more like some half-blend between what little he has heard of Davis’ wife, Ngawai Holoni, and some of the English the rebels have used that he has seen walking around the base.

“In my official, charitable report, I’ll suggest it’s more a matter of cognitive dissonance than anything else; it’s kind of like how doomsday cults will double-down on their beliefs when the apocalypse doesn’t happen. Unofficially and between us, there’s a dark blot in military culture when it comes to people who look different from you and me. It’s not a secret; hell, anyone who read the newspaper in the last ten years can figure it out. But how we’ve dealt with it initially is less important compared to what we do over the next ten years. Both we and the imperials currently have organizations that don’t fit what we need them to do. They have a system that’s good for crushing local dissent, but they haven’t fought major combat actions in any of their lifetimes. We have a lot of people who know how to do that, kind of, but only on land, without any of the complications of planetary combat. Moreover, we’re not used to being the underdog; all American doctrines are based on air superiority and/or supremacy. Vo Nguyen Giap and George Washington are going to be a lot more useful to us than George Patton. But, put it in perspective for me, best guess: How big is the Imperium, how big is their military, and how much of that military can they put into the field without losing control of planets?”
Davis shrugs. “Probably 50 million to 100 million Turai, and a population of...roughly 3 trillion at the last time I checked. Their military depends on fear and overwhelming force to gain control, so they don’t need a particularly outsized military presence. Fielded military, probably half to three-quarters of their forces, since all they really need to maintain control is a Needleship in orbit and Interceptors to protect it. With that, they can just bombard any resistance and wipe it off the face of the planet.”

“Potential weaknesses and/or vulnerabilities of Needleships needs to be an ongoing research project; if we’re building our space combat fleet from scratch we’ll need every advantage we can get, and it won’t do us any favors to just mirror the enemy thoughtlessly. I’ll plan on discussing that with the Baksharai’i as well. Speaking of them, just what is the effective maximum force we think our allies could field?”
Davis shrugs. “The Bashakra’i don’t have a fleet as such, more an array of modified cargo vessels that carry more weapons than they do cargo. They hadn’t made any direct actions against the Imperial Fleet until they participated in the attack on Boranai, and even then, it was with hijacked Mantas with infiltration teams. The Sheen never needed a fleet, as they were simply defending their system and preferred a defense-in-depth tactic, with Sheen shells operating independently in space, kind of like smart mines. They’d pursue and attack any Imperial ship that came within range.”
“Alright, so we need a fleet, and we presumably need planetside forces. How many ground troops could we plausibly put into the field, and where’s the industrial base going to come from?”
Davis thinks for a moment. “Well, unless we have a fleet of ships that can transport troops through an orbital and down to the surface, we’re limited by foot Gateways, which stay open for five to six minutes, tops, with a one to two minute recharge time when they’re hooked up to a ’lakas mana’ - Groi reactor, sorry. Keeping in mind that during an invasion, the Imperium will be trying their hardest to open those same Gateways to their strongholds to send support and lock us out, our ability to send troops in is only limited by how fast we can get them through the Gateway. Abrams tanks just barely fit through, but any kind of air support is too wide to fit through - not to mention the problems with getting the logistical support for helicopters, or how we would even begin to support planes through a Gateway. Our best bet is to focus on developing our own Mantas or attack skimmers, so we can use local power sources.”
“What’s your take on UAVs and drones?”
“The Imperium are in love with the things - Kansatai, in particular. They mostly patrol in skimmers and let their drones do the street-level observation. Each Turai Quad - group of 12 - has a drone, usually. Twin-linked ’pantaki’, nasty things. As for our drones, yeah, they’d be reasonably effective, but the larger ones, like Predators, would be easy pickings for Mantas or even a well-thrown spearbomb, if it’s low enough, say, a few hundred to about a thousand feet.”
“And of course, the ever-present problem of ‘if they can see us, they can kill us,’ assuming they have orbital superiority, which we’ll have to deal with any time we’re preparing an invasion, and it won’t get easier as we move onto more and more valuable planets.” Hunter scribbles down Unternehmen Wacht am Rhein and Chiến dịch Điện Biên Phủ in his Moleskine, thinking about successful operations undertaken without air superiority. The ones that worked tended to have a damn good strategy, he thinks.

“But this is a problem where the snake is eating it’s own tail. What we need to plan for depends on what strategy we adopt for unified, coherent war-fighting. We need to sell a strategy to the Pentagon and the White House based on what they can accept and what they can understand. But figuring out strategy for all this means totally rethinking how we fight. Not only that, but getting DoD to sign off on this means reconciling not only the civilians at the Pentagon, but also two very different cultures of combat: light infantry, and heavy army. The light infantry guys, it’ll probably be easier to retrain to operating with less of a logistical tail, more behind-enemy-lines action. But the heavy army, we need to figure out a way to actually fit them in. At the very least, we’ll have to have new shiny heavy equipment they can feel good about. Otherwise they’re going to dig in their heels and fight us every step of the way. So, realistically, is there a place, or even a fig leaf, where we can envision heavy vehicle-based fighting, and what will it look like?”
“Well, if we can keep the Manta problem at bay, tanks are fantastically effective against Turai. We had some prototype M2 heavy machine guns loaded with Imperium-alloy-based armor piercing rounds on Boranai, and they were very effective in taking down Mantas, and the cannon was effective as well. Infantry fighting vehicles are the same way; if they can keep pace with Mantas, that 25mm cannon makes short work of them.”
“Good to know. I’m getting the feeling that our strategy will have to adapt to the fact that our enemy is strong against insurgency and weak against being punched in the damn mouth when there are no Needleships nearby. Plus, I reckon the problem of creating “stealth tanks” will keep the DARPA boys busy. Do you have any expectations of what the Turai might do to counter the success we’ve been having against them? I imagine that they’re learning from us. What sort of intelligence picture do they have?”
“Not much, there wasn’t a lot that got out of Boranai before we locked down the gates. They know about firearms, particularly the ones we prefer on missions, and some degree of knowledge about our individual-level equipment, and whatever intel Specialist Ben Greene gave them after he turned traitor - probably not that much, Greene was just a soldier, not a tank or air power expert.” Davis smiles. “Most of their intel is on us, Task Force 815. The ‘ravilars’ - Imperial propagandists - have branded us as the ‘Talons of the Tainted Mother’ and given us all colorful nicknames, attributing rumors and slander on all sorts of heinous crimes to our name - most of them probably committed by the Imperium themselves.”

“That’s good. The more mis- and dis-information that’s spread about our capabilities, the better. We probably ought to be spreading some, ourselves. Our goals, on the other hand, must be clear and cogent as possible...” Hunter pauses for a second, weighing his question. “It seems like you’ve had a lot of success flipping Imperials to our cause. What makes it work, how many potentially sympathetic Imperials are out there, and what’re the chances of a negotiated peace, preferably with reforms in the Imperium?”
Davis’ smiles stays on. “I’ve already been working on fighting some of that propaganda with the help of the Bashakra’i. We widecast a message to the Imperium after we liberated Whiirr, a kind of Emancipation Proclamation, but for Wherren; it laid out pretty clearly what our goals were. As for flipping Imperials, well, you know that most people don’t want to see themselves as the bad guy. What the Imperium makes the Turai do - almost every one of them has fired into a crowd of unarmed civilians - already sets up a conflict that’s easy to prey on, and the atrocities they do beyond simply ‘disappearing’ individuals and warrantless searches are well-hidden through cover-ups and propaganda, keeping them away from the vast majority of their people. Now, all that said, the Imperium has had thousands of years to work on a social rationale for their actions, and they’ve got it pretty solid. Most citizens and even more Turai and Kansatai believe that even their most heinous acts are necessary to keep the galaxy together, so it’s not an easy row to hoe, no matter what. In my experience, ten to fifteen percent are receptive immediately - if you can prove the truth about the Imperium to them. Now, with what’s been going on recently, that number might be more, might be less, and it depends on where you are. Botane would be an easier sell than, say, the Akwhela’s Eye over Napai.”

Davis thinks for a second on the second question. “And as for a negotiated peace? Sun Shenmai’s already pretty hard-line, and he’s the moderate one they chose to be Emperor after Kao went through the Black Gate. I can see the Imperium breaking and most of it surrendering, eventually? But I would bet against any kind of officially negotiated peace.”
“That’s unfortunate,” Hunter sighs without too much disappointment. “So, what does winning look like, and how much of their society will we need to tear apart to get there?”
“Well, for me, winning looks like Narsai and the Imperium uniting, both in terms of government and culture,” Davis says. For the first time in the interview, it looks to Hunter like Garrett Davis isn’t pre-screening his answer. “The Imperium adopts something more like a true representative democracy, and Narsai takes its place as a major world, but not the ruler of the Imperium. Our traditions of freedom, human rights and equality are adopted by them, and their more...open-minded attitude about many of the issues we struggle with on Narsai is adopted in turn. Narsai keeps its culture and unique history and feel, but still adopts Imperium technology and modernizes. Basically, each takes the best of the other and forges it into something greater.”

Davis smiles, and thinks about what that might look like for a moment, then continues. “As for how much of the Imperium we’ll have to invade, or how much will have to resort to open rebellion and defect to our side before the war is over, who knows. I suspect it’ll be a good amount of it.”
“Then I reckon we’ll have to make defection as frictionless as possible. The research and planning for the postwar has, in a way, already started since you and Ngawai started figuring out how you’re going to raise your child. Something tells me imperial parenting comes from a different outlook.” Hunter smiles, closes the book, and extends his hand. “I appreciate you coming down here, and I’ll send you a draft of the preliminary assessment I’m working on in case you want to comment.”
Davis shakes his hand. “Thanks for the chance to talk, and I look forward to your report.”
Hunter furrows his brow for a second. “One other thing: I can’t urge you enough to record as much as you can during your respite here. You all have accumulated information, experience, and insights that are literally invaluable. You can pick and choose what goes to the historians, but frequent and copious experience-dumps might be the only thing that keeps you all from being sidelined as ‘too valuable for fieldwork.’ You might be able to grow back a limb nowadays, but what’s between our ears is still damn fragile.”

The troubled look subsides, and is replaced with basic, pure compassion. “Enjoy your leave, Agent Davis. I’m sure you deserve it.”
Davis nods and gives Hunter a smile. “Thanks, and welcome to the team.”

Hunter has set up an oversized chair, probably Swims’, next to the increasingly familiar table, chair, moleskine, and voice recorder. He isn’t familiar with Wherren customs, but he figures it’s a good idea to stand when a guest arrives. Swims-the-Black walks in, wearing that same distinctive vest as before, no undershirt, the vest reflecting the slight changes in colors from the rest of his fur. A small wave of blue tinges his fur then fades out just as quickly as he enters the room. He's wearing what look like an Imperial take on sweatpants, but instead of cotton, they're made of the same semi-gloss material as Davis' shirt. Speaking of Davis, he follows Swims-the-Black into the room.

“Agent Davis, Captain Swims, It’s good to see you. I hope it won’t be too much trouble to tell me a little about your experience and thoughts on where we stand in the present conflict. I apologize for not being able to understand you directly. If I’m informed correctly, you can understand what I’m saying, and Agent Davis can translate your signs for me?”
“Ghaar bruh ‘Hun-ter Brand’ nrr grrra naar rrrmm,” Swims-the-Black says, his hands moving with a pace and precision that Hunter recognizes as a form of sign language. Not only is he signing, but his fur shifts colors and patterns with his speech. Swims-the-Black was able to say Hunter’s name reasonably clearly in English, however, it was obviously with some effort. Hunter watches the timing of the signs and color changes, and figures out that most of the information is carried in the vocalizations and the sign, while the colors are more for emphasis.
“Greetings, Hunter Brand,” Davis translates, “it is a pleasure to meet you.” Swims speaks again, this time with Davis’ first name in the mix. “And yes, Garrett can translate for me.” Hunter notices that a particular musty smell from Davis and the oversized chair that he attributed to the heat is actually Swims-the-Black - the Wherren must have some kind of musk on his fur.

“Thank you. If I should get the chance, I would like to learn your form of communication. Now then, if we might begin at the beginning. Tell me of the Wherren, the Imperium, and the Narsai’i.”
Swims-the-Black smiles, revealing a mouth with a few more canine teeth in it than the human set. “That is a very long story, and one that we are not finished writing as of yet,” Davis translates. “The Imperium has kept the Wherren as slaves for at least two hundred years, using their technological advantage to create a false belief amongst us that they are as gods, harvesting the most desirable individuals to be slaves amongst their cities - or worse. The Narsai’i - by which I mean the beginnings of Task Force 815 - first emerged from Narsai on Whiirr, and showed the Wherren a respect we have never seen. Later, my friend Garrett Davis and Task Force 815 chose to no longer stand by as the Imperium continued to repress and enslave us, and fought to capture Whiirr from the Imperium. They succeeded, and now they, along with the Bashakra’i and the other rebels, are teaching those on my homeworld what we need to know to be as they are, to take to the stars and face down our oppressors.”
“It must be a strange time, to say the least. How has learning all this affected Whiirr? What is it like for Wherren returnees who had been enslaved?”
Swims shifts in his seat, a slight orange shade to his fur. “It is hard to give up some tribal customs, and the Imperium did not prevent conflict between tribes, so there is still some friction between tribes that suddenly are no longer separate tribes of Wherren and are instead united as Wherren under one banner. The experiences of those who have been fortunate enough to escape or find their way to the rebels and from there to Whiirr vary. Some are considered liars or untrustworthy by those who still cling to the Imperium’s religion, some shun them out of shame and denial of how they willingly sent their own flesh and blood to be enslaved, but most are welcomed back with open arms and treated as heroes.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. This must be a difficult transition for Wherren society. How are they dealing with the new learning in technology and organization?”
That provokes a big smile and a green wave across Swims-the-Black’s fur. “Those that have had time to understand the truth are desperate to learn more. Almost all of them consider the Imperium to have stolen our right to develop as our own people from us, denied us the chance to chart our own course amongst the stars. The Narsai’i and rebels can barely keep up with the demand for teachers and education - everyone wants to learn the facts and knowledge the Imperium hid from us.”
“That’s very promising to hear. Do you think the tribal structure will change as the Whirr take to the stars?”
Swims-the-Black nods. “It will have to, what works for small tribes will not work for an entire race.”
“Indeed. It will be interesting seeing how the society develops. Hopefully the amount of centralized power will not become too great. In your opinion, what would a successful end-state look like for the Wherren and the Imperium?”
“The Narsai’i and rebels victorious, and the Wherren viewed and treated as equals throughout the galaxy,” Davis translates. “And the Imperium’s citizens realizing the full extent of what they condoned.”

“It may be hard to estimate, but how many Wherren slaves are scattered among the empire, and at what density compared to Imperials?”
“In my experience, every city and arcology has a Wherren slum nearby, or sometimes underneath it.” Swims’ fur turns a mottled purple and blue. “Most contain a few hundred to a thousand or so Wherren, and usually as many live as kept slaves in the city above. Multiply that across nearly a thousand worlds, some with dozens of cities? If you want a guess, I would put the figure at a few hundred million off-world, with maybe as many again living on Whiirr.”
“The problems of the off-world Wherren are many, I can imagine. What is the culture of the slums? How might we re-integrate them into Wherren or Imperial society with dignity?”
“I haven’t spent much time in the slums,” Davis translates, “but they are...” Swims-the-Black’s fur changes from the purple and blue to red and orange in an instant, and even mostly stands on end as the Wherren furrows his brow. “The conditions in them are barbaric. Those on Whiirr live in more sanitary and safe conditions. Homes made from refuse and cast-off parts from the cities above, power stolen from tapped-into lines, sewage running in the streets. That anyone can come from such a place and even dream of holding their heads high is a wonder.” Even Davis looks furious as he continues to translate. “It is much like the worst slums on Narsai. As for reintegration on Whiirr, as horrible as it is, even cubs born in the slums have an advantage over those from the homeworld. They are often taught what skills their parents were taught, construction or labor, and are more equipped to function in Imperial society than those from the homeworld. As for Imperial society...” Swims-the-Black’s fur roils in a sea of red and orange as he thinks, his face compressed in an expression of anger that Hunter doesn’t need a translator to read. “They would have to accept any Wherren as an equal before the relative worth of those from the slums and those that are not is a question worth asking.”

Hunter pauses, thinking of the favelas, slums, ghettos, and villages he’s visited in the past decade; of gunshot victims bleeding out on the steps of hospitals after being refused entry; of migrants ensnared by networks of corruption and coercion like fish in a net; of the arrogance and ignorance of the local official; of the forced invisibility of the poor even and especially in the developed world. Yet also of the resettlement of refugees and the hope for better lives that drives men and women to remarkable deeds. “We should look at the possibility of resettlement on Narsai during and after the war; if the Wherren gain the rights we hope, they might leave the Imperial planets that formerly oppressed them, who for their part will likely have their share of informal or institutional resistance to free and full participation.” Hunter also thinks of the terrible toll often wrought on the population during insurgency. “It could get very bad for the Wherren on other planets, especially if they become thought of as a species of potential rebels. They may need to learn how to conceal their true thoughts and intent, or hide and escape from the Imperium entirely. Either one of those is easier with an organization, and careful thought about what the effects might be in the long term. I don’t know who’s going to build it, but it’s only through joining together that those who are nothing can realize that they can be everything.” Davis and Swims-the-Black both notice that Hunter is, for once, rather worked-up.
Swims-the-Black nods, his fur settling back down to a more neutral brown with red highlights. "I agree that we need to work on helping those trapped on Imperial-held worlds escape to freedom, Garrett has mentioned the work done in his country to bring enslaved Narsai'i to freedom before. There are some who aid those who are trying to escape, and the Bashakra'i are beginning to help, but there are many others who pretend to help rescue slaves or slum residents, but then turn around and sell them back to the Imperium or the industriums. As for living on Narsai, I think that we would prefer to make Whiirr a home for the Wherren, but if Narsai is receptive, temporary habitation, and more permanent arrangements for those who wish to stay, certainly would be helpful."

Swims-the-Black seems to have a moment of introspection as his fur briefly shows a shade of blue. He says something, and Davis responds in Whirr-sign instead of English. Swims responds, and Davis nods and continues translating. "But I am not a leader or ambassador for my people. These are just my personal thoughts. There are those who are far more qualified and able than I am already doing great work. I recommend you talk to Hiigra, the chief of the tribe that aided us in capturing and holding Whiirr, if you want to talk to a leader on Whiirr."
“Thank you for the referral. When I can get a chance to speak with more Wherren, especially those who act as important stakeholders and thought-leaders, I will most certainly take it up. Here and now, though, speaking with one Wherren is infinitely more than before.” He extends his hand. “Glad to be making your acquaintance.”
The Wherren’s enormous hand with its dangerous-looking claws completely engulfs Hunter’s own appendage, but Swims-the-Black’s handshake is firm, not crushing. Swims-the-Black shakes Hunter’s hand for a moment, then speaks in his clipped, barking-like English: “The plea-sure is all mine, Hun-ter Brand.”

After his sit-down lemonade and counseling session with Davis and Ngawai, Angel walked a lap around the Diego Garcia Gateport complex, and finally found himself at the bar. He had managed to get halfway through his first Earth beer (and had turned away from the inquisitive looks from the other Bashakra'i and Earthling looks from the bar) when the vox on his ear pinged and told him in Imperial that Ngawai Lea Holoni had send him a message that Barnes was on the conference room vox and wanted to speak with him. An annoyed grunt and a quick downing of his beer later, and Angel was on his way.

Angel figures that Hunter must have taken a break from his interviews when he walks in, but Barnes is there on the large holodisplay, sitting at her desk and working on her own vox, her fingers moving in space as she stares at another section of her own holo than the vox connection.
"Odd," Angel thinks to himself, entering the conference room and sitting down in one of the chairs. He's been in this damned room more today than he was last year. And clearly he could have finished his beer, given Barnes is on hold.
Barnes looks over at the connection window and notices that Angel is there. She slides the window up in front of her and enlarges it with her hands, then unmutes her end. "So, Angel, what's the reason for the call?"
Angel raises an eyebrow. "I suspect we're about to find out. Let me guess...a page from Ngawai?"
"Yes, she said you'd be on the call in a few minutes." Barnes simultaneously furrows her brow and raises an eyebrow - something they must teach in one of the agencies Barnes has worked at. "Why, what's going on?"
"I have been betrayed over lemonade is what's going on." Angel grumbles somewhat under his voice. "Let’s give her a few minutes, see if she shows, before I say what I think this is about."

Nothing much happens, to tell the truth. Barnes downsizes the window and slides it off to the side so she can get her work done and asks Angel how he's doing, both generally and then obliquely in regards to Tora, Gorlan and becoming a Kesh, but after that polite conversation, not much happens.

Angel sits for awhile, and makes pleasant small-talk with Barnes, not really committing to much. Once it becomes clear Ngawai isn't going to show - at least not until she can twist her mustache and cackle maniacally - Angel sighs. "Alright, suppose I ought to get this over with." He does, after all, now have a suitably elaborate retaliatory prank to engineer. He waits until Barnes turns back around and maximizes the screen. "First, apologies for the awkward way this started. Apparently, Ngawai discovered the base’s copy of 'Parent Trap'. But there is something I need to talk with you about. Regarding my recent...status change...and the cargo that came through the gate."
This time, both of Barnes' eyebrows go up. "Oh? What specifically?"
"Along with everything else that's happened, I'm also the ranking representative of Kesh Pharmaceuticals and Faxom-Io on Earth. The proceeds from the transfer are headed to an account here on Earth, as soon as I get around to setting it up. Long story short, I'm looking to start tech transfers and partnerships with Earth-based firms."
Barnes nods. "Good, I'll call Gorlan to talk details when the sun's up on Hedion."

Angel nods. "You're free to do so if you like, but I don't think you'll get much farther than 'I presume you have Angel's number'. As I said Samantha," probably the first time he's called her that, "I am the ranking representative of the Kesh family on Earth."
That stops Barnes cold. She stops typing and looks back at Angel for a second before resizing the window again and moving it front and center. "I'm sorry, Angel. That was rude of me." Angel sees Barnes shove aside her other windows and touch something on her display, probably to open a new text file. When she looks back at him, the cordial-but-not-really-paying-attention look is completely gone. She sits upright, and actually slightly straightens her suit out. She doesn't look like she's addressing a subordinate anymore - to Angel, she actually looks a bit cowed. "So, what is your plan?"
Angel nods. There's no point in pressing home the point any further, and in her defense, she had been addressing a subordinate, at least in theory. "It's alright. Generally speaking, the plan is to move the funds obtained from the sale of this initial shipment to a Earth-based corporation - Kesh Holdings. From there, we use that money - and the considerable tech base I have access to - to start building up Earth-based production of Imperial-grade technology. So that if we do manage to win this thing, we're not quite the...helpless backwater...we are now. Economically speaking."
Barnes nods in reply. "Sounds like a solid plan to keep Earth in the game once the war is over. And you want to do so through Earth companies?"
"Preferably, yes." Angel nods. "The idea is to invest, not to build Kesh factories. Keep the alien-hating paranoia to a minimum."
"Yes, well, good luck with that," Barnes replies. "Still, it's a solid plan. Gets Imperial tech in the hands of Earth R&D and industry, letting us catch up even faster. I presume your family will be taking a percentage from sales of Earth-developed products with Faxom-Io tech, and keeping the right to build and re-sell designs in the Imperium as they choose?"
Angel shrugs. "As much as it can be I mean, given...well, everything. As for licensing and export, that will be negotiated on a case-by-case basis," Gorlan-speak for 'Lady, I'm not a lawyer', "but as much as possible, I'd like to see them work with Imperial technology so they could be exported. If this ever ends."
"Of course." Barnes takes down a few more notes. "Well, thanks for the heads-up, Angel. Let me know if you - or the rest of the Kesh family - need anything from Earth. When will Kesh Holdings be set up by, do you think?"
"I'll try to get a skeleton up as soon as possible - a lawyer, a bank account and a PO Box. The rest...we'll see. Depends on how eager the feds are to ground 815, I suppose."

“Just like everything else," Barnes replies. She's about to reach for the vox window when she stops herself, pulls her hand back and refocuses on Angel. "Is there anything else I can do for you, Angel?"
He smiles, genuinely. "Keep fighting the good fight Samantha."
Barnes nods and gives Angel a smile in return. "You too, Angel," she says, but doesn't disconnect.
"Anything else you need from this end? Anyone else I can drag in here for a chat?"
“No, I think that's about it," Barnes says.
"Alright then. Have a pleasant..." he eyeballs the clock indicating the time in DC. "Morning." With that, he switches off the vox.

Angel picks himself up off the chair, straightens his suit out a bit (and incidentally causes the dust to slide right off the back of it), and heads back to the bar.
On the way there, Angel notices a note taped to the front of his cabin's door. He plucks the note off his cabin door, reading it quietly. It reads "Go inside" in what is obviously Ngawai's chicken-scratch glyphs. "Jesus Christ, Ngawai, what's next, a scavenger hunt?" He opens the door, heading inside, tucking the note into his pocket.
Walking into the cabin, the first thing Angel sees is a surprise, but not surprising - all of the furniture in his living room and kitchen is wrapped in the metal foil the Imperials use on their exterior cargo containers. It even looks like they went to the trouble of evacuating the air and laser-sealing them shut.
Angel mouths something to the effect of "What the fuck?" while flicking on a light, moving into the main area of his small cabin. "Impressive." Well, he would have moved, but his shoes seem to be stuck to the floor. Looking carefully without falling over, Angel can see a layer of clear fluid on the floor. His shoes didn't stick when he first walked in - probably the UV-reactive adhesive from Atea. "Well played, Ngawai...well played. Also, you're fired."

Looking around, Angel notices that his bag is not where he left it in his closet, and is in fact standing upright in front of the door to his bedroom.
"Well, might as well go all the way. Will help determine the sheer magnitude of the shitstorm that will rain down on her." Carefully slipping from his shoes and making the short hop to "clear" areas of the floor, he moves toward the bag, standing carefully to one side as he checks it over.
The outside of the bag looks fine, but when Angel unseals the bag, not only do the clothes he brought back from Hedion fall out, Imperial and Earth, but so does at least two handfuls of crumbled up chocolate chip cookies from the mess hall. The semi-melted chocolate gets on Angel's hands as the bag spills its guts.
"Outstanding," the scout mutters, wiping off most of the chocolate onto one of the t-shirts that's too far gone to save without some serious time in a washing machine. Dumping the rest of the bag onto the floor, he tests to doorknob into his bedroom, checking over the entry for booby-traps. The doorknob and entry is fine - the bathroom seems largely untouched. Moving fairly cautiously, Angel checks over the rest of the house, quietly scheming about the retaliation that will ensue, occasionally muttering something about 'endless annoyance for you, your children, and your children's children'.

The bathroom seems reasonably clear, but hanging from the drop ceiling tiles in the bedroom is a note - "Pull me". Retreating to the kitchen to retrieve a broom - and more importantly, a very long handle, Angel gives the note an experimental nudge.
Nothing happens on the first nudge, but on the second (always double tap), the whole ceiling tile gives way and a human body drops out of the ceiling! "FUCK!" Angel jumps back about 10 feet, ending up in something that could best be described as a defensive crouch. "What. The. Fuck. Ngawai."

From that very, very manly crouch on the floor, Angel notices a few things. One, the body is wearing his tactical gear. Two, it seems to be lime green and melting slightly. Retrieving his trusty broom, Angel prods at NotAngel, his eyes narrowed. The boot falls off - and lime-green cafeteria jello falls out.
"Clearly someone doesn't have enough to do. If you weren't pregnant, terrible things would happen. I didn't even know the cafeteria had that much jello." As he inspects the jello dummy, Angel hears something odd from the front porch. Half-expecting another gag, when he focuses in on it, it's very clear what it is - laughter. Big, slap-your-thighs laughter, and more than one person doing so.
In only his socks, still a bit covered in semi-molten chocolate, Angel makes his way out onto the porch. "Pleased with yourself?"

Out on the front porch, he sees that it's not just Ngawai and Davis - it's Zaef, Arketta, Luis, and Swims-the-Black. The whole team is out there, busting a gut with laughter.
"Very," Ngawai says. She turns her wrist-mounded holodisplay around, showing footage from Angel's struggles through the prank maze. She smiles and gives Angel a hug as best she can in her current state. "Gotcha, Angel Kesh."
Angel grins, hugging the intensely pregnant Ngawai. "Well played, all of you. Know now that my vengeance will be slow, but it will be terrible." He grins. "But I have a sudden craving for lime Jello-O. Anyone for dinner? I'll buy, right before I have my whole cabin burned to the ground."
"You might have wanted to if you used the soap dispenser," Davis says. "Zaef cooked up something fucking foul and put it in there that you would have gotten on your hands if you tried to wash the chocolate off."
Swims-the-Black fur ruffles. "Yes, the stench was incredible. I will say, wrestling that gelatin dummy up into the ceiling was hard work."
"What took you so long, anyway?" Arketta asks. "We were out here for twenty minutes."
"Actually had a lovely chat with Barnes." Angel smiles. "And I'll remember to properly dispose of the soap dispenser."
"What about?" Ngawai asks. "You were supposed to realize that I had done something and come straight back here."
"The best laid plans of evil pregnant women and spooks." Angel winks. "Talked to her about my new plan - you know, the one that's about to bury you in such a tremendous avalanche of paperwork you might forget to have that daughter of yours."
Ngawai looks a bit taken aback. "Already? I thought you were a bit too nervous to bring that up with Samantha yet, I didn't want to push you."
"And yet. Oddly, the most pleasant thing that happened in the past hour."
"Well, we're glad we could help," Davis says.
Ngawai moves back to Davis' side and grins. "Feel better now, at least? More unburdened?"
"A bit. And now I've got the unfettered resources of a galactic industrial conglomerate to fuel my vengeance,” Angel says. “So...about dinner. I heard they had chicken fingers planned for tonight."
"Indeed they do," Swims says.

At this moment, Hugh walks up, carrying what is obviously a spare ceiling tile under his arm. He peeks into the room and turns back to Angel. "What's all this mess about, Kesh?" Hugh barks. "Square that away on the double, and fix that ceiling!"
Angel takes the tile, setting it aside for a moment. "No can do, Sir. We're in the middle of testing a friend-or-foe identification course for the Sheen joint operation. If you'd like to follow me through the front door I can give you the full tour?"
"Some other time, Kesh," Hugh replies, keeping the "strict officer" act up, until he opens his mouth again and breaks into a grin. "Also, I've heard that it takes an extra cycle to get chocolate out of fatigues."
"Good to know Sir." Angel grins.
"All right, I think someone mentioned food?" Zaef says.
"Yes, I'm starving," Arketta says.
"Angel's buying, right?" Ngawai asks, keeping one arm around Davis' shoulders and looping the other over Angel's.
Angel grins. "All that must have been hard work. Where the hell did you even get that much cargo wrap? And yes, my treat. To the victor goes all the dubious cafeteria food you can eat."
Ngawai shrugs. "Ask Luis, that one was his idea." She smiles at him. "Congratulations on your deal with Barnes, on the peership, on everything. We think all of that stuff is great, but I just thought you needed us to tell you that you're still one of us."
Angel nodded slightly. "And I appreciate it Ngawai. I want you to know that, and remember it. So that one day, when you're sitting in your home wondering why everything is a hideous shade of purple, you'll know it's love that did it."
Ngawai laughs. "Fair enough."
“Oh, and Angel?” Zaef’s voice turns serious, but he’s still grinning. “If you try swapping out my soap, I’ll feed you the whole bottle.”
"I wouldn't dream of it," Angel says. Somehow, the answer isn't comforting.

Hunter walks through the oddly-shaped hexagonal courtyard of the Imperial housing tracts, soaking in details filtered through the scraps of architecture theory he’s picked up over the years. The housing is prefabricated, but there’s something a little formidable and solid in the way it’s built. The corners are all rounded and the material is a tan concrete-looking stuff somewhat reminiscent of the spray-foam insulation Hunter put into his house a couple years back. The doors, windows, and decorations are inset for extra shade before joining the walls. It looks like a useful all-purpose ‘hostile terrain’ design, and one that doesn’t rely on air-conditioning to make things liveable. Hunter wonders how intentional that choice was for Diego Garcia.

He passes a couple of Imperial families playing with their kids, smiling as certain loanwords like “dinosaur” pop out of the kids’ mouths. As he walks into the apartments’ open-air hallway, he’s impressed with the seamlessness and subtlety of the climate control. It’s slightly warmer and drier than the accepted American norm, but that may be a factor of different hygiene cultures, or possibly a side effect of an over-pressure system for preventing poisonous gas inhalation. He rounds the stairs and heads up to his respondents, Ody and Arlana Quis.

He takes a breath to ready himself and turn on the presence required for another potentially tricky interview, then knocks twice on the door, distinctly and clearly. The door is opened after a moment’s pause by Arketta Quis. An older female voice says something in Imperial to Arketta, and Arketta replies back in a matter of fact tone before looking back to Hunter.
“Welcome, Major Brand,” Arketta says, looking down at him warily. “Please, come in.” She stands to the side as the door slides the rest of the way open, revealing the small apartment and who he presumes are her parents. Ody is just an inch taller than his daughter, while Arlana is the shortest of the three - but still just as tall or a bit taller than Hunter himself. All three have brownish-olive skin and brown hair, and where Ody is lithe and a bit sun-weathered, Arlana and Arketta are both lean but strong, Arlana only having become a little softer and fuller in appearance than her daughter in her extra years. Arlana’s physique still speaks to a life where being in peak physical condition was a job requirement, while Ody simply seems like he’s been working out in the sun for a good deal of his life.

Arlana and Ody both step forward to greet Hunter, the two of them bowing in greeting. “Hello, Mister Brand,” Arlana says in heavily-accented and clipped English. “It is...nice to meet you.”

“Thank you,” Hunter returns the bow. Thinking about the refugee and resettlement communities he’s dealt with in the past, they’re not doing badly. But it’s still likely a jarring experience, and one that shouldn’t be overlooked. He turns to address them all, speaking in slow, clear, but not patronizing English. “Thank you for opening your home to me. I want to learn more about the Imperium, and the people who live in it. May I ask you some questions?”
Ody catches on to what Hunter said a moment before Arlana does. They both nod and say, “Yes.”
Hunter didn’t necessarily know if Arketta was going to be there for the interview, but for translation and comfort it seems like she’ll need to be there. “Arketta, if I have trouble understanding, are you willing to explain things to me?”
Arketta nods. “That is not a problem.”

Arlana looks at Arketta and asks her a question, which Arketta responds to in a gentle tone. Arlana and Ody both ask another question of her each, and Arketta more firmly responds this time. They both respond to that with a bit more force, before Arketta launches into a small speech of her own in Imperial, at times forceful and at other times caring, sometimes looking over at Hunter, and once gesturing out the window behind them. She puts a hand on each of theirs and finishes her spiel, which seems to, if not satisfy them, placates them enough for now.

Hunter might not speak Imperial as of yet (his sudden recruitment and lack of prep has gone from “mild annoyance” to “serious problem” rather quickly), but he’s been on the other side of a language barrier enough times to get a sixth sense as to what’s being said in his presence, and it’s pretty clear that Arlana and Ody are curious as to why their daughter is still in the room. Not only that, but it’s equally clear that Arketta’s presence is not out of some courtesy to him or her parents, but mostly out of mistrust of his motives and whether he shares the same motives as those who have been conspiring against the team. He tries not to show how much he’s gleaned, instead playing it straight. Gently he says to the couple, “I am here to learn, and to help. Please tell me how you came to Diego Garcia.”

Arlana and Ody both try to start in English, but neither one manages to say a word. “I am sorry,” Ody says. Hunter nods with compassion, then they both start speaking to their daughter in Imperial. They relay the story through Arketta, how they were contacted out of the blue with a fake giveaway Cortex message with the sing-song name Arketta used for her mother when she was a child, then met the team on the solar farm mesa that they were living on. What little they saw about the Hedion mission was recounted, and then the big finale, where Arketta and Luis barged in, told them to grab their bags and leave with them right that instant - Arketta insists it wasn’t nearly that dramatic - and they flew off in a skimmer as the fake super-rectenna exploded in a fireball and blaze of lightning behind them. It’s a remarkable tale, thinks Hunter as he takes notes and ponders the logistics of mass defections.

“Thank you for telling me your story. I am glad you are here, and safe.” He says, looking toward Arketta for a moment before returning his attention to her parents. “Tell me about life in the Imperium. What was good? What was bad? What did you look forward to? What were you afraid of?”
Arketta translates the question for them, and after a moment’s thought and another embarrassed look from Ody, they answer in Imperial. “Life in the Imperium was safe,” Arketta translates. “If you do not cross the Imperium and earn enough to support yourself, they leave you alone and do not fall prey to those who take advantage of those less fortunate. Of course, if you do cross them, well, Arketta and I know what happens to those who do that. As for what we looked forward to, it might sound silly, but before all of this, it was simply each day.” Ody and Arlana pull each other closer. Hunter gives a great big smile. “We were happy just living our lives, working the solar farm and collecting Arlana’s pension. We missed Arketta, and waited for her weekly Cortex connection, but aside from that, things were not that bad. After Arketta was reported missing, we grieved for her, and after she reappeared and was supposed to be a great traitor and criminal, we knew that the propagandists were wrong, and hoped that she would stay safe. And once she contacted us, well, we were looking forward to seeing her again and coming to Earth.” They pause, and Arketta says something to them, probably reminding them of the last question. “As for what we were afraid of? Before, it was accidentally crossing the Imperium, the Pan-Industriums, or the noble families on Hedion. Those who are in power in the Imperium have all the advantages, and if you find yourself in their way, you have little or no recourse. The police on the more populated worlds are controlled by the Stewards or anyone with enough lats, and the Turai operate with complete immunity. There is no recourse if those in power decide that you are a threat.”
Hunter scribbles down Pericles 2.1 and a couple other more cryptic scrawlings. Probing a bit further, he asks “How much influence do the nobles and the Industria have on the Turai? Or is it just on the Kansat?”
Arlana speaks without Arketta needing to translate the question for her. “Not very much,” Arketta translates, “the Turai are much more closely monitored for outside influence, and the culture of the Turai is very different. The Turai are supposed to be the glue that holds the Imperium together, and a Turai taking a bribe would be the same as putting one world above the others - a threat to the Imperium as a whole, and punishable by spot-execution or the Arena.”

This is important, Hunter thinks. “Tell me more about the culture of the Turai. How do they see themselves? What do they value highly? What codes do they live and die by?” Hunter turns to Arketta, “You can answer, too. In fact I’d be much obliged if you could. Just let me know what’s coming from her and what’s your take.”
Arketta starts fidgeting when Hunter asks her mother to speak about her time in the Turai. “My mother was Turai almost seven years ago, Major,” she says. “I would be far better to talk to about such things, and I will gladly tell you what you need to know.”
“Ma’am, I have no doubt in either of your abilities or experience. I’m just trying to get as complete a picture as I can, and it seems to me like your combined experiences would help me in that. If you want to give me the basic background before I get into deeper questions, that’s fine.” Leaning it a bit closer, he says more quietly, “If you want to have a private discussion about ‘regrettable incidents’ that occurred with the Turai, that’s fine, too. This is not a war crimes investigation, and I have no intention of badgering your mother in her own home, in front of her own family, about any actions personally undertaken. All of this is protected speech, anyhow. I’m here to learn about the culture of the Turai, and of life under the Imperium. That’s it.”
“And it is that culture that will get my parents sent away from Narsai, Major,” Arketta pleads. “Just...let me answer this question, please.”
Hunter has dealt with a lot of refugees in the last five years. He understands the paranoia about presenting oneself to an officially-approved standard, as well as the desire of the more acculturated to protect their elders. Unfortunately, what he needs is real talk. “I’m not going to kick anyone off the planet for what they think. Hell, I spent an hour the other day talking to the Sheen. As in, all of them. It takes all kinds to overturn the old order, and I can do it a helluva lot better if I can understand the career Turai mindset. I’m also fairly sure that whoever she was before doesn’t have to affect who she is here. New land, clean slate. Now, if and when you all are talking to the case worker from the International Organization for Migration, I’d definitely keep things vague. But right here, and right now, it helps the GRHDI if I can ask. In the end, it’s your choice, and I’ll respect it if you don’t want her to talk.”
“Your guarantees will not protect my parents from the people in your government working against us, Major,” Arketta says point-blank. “I will tell you what you want to know, and honestly, so that my parents can be left alone and I alone take the fire for what will happen when others that are not GRHDI read your report.”
“Fair enough. The pool of Imperials is still small enough that they could still get tracked back.”
“And the fact that your report and notes will almost certainly be stolen and copied,” Arketta adds.
“These notes are so steeped in their specific time and place, they barely make sense to me six months out of a project. Not to mention that this notebook has actually been re-bound with copy-resistant paper. It’s not secure--hell, nothing’s ever really secure-- but this isn’t my first time dealing with confidentiality. I’m also going to break my damn wrists version-ing out this report for all the layers of secrecy from the president on down to internet tough-guys. So, the sooner you, Arketta Quis, tell me about Turai culture, the sooner I start down that wonderful process.”

Arketta shrugs. “Turai culture is all about serving the Imperium. The first of the 16 Codes of the Scarlet Banner is ‘The Turai are the first and last defense of the Imperium and the force that holds the planets together’. The Turai serve the Emperor and his Stewards wishes without question and without hesitation - no matter what is asked of them, because they are tasked with making the decisions that guide the Turai towards keeping the Imperium together, and nothing is more important than that in Imperial society.” Arketta looks down at her hands. “Even innocent lives.”
“If they had to choose between obeying the Emperor and keeping the Imperium together, which would they choose?”
Arketta has to think about that. Arlana asks something in the middle of her silence, and Arketta replies. Arlana then says something to Ody and gets up. “I do not know. That has never happened before, the Emperors have always been more aware and focused on preserving the Imperium than anyone else.”
“Who do the Turai see as the enemy? They haven’t fought a major war for many years, correct?”
Arketta nods. “Since the Sheen War, no. The Turai see any declared threat to the integrity of the Imperium as the enemy, the agents of chaos and decay that wish to bring the Imperium down - people like you and me, Major. The other casualties are regrettable, but necessary, but they do not see the Imperium’s citizens as their enemy, even when in protest.”
“So how do they see the Imperium’s citizenry, and how do they imagine the citizenry see them?”
“The Turai do not see the citizens as any more than background, honestly, unless they attempt to organize a resistance,” Arketta says. “They see themselves as protecting them, but not directly. The Turai protect the citizens through protecting the Imperium. And as for the other way, there is no illusion - they know the people fear them. When the average citizen sees more than a Trin, it is never because something has gone right.”
“How often are Turai in action? What’s life like when they’re not deployed? What’s the ratio of support staff versus actively-fighting troops?”
“Turai are always deployed, it is just not always on a border world,” Arketta replies. “Most are stationed on populated worlds - it was a great honor when my Quad was selected to be assigned to Whiirr. As for support, the Turai Quads are routinely resupplied through Gateways and Mantas. Since the Turai do not use your fuels or have nearly as many different machines, supply runs are not needed nearly as often. We were supplied once a week on Whiirr, but that was mostly for the Keepers and their needs. Those stationed on populated worlds are constantly supplied, I guess.”
“So for Turai garrisoned on populated worlds, what do they do when they’re not in action? Are they separated from the populace? Do they interact much?”
Arlana returns with an PX-bought electric kettle, a few ceramic mugs and a few silver packages with Imperial script. She says something to Arketta, who nods. “My mother wants you to know that you may have some...well, it is like tea, if you wish. But yes, the Turai on populated worlds are housed separately from civilians. My mother and father met when she was stationed on Vouskiano for a time, actually. When Turai are not on patrol or otherwise involved in their duties, they are allowed to be around civilians.”

Hunter recalls the more pleasant moments of visiting the locals in Al Anbar. “Tea, or something like it, would be wonderful, thank you. How do the Turai see themselves, besides the obvious elements of an elite held apart? What do they pride themselves on?”
Arketta says something to Arlana, who tears open a silver packet, pours a red powder into a mug and then pours hot water on top of that and hands it to Hunter. Hunter nods, smiles, and takes a sniff of the tea to get a sense of the flavor. It’s pleasantly foreign, a strange sensation worth taking an extra second to savor. Arketta continues, “The Turai pride themselves on being the defenders of the Imperium. When sacrifices must be made and the difficult things done for the Imperium, the Turai are the ones who do them. That is what keeps most Turai going.”
Hunter smiles at that. “‘Semper Fi, do or die.’ There’s a deep satisfaction to be found in belonging to the ones who get things done when others can’t. What are the frustrations Turai face?”
Arketta seems confused for a moment, but then focuses on Hunter’s question. “The complaints that the Turai and the Narsai’i share aside, the primary frustration that I remember is the same one that drove me to leave the Turai - and that is having to tell myself over and over that the blood on my hands was justified.”
Hunter takes a moment to let that sink in. “That seems like a hard thing to deal with, both individually and as a group. How do people cope?”
Arketta takes her mother’s hand as her breathing starts to get harder. “You tell yourself that you were just following orders, that the ‘pacifications’ are necessary, that the Stewards and Rav-Samals know what they are doing, that if your Quad was not ordered to open fire, that another would have taken your place and if you refused, it would be standing over your dead body...” She takes a stuttering breath. “And some, like myself, just try to not think about it.”
“Does anyone ever talk about it?”
“Most prefer not to, but some Turai do get used to or even anticipate being ordered to fire on unarmed crowds,” Arketta says, turning from upset to furious. “Officially, pacification orders are necessary and that is all there is to it. Unofficially, you don’t dare speak against them or you end up on a re-education grid or worse. There is no need to say much, though. We’re all given pacification orders from time to time, and you just follow them.” She looks at her mother and says something in Imperial, and Arlana’s eyes narrow with anger at whatever memories Arketta’s words sparked while Ody just sadly shakes his head.

“I’m sorry to to have disturbed your home. I should leave you to your family in peace.” Hunter takes a long sip of the not-quite-tea. “I do need to ask about one more thing, first. What would it take for troops to not open fire? What would need to happen? How can things change?”
Arketta takes a moment and holds her mother’s hand, but Hunter’s question does brighten her mood slightly. “Well, in my time with the Narsai’i, and from what I know, if the highest ranking Turai does not believe that pacification is the right thing, and that if most of the Turai there do not believe in pacification either, then you can try to talk them out of it. This is not common, but it does happen. As for change, aside from winning this war and convincing people that there is a better way, I see no solution.”
“When you say ‘highest-ranking Turai,’ do you mean on-site at the time, or in the theater of operations, or in the leadership structure?”
“I mean right there, Major,” Arketta says. “If the Turai in your possible Quad believe that pacification is wrong, and that they can ignore the order without being killed for it, you will have a chance to convince them to defect.”
“That’s promising. Up at the top, are all the decisions made by the” Hunter pulls up his reading notes on the Turai for a double-check “Hand that Guides the Sword? How does he or she get to that position? Is there a chance to drive a wedge between the Turai leadership and the nobles or the Stewards?”
“All decisions not made by the Emperor about the Turai are made by the Hand that Guides,” Arketta confirms. “When the previous Hand that Guides is removed from duty, by the Emperor, or retirement, or usually, death, the Emperor appoints another. As for creating problems between the Turai and the nobles or Stewards, I think that the fact that the Hedion nobles are currently either living in fear of the Ethics Gradient and Wandering Gallows in orbit above their planet or, like Steward Saloma, being tortured or awaiting execution tells you what you need to know.”
“So, the Turai answer only to the Emperor, and are empowered to do anything they see fit to preserve the Imperium, is that accurate?”
Arketta nods. “The stewards guide the Turai on local matters, but they only really answer to the Emperor. The stewards are just the Emperor’s chosen leaders. What the Emperor says is what matters.”
Hunter has a glint of paradox in his eye as he asks his next question. “If they felt it was necessary to preserve the Imperium, could they end the corruption and bring just rule to the planets?”
Arketta laughs at that. “If the Emperor ordered it. Otherwise, they would not. The Turai are not some sort of...independent group. They do what the Emperor orders them to do because it is for the good of the Imperium, and they know what is good for the Imperium because it is what the Emperor tells them to do. That is all.”
“This last question might be above our pay grades, but I think it is worth asking. If the Emperor thought that an end to corruption or major reforms were necessary to preserve the Imperium...”
Arketta smiles and shakes her head. “Please, let me stop you. The Emperor would never, ever do this. The corruption is the Imperium.” She thinks about it for a moment more. “Well, not exactly like that, but what would these reforms be? The pacifications happen because it is what they think is needed to keep the Imperium together, something that will only get worse as we gain more ground. The corruption is there because as long as resources and lats continue to flow, the Imperium survives. As long as there is war with Narsai, there will be no reforms, because that would be giving in to the Narsai’i. Planets might be convinced that we have a better way, but the Emperor, and the Imperium, will not be. That is how it has been for thousands of years, and that will not be changing any time soon.”

“Maybe so, but things sometimes have a way of leaping from the unthinkable to the inevitable in situations like these. Forcing choices between things that didn’t seem either/or, like between the Emperor and the Imperium, between stability and corruption, or between resources and authority, these help structure how we might position ourselves, how strategy starts to work itself out in ways that strike not only at the enemy’s forces, but directly at their systems of command and control. Ambiguity and paradox are going to be our best friends for a while to come, I believe, until we’re strong enough to openly confront them in ways that break down their ability to make decisions at the highest levels. I don’t mean to ask silly questions, but one of the advantages to approaching with a beginner’s mind is that it’s easier to find the contradictions inherent in the system. And every system has contradictions. My job is to find theirs and push, maybe also to find ours and pull.” Hunter finishes his tea. ”When you get a chance, give the crazy dilemmas a little more thought, and see if there are any that unlock possibilities you hadn’t considered.” Setting the cup and saucer aside, Hunter stands and bows respectfully to the family as a group. “Thank you for having me as a guest. I have learned much. I am sorry if I have disturbed you. If ever you want to speak with me further, please ask.”
Arketta communicates Hunter’s words to her parents, who bow in return and say something back. “They say it’s all right, that someone needs to hear what it is really like in the Imperium,” Arketta says. “But let me answer the question I think you were getting at before. There is no difference between the Emperor and the Imperium. Not really. Having seen it from outside of it, it seems clear to me that the Imperium is not the people in it, but the...system, I think is the word, that they all live in. I agree with Garrett - if we’re going to defeat the Imperium, it’s going to be by convincing enough people to leave it.”
“Ah!” Hunter interjects, remembering a point of consideration. “What should I call the people who live in the Imperium? We’ve been saying Imperials, but I wasn’t sure it unfairly equated the people to the system.”
Arketta gives Hunter a confused look. “But they are Imperials. I am an Imperial. It’s just that the system is not the people, which is just like it is here, yes? You’ve rebelled against governments before, and talk about how your government is not just your people, but still call yourselves Americans.”

“Well, if you want to talk about nations and imagined communities we’d be here all afternoon, and I would drink all of your tea and feel like a terrible guest. But as I am not we shall have to table that discussion for a long voyage. Listen, even if it’s just the Imperial word for ‘the people,’ or ‘citizens,’ or a neutral plural noun, it would be great to have a term that doesn’t directly link the everyday people under the system to the enemy that everyone’s afraid of. It would make my job easier, and I think it would ease some of the mental barriers people here have. We don’t have to decide right away, but I’d like to have a term to use in the reports.”
Arketta looks confused, then shakes her head. “I do not know. I mostly just punch and shoot people and kick in the occasional door. You should talk about this with Garrett, Director Barnes and Brinai, they would be much better at this than me.”
“Core competencies. Got it. I’ll let you know if I’m having trouble getting into my new apartment, then.” Hunter smiles, and offers his hand to Arketta. “Seriously, thank you for being willing to do this.”
Arketta smiles and shakes Hunter’s hand. She’s got a strong, firm handshake. “Thank you for being honest and trying to help us. We need it right now.”
“Don’t we all...” Hunter smiles back a little wanly. So much of what happens to this family is not in his hands, but he intends to do the best he can with what he has.

Hunter is sitting by himself in the Task Force 815 work room, putting his notes together into a preliminary conflict assessment and the beginnings of something more like a real report when Garrett Davis walks in and heads to the gear lockers up against the back wall. "Hey, you flew in from Africa, you have good desert gear on you, right?"
"Nothing super-tactical beyond a flak vest, but yeah, I've got a suitcase full of breathable stuff that keeps out the dust and heat."
Davis pulls a set of IOTV armor out of his locker and hefts it over his shoulders. "You might want to get it and change if you're coming with us to Boranai. You can pick up something Imperial on the other side. Oh, and some armor wouldn't be a bad idea. I think we have a spare Interceptor vest in the locker over there," he says, pointing to a box in the corner.
Hunter looks at Davis' vest. "Oh-ho. Improved OTV. That's a step up. Interceptor'll do fine. I managed to not get killed by it for 20 years."
Hunter walks over and picks up the vest. "Alright then, if I'm going out into the field, I think I'm going to need more than the notebook. Where can an upright man lay hands on some heavy weaponry?"
Davis smiles, and opens another locker to reveal a M240L. "GRHDI gets all the cool toys."
"Well isn't that something? Looks like I won't have to stock as much Tiger Balm as I expected. My back thanks you in advance."

While Hunter inspects the machine gun, Davis pulls a Army Olive gun-like device out of his own locker. It could be a launcher for really, really big grenades, but when he presses a button on the side and the weapon's massive barrel levers open (it has to be at least 50mm in diameter), it's just a metal plate with some gold contacts, no place for a round to go. He pulls a foot-long rod out of a small hole in the back, inspects it, then slides it back in. "XM-10 beam rifle," Davis explains. "Our version of the Imperium's weapon of choice." He closes the weapon with a click, and it beeps while a few lights go from red to green.
"Any chance I can put in some range-time with one of them? I'm curious for a hands-on evaluation of their operation."
"Certification with the XM-10 is required for all GRHDI military personnel," Davis says. "We have some chamakanas - Imperial beam rifles - that you can practice on too, as well as several complete suits of Turai armor. Coming from the desert like you have, you'd really appreciate the built-in atmo conditioning."
"Outstanding. Nothing like an inside-out sense of capabilities to deepen analysis," Hunter says. "Let me ask you something, though: When do you think Turai are going to start fielding their versions of our weapons?
"We've already seen Khiraba with knockoff SCARs, but I doubt the average Turai will be using slug-throwers any time soon." Davis cinches down the straps on his armor and pat-checks his vest-mounted gear. "They're trained with the chamakana, and the weapon has more than a few advantages over our stuff still."
"Well, not having to hump ammo all over the damn planet, that's useful."

"And a few others that we'll show you when you're suited up in the Turai armor." Davis hefts his backpack and weapon, dons his sunglasses and waits for Hunter to finish checking the weapon and putting on the armor. "Anything else you need or want before we go? You might want a camera, most people want a picture of their first Gateway crossing."
"Good call. This is some first-day-of-school level of memorializing right here." Hunter walks back over to his packed kit bag - still with a slight coating of African bush dust. He pulls a digital camera and a leather shoulder bag out, the bag warn but well-kept and already with his basic "on the road" gear inside, to which the camera, notebook and recorder are added.

When Hunter finishes gathering his gear and packing it into pouches and his shoulder bag, Davis stands back up. "Ready to take your first steps into a brand new world, Hunter?" he asks with a big grin on his face.
"Lead on, MacDavis. You ever get used to it?"
"Used to walking through the Gateway? Sure," Davis says. "The brief hit of nausea goes away. Try not to yark on my boots, by the way." He smiles. "Getting used to walking thousands of light years in a single step and having a thousand worlds a ten minute walk away? I hope I never do."

----

Ten minutes later, the rest of Task Force 815 are assembled on the staging area of the Diego Garcia Gateway. Hunter takes his first real look around the interior of the Gateport - not that there's all that much to look at. Aside from a row of Earth-prefab trailer offices to one side, the complex is dominated by the massive Gateway and its attendant Groi reactor. The heavy concrete blast roof is supported by ten equally thick concrete pillars, four on each side and two more across the back. It reminds Hunter of more than a few bunkers he's been in, but this one seems more focused on keeping things in than keeping things out. Two heavy machine guns are pointed at the Gateway and staffed by bored-looking soldiers, and the steel iris itself conceals the Gate from view. All the action in the room is concentrated on the concrete hut positioned just to the left of the Gateway, with the two soldiers in charge of organizing traffic in the Gateport on both sides of the Gateway.

Hugh waves for one of the men in the control room to hurry up, and as the sun drops below the top of the massive entrance to the Gateport bunker, Hunter sees the bright golden flash of an opening Gateway play across the back wall of the bunker for the second time that day.

The Gate technician's communications with the other side play out across the PA system, but one side of the communications is in Imperial, so Hunter only catches half of the exchange. The first thing said is in Imperial from the other side, quickly followed by a response from the control room. "Paarnu, Seven, Niner, Alaph, Two, Narsai," the gate control officer radios back. What must be a authorization code seems to be well received on the other side, and an interrogative is sent back. "We have Task Force 815 on their way to Boranai, including a new member."

More Imperial over the PA, and then the iris starts to retract from in front of the Gateway. Slowly, the opening in the center of the iris expands to reveal a slightly shimmering window to Atea. A few people walk past the open Gateway on the other side, and an older woman and a tall, thin man stand waiting on the yellow caution stripes of the Gateway platform. Behind them, a wall of grey metal rises up, with a massive bulkhead and several different sizes and colors of pipe running along the grey wall and the red ceiling. Red stripes mark the floor beyond the platform as well, what they mean, Hunter can't say.

"Gateway open, sirs," the Gateway control officer says over the PA. "Have a good and safe trip."

A few pictures are taken, a few jokes cracked, and the memories are promptly queued to send off to trusted friends and family by vox. That gotten over with, Hunter sets about stepping through.

The actual physical act of stepping through the Gateway doesn't feel like anything - one second on Earth, the next just not. Nothing feels different, except for a sudden wave of nausea - like the worst jet lag ever, all in one instant. Hunter fights a valiant few seconds to get it under control, then walks over to the edge of the ramp, drops to one knee and vomits in a regretted but practiced motion learned over years of PT. After wiping his mouth and spitting a few times, Hunter notices the scent of oil, grease, stale recycled air and the body odor of human beings packed in close quarters - if it wasn't for the dryness of the air and the complete lack of sea salt in the aroma, he'd swear he gated into a submarine.

The whole room is bigger than expected - probably 40 feet long, 30 feet wide, and five feet taller than the Gateway itself, with two large access ways leading off either side - pathways large enough for a deuce-and-a-half truck to drive through. The red stripe motif on the floor and ceiling continues on the whole room, and more pipes, cables and bulkheads dominate the top corners of the room, with the areas to either side of the gateway a maze of pipes and cables, only some of which are connected to the Gateway. A half-dozen men and women in strange clothes (some in jumpsuits, some in clothes similar to Davis) with strange haircuts speaking Imperial walk and run about while the elderly woman and tall man Hunter saw through the Gateway before don't move at all - they're obviously both of some importance, wearing less utilitarian clothing and not involved in the bustle of the Atea Gateway. Looks like this might be Brinai, Hunter thinks. Better salvage what I can out of a first impression.

Hugh watches Hunter lose his breakfast with a sympathetic wince; he knows all too well that queasy feeling from walking through gateways that never really goes away.

"Slow, deep breaths, Major," Hugh advises. "It'll pass in a few seconds."

He looks loaded for bear, wearing tactical webbing over Multicam fatigues, with an assault pack on his back and a duffel bag in his left hand. His XM-10 (Serial I000-Alpha-0067, "Old Sparky") hangs off a three-point sling drawn from his right shoulder to his left hip, which keeps the weapon almost vertical in front of him with the very end of the rifle's butt about seven inches below his chin. It's not a fighting loadout at this stage, but it does contain just about everything he'll need to assemble that.

"Hey guys," Hugh says, sounding almost forcibly relaxed. "How's the revolution coming?"

Zaef bares a bizarre mishmash of both Imperial and Narsai equipment. Frag grenades tap companionably against throwing knives of Imperial make. Gauntlets from Turai armor visibly clash with the MBAV dyed in Boranai desert camouflage. A chamakana and quiver are held by the straps and harnesses of Narsai tactical webbing.

He strides over to the rebel leaders, walking past a harried looking man with a vacuum, and lets out a big sigh through his nose when he stops in front of Brinai. Zaef caresses the hilt of his Turai sword as he frowns, clearly waiting for her to shoot first.

Luis's gear is as much of a mix as that of the others on the team, but he barely notices it at the moment. Through his eye's overlay, he's watching the data traffic of the Diego Garcia Gateroom, watching packets flicker back and forth between the servers, and then on to the Gate itself. The packet's makeup marks their type: internal data, the omnipresent comm chatter, instructions to the Gate itself and (from a separate system) to the iris.

When the Gate whumps open, the sound cuts through the Gateroom's background noise, but what;'s more apparent is the onrush of additional data paths in Luis' vision. Now the data has a different feel as data filters between Earth computers and Atea's cogitators through a mish-mash of connection protocols. The traffic of Earth and Atea technicians going through the formal routines of establishing identity, connection status, traveler list, and other more technical details is smooth and routine despite the interfaces, so Luis lets the streams of multicolored text and numbers fade into the corners of his vision as the control officer gives the go-ahead, then shoulders his gear and follows the others across the invisible but noticeable dividing line of the Gate.

From the other side, the data stream of the Atea Gateport has yet another tinge, but Luis lets his sniffer close out and instead focuses on the physical room around him again. Off to the side of the Gate, Hunter gives in to the the nausea Luis is trying to ignore himself. Hugh stops to offer advice and check, but Luis makes a mental note to check that Hunter doesn't need any of Dramamine for the next trip. Looking back into the bustle in the control area, Luis spots Brinai and Bello awaiting the team. "That's one show over," Luis thinks. "Time to get this one on the road."

"Things are fine on our end, Verrill," Brinai replies, steel in her eyes. The harsh look vanishes for the next line. "And how are things for you? I have heard worrying things from my people on the other side of the Gateway. Your government conspiring against you, trying to turn you into monsters? It's horrible, the things I have heard them say about you." She nods towards Hunter. "And who is this?"
Bello merely walks over and helps Hunter to his feet - and pats Hunter down in the process. Hunter feels him stop just short of lifting his wallet. "The illness will pass quickly," he says in halting English.

While Bello helps Hunter and helps himself to Hunter, Brinai stares back up into Zaef's eyes, returning the intensity of his look. "Hello, Zaef. Do you need something from me?"
"Just wanted to hear if there was any news from the flight deck. Finished repairing a real junker of a craft before I left, wanted to see if she's flying now," Zaef grunts. Hasn't started yelling at me yet. That's promising.
"Ah, yes. They're going to take it out for its test flight tomorrow," Brinai replies. "Or so I recall."
Zaef nods curtly. "Good. I'll drop by there later and ask them how it went."

"His name is Major Hunter Brand," Hugh explains, preferring not to get into the questions of their treatment on Earth. "We're trying to put together a field manual on how we operate so we can teach others how to fight the Imperium more effectively. Major Brand has experience in such things but doesn't know our methods yet, so we hope that his fresh perspective will bring valuable insights."

"I've had a chance to speak with him at length, Brinai," Davis says. "I'm willing to trust him for now. He seems genuinely interested in fostering a better alliance between the Narsai'i and the Bashakra'i, and helping us deal with the Narsai'i government."
Brinai looks mildly surprised with Davis' endorsement for the newcomer - and rather unconcerned with Hugh's. "Hmph. Well, I suppose that not all the Narsai'i we have met so far have not been trying to destroy us, Garrett."

Brinai walks over to Hunter, who is now more-or-less trapped between the old woman, the taller man, and the railing of the Gateway platform. "What do you have to say...for yourself?" Brinai asks, her English marginally better than Bello's - good enough to keep the sharp look of distrust in her eyes in her voice.

Hunter pulls himself up to his (relatively average) full height, and speaks in neutral tones. "With all you've been hearing, I know it will take time to learn who I am. That's perfectly alright. I'm not here to order anyone around or sabotage anything. My job right now is to watch, and learn, and write. If I succeed, then more people learn about why and how 815 does what it does, and they get support from the highest levels of government.
"This team seems to be very skilled, but so much of their success comes from things that only they know, and relationships that only they have. What happens if they get sunballed? What happens if they get captured? More than that, they've basically been running Narsai'i foreign policy. They're very good people, but it's not their profession. More people need to learn the ways of life outside Narsai so that they can work, communicate, and coordinate well with the Baksharai'i and Naranai'i at large." Hunter makes deliberate use of the word he's finally found, a collective noun for inhabitants of the Milky Way, quite curious to see what the reaction might be. As far as he knows it's not a particularly common term. "That starts with giving them a picture of things as they really are."

"Hmph." Brinai narrows her eyes and stares at Hunter's face for a few moments. He's acutely aware of how close both the tall man and Brinai are to him. "Naranai'i." She looks over to Davis. "Does he speak Imperial yet?"
Davis shakes his head. "No, he was hired yesterday, Narsai'i time. He's supposed to be a quick study in languages, though."
Brinai turns back to Hunter and smiles. "Good. He certainly looks like he believes what he says, I'll give him that. And I have wondered who would be the next Narsai'i in line to bother me at all hours if your team were to smoke a beam."
"Your lunches wouldn't be the same without me, Brinai," Davis cracks.

Brinai switches back to English. "People could think...that 8-15 do better at leading than Narsai'i leaders do." She waves back at the assembled team. "What are you here...to do, then, Hunter Brand?"

Hunter keeps iron in his eyes as the others speak imperial around him. He's picking up a few more words than yesterday, but still gets way more of his information from body language and tones.
"We all wear many masks, play many roles. 815 started as soldiers, now they are also ambassadors, teachers, researchers, and businessmen. Perhaps times like these demand it. So, they got a researcher who's also a soldier to understand the situation. I have many methods of understanding this struggle, but it starts with talking to people without thinking I know anything. So, when you have the time I am interested in interviewing you, and anyone else you think I should talk to. "

Brinai raises her eyebrows when Hunter mentions interviewing her. "And now he wants time to ask me questions, alone no doubt. Not exactly something that the Narsai'i have been interested in before. It's a prime opportunity to get across to the Narsai'i how stupid they are being, but it's also an opportunity for them to deliver a blow to bring us under their control. What do you think, Bello?"
"It's an awfully big security risk," Bello says. "Especially since we don't know who this Hunter Brand is, and if he does intend to do us harm, you are not in shape to fight him by yourself anymore, Brinai." Bello gives Brinai a knowing smirk, which she returns with a sarcastically raised eyebrow. Both of their expressions shift back to solid poker faces when they turn back to Hunter, though. "He could be another agent, like Walton Simmons. It'd be best if we keep him at arm's length."

Hunter can sense from the furrowed brows and deep discussion that there's not a lot of trust in this room for him. It's understandable, given Earth-Bashakra'i relations as of late, but Hunter is beginning to get the feeling that strange Narsai'i aren't exactly welcome on Atea at the moment, and that he might need to worry about more than just not scoring this interview.

Davis looks over to Luis and Hugh, signaling that he'll handle this before walking up behind Brinai and Bello. "Hey, before we get to the 'should we toss him out of an airlock' part of this conversation, can I say something?" Brinai nods at Davis to go on. "He's made it pretty clear to the eight of us that he's open-minded when it comes to doing things our way, if not actively sympathetic. He's been working in places, helping people like us for years. He's one of us. He might not speak the language or know his bows, but, for my lats, his head is in the right place. Let him interview you, Brinai." He looks at Bello. "I'm just as concerned with Brinai's safety as you are, Bello, you know that. I wouldn't put someone I thought was a threat in the same room as her, but if you really want, I'm sure Hunter would be fine with some guards posted outside her door. Worst case, they can scrape him off the wall after Brinai blasts him with that handcannon she keeps under her bed." Davis gives them his most winning smile. "What do you think?"

Even though Hunter only caught the occasional word from Davis' speech, the gist of his body language was clear: he was stepping up to bat for him and pouring on the charm. Whatever Davis said seemed to break the ice, though, because Brinai slowly untensed and stopped looking back over her shoulder at Hunter as Davis talked. Bello still seemed rather wound up, but Hunter was getting the idea that was a more permanent state of being for the tall Bashakra'i.
Brinai nods. "If you vouch for him, Garrett, I believe that we can trust him well enough for a brief interview. Bello?"
Bello shrugs. "Your word is fine with me, Garrett. But I still want those guards outside, and cameras watching for trouble."
Davis smiles and claps his hands. "Deal." He looks up at Hunter. "You've got your interview, Hunter. The only stipulation is that there be guards outside the room, and cameras watching to make sure nothing goes wrong."

"That'll work." Hunter furrows his brow, and leans in to tell Davis, "If you think it'll put them at ease I'm happy to have another person in the room. Particularly if that person can translate in a pinch, not just a young buck looking for a flinch to give him an excuse to draw down on me. I'm trying to figure out where they're actually coming from, and it's not like I can anonymize most of her comments."