The organized chaos and contained panic of the evacuation from the Afghanistan forward operating base post-Ra’pah attack helped at least two people - Boyd Kravitz and Alexander Danielsson. Having been freshly inducted to the ranks of the Bashakra’i the night before, the pair simply hid out in the Bashakra’i controlled part of the base and slipped their way out with the evacuating Turai, green-and-blue Bashakra’i hoods pulled over their shoulders to conceal their OCP uniforms underneath. The Marines didn’t put the alarm out for two UA soldiers until the Manta landed at Kabul, by which time the Bashakra’i had already shifted them into the jump seats of separate cargo skimmers. Neither one knew the MPs were scouring Kabul Airfield for them as the skimmers lifted off for the long flight back to the Bashakra’i village in Virginia.

Lifting off from Kabul turned out to be the last time either one saw a Narsai’i before they left. The Bashakra’i village was more or less completely mobilized for the effort to get the Turai, Sheen, and Wherren detachments back through the Gateways as fast as possible. Shenloma, Leaj, and their quad arrived shortly after Danielsson and Boyd finished assisting with the unloading, and swept them up in their rotation through the Gateway. Once on Atea, both of them felt a weird combination of relief and sadness - they had made it to their new home, but left their old one well and truly behind. The day/night cycle on Atea was on the night side when they arrived, so instead of trying to in-process the two newest Bashakra’i, Shenloma and Leaj waved goodbye to their unit and signed all four of them into open temporary berthing near the Gateport. After a quick shower to shake the last of Narsai off, all four of them passed out.

---

There’s a quietly insistent beeping tone in the room and Danielsson’s brain wakes up just enough to compare it to the reference pattern. Does it sound like the alarm on his beat-up Casio wristwatch? No. Fuck off, then, his brain decides. After years of sharing spaces with soldiers coming and going at all flavors of Zero Dark Thirty, Danielsson’s pretty good at sleeping through other people’s alarms. Pretty good at sleeping in general. New report: pressure on his arm. That’s okay, too, in a sense. You get soldiers brushing past you. It’s only when the sensation lasts that it starts to scan as intentional. The trained heuristics of Danielsson’s sleeping brain are no longer sufficient. Time to wake up and sort this situation by conscious means.

Danielsson’s eyes flutter open and focus on Shenloma looming over him. Danielsson greets him with an eloquent “Whaaa?”
“Hey, personnel office opens in an hour and a half,” Shenloma says. “Shower and get dressed, we can grab food on the way.”
“Boyd’s already in there,” Leaj says as she cruises past in her skinsuit. “Soap’s on the wall.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Danielsson says. He digs himself out of bed and sits up, stretching his arms as he tries to regain his bearings. “You guys got a favorite breakfast place? Anything to look forward to?”
“Pastries place does a hell of a sweet roll on the way,” Leaj says. “They grind up firefruit berries for the topping, gives it just the right amount of heat.”
“Sweet and heat, hell of a combination,” Danielsson says, then climbs out of bed completely and meanders over to the communal bathroom. “Yo, Boyd!” he shouts as he wanders in and walks past Boyd Kravitz’s stall, leaving the customary empty stall between them before picking one for himself. “You gonna Hollywood this shower or what?”
“Depends, you gonna lie around in bed stroking yourself or can we get this shit started?” Boyd replies.
Danielsson chuckles and strips off his undies, then steps into the open stall. Indeed, there’s the soap dispenser. Some sort of “wave your hand here” thing to turn on the shower. Temperature’s already nice. This space shit isn’t so hard. “Know what I really miss already about the Army?” Danielsson asks.
“What?” Boyd replies.
“Nothing!” Danielsson shouts. “Fucking nothing. You miss anything about the Corps?”
“Nope,” Boyd calls back. “Feels good to be, like, fighting for the side that’s actually doing the right thing. You know?”
“Or fucking anything at all,” Danielsson says. He pauses for a moment as the water splashes on both of them. “You text your family where you’re going?”
“Told them I’m joining my banner brothers and sisters, that I found the war I should have been fighting all along,” Boyd replies.
“Bet they loved hearing that,” Danielsson quips.
“Dad is a Marine, too,” Boyd replies. “He gets it.”
“That’s good,” Danielsson says. What he pointedly doesn’t say is who he told about his departure. “You tell them about...the kauka?”
“Nah,” Boyd says. “They don’t need to know about that shit.”
“Yeah,” Danielsson says. “Got enough to worry about with our asses out here.” After a few more seconds of rinsing, he waves his hand in front of the sensor and turns the water off. “Got some hot intel - we’re having sweet rolls for breakfast. You coming?”
Boyd’s already at the sink, shaving, towel wrapped around his waist. “You think the Turai care if we keep shaving?”
“You’re asking me, banner brother?” Danielsson says. “I ain’t shaving shit. They press me, I’m getting a religious exception. Spent way too much of my life worrying about that crap.”
Boyd finishes up, looks down at his razor, then flicks it into the waste bin. “Sounds good to me.”

It took a few seconds for the newcomers to figure out how to both get into the seats-slash-harnesses on the Atea transit, but once they were largely comfortable and their breakfast was consumed, all that was left was to think about what today meant. Which leads both Boyd and Danielsson to an awkward realization at about the same moment.
“Uhh, Shen?” Danielsson asks. “Do you guys, like, need a birth certificate or a Social Security card or anything?”
“Why the fuck would they need a Social Security card?” Boyd asks.
“I don’t know! It’s just, like, a piece of ID, something that proves who you are, and all I fuckin’ got is my expired Minnesota driver’s license and CAC,” Danielsson says.
“It’s fine, guys,” Shenloma replies. “We’re vouching for you, not what your name is. You guys aren’t secretly murderers or war criminals or anything, right?”
“As far as I know,” Danielsson says. “Can’t speak to this guy.” Boyd elbows him in the ribs.
Leaj laughs at that. “Well, as long as you’re honest, we don’t really care what you call yourself. It’s not like people join the Bashakra’i with a ton of personal documentation - or personal belongings. You’re not the first Turai to defect in the field.”
“Right, right,” Danielsson says.
“So, how does all of this work?” Boyd asks.
“French Foreign Legion rules?” Danielsson adds.
Shenloma gives Danielsson a confused look, giving Leaj a chance to explain. “It is not complicated,” she says. “We take you to the office. We vouch for you, you register your names, there’s a short medical exam and then you’re registered.”
“So,” Danielsson asks, “whether we can be trusted, whether we’re useful, whether we’re gonna behave ourselves - that’s all on your say-so?”
“It already was,” Leaj says. “Iro’s a Rav-Odun, he can induct people, and we vouched for you to him and he accepted you.”
Boyd nods. “Yeah, I got that.”
“I got it, I just don’t buy it,” Danielsson asks. “Like, no background check, no proof of anything, just on your say-so we’re Bashakra’i?”
Shenloma and Leaj both nod. “Yeah, that’s it,” Leaj says. “You fought alongside us, we know who you are, and Iro trusts both us and you. If you turn out to be secretly evil, that’s on us, but we’re both pretty sure that’s not the case.”
“Outer space rebellions don’t need as much paperwork as the Army,” Boyd jokes.
“Danielsson, you’re one of us, Bashakra’i or not,” Shenloma says, taking on a more serious tone. “Onas talks about how he never felt Napai’i, but the Bashakra’i felt like home, and I believe it. You were always one of us. Iro just made it official.”
Boyd nods. “Fuck yeah, right there with you, banner brother.” He sticks out a fist and gets a dap back.
“Hey, that’s great and all, I signed enough forms in the Army already,” Danielsson adds. “Just saying, now that we’re here, bridges burned, I was waiting for the ‘Well actually’ shoe to drop.”
“Nope, no well-actually,” Leaj says. “All we’re doing today is getting you registered so we stop having to swipe our IDs for you in the transit.”
“Hmm,” Danielsson says. “All right.” He holds out his fist to Boyd. “Banner brother.”
Boyd taps his fist back and puts an arm around Danielsson. “Banner brother.”

----

The registration office, it turns out, looks pretty much like any other office Boyd and Danielsson have ever seen. Carved out of what looks like a double-wide berth and now filled with desks, a half-dozen Bashakra’i work on holos and voxes, while the two closest to the door look up from their holodisplays when the door opens.
“New inductees?” the woman closest to the door asks.
“Yep, fresh from Narsai,” Leaj replies.
“Nice,” the man working the other desk near the door says, then looks to Boyd and Danielsson. “Well, take a seat, let’s get you entered.”
Danielsson does as ordered, taking the seat opposite the man. “How do you do,” he says. “The name is ’Alexander Danielsson’.”
“Right,” the woman says. “Well, you’re gonna have to sound that out for me, so I can get the right sigils for you. Don’t want people mispronouncing your name, after all.”

“No, we don’t,” Danielsson says. “So that’s the final ‘a’ from Akwhela...” he begins, haltingly relating his first and last name as he puzzles through the Narana’i words he knows for the closest equivalent phonemes. “...and ‘son’ like...like ‘son’. Short. And there’s a double-s. Daniel-s-son. Got that?”
“Yes, I think I just about got it,” she says, and spins her holo around. “Say that out loud and tell me what you think.”
“Ah-le-sh-an-dar Dann-yel-s-son,” Danielsson says, trying very hard to read the Narana’i script and not just repeat his name. “Yeah, that works.”
“Perfect,” the woman says. “Now put your hands on the lit panels and look at the red light with both eyes open?” As she speaks, two glass panels on her desk light up white and a small sconce on a stalk pops up out of her desk.
Danielsson reaches down to wipe his hands on his pants, then puts them on the white sections of the desk and stares into the light, bracing for a flash.
“And that’s your hands and retinas scanned,” the woman says, the flash never coming. “Next is DNA.”
“Not a big fan of needles,” Danielsson half-jokes.
“Then you’ll like this,” she says, handing him a plastic swab with a spongy plastic tip. “Cheek swab, please.”
“That I can do,” Danielsson says. Turning away and covering his mouth with his free hand, he takes a quick one-two swab from the inside of his left cheek, then holds the result out to the woman. “There. What’s next, sock size?”
She inserts the swab into the port on the desk she pulled it from, and a green light turns on next to it. “That’s it,” she says, and grabs a plastic card that emerges from her desk. She passes it to Danielsson, who turns it over in his fingers. It’s got a bit of circuitry embedded in it, but the size seems mostly designed to make it hard to lose than anything else. “That’s your backup ID if you need it, and it also has your backup DNA sequence in case anything happens.”
Danielsson holds the card into the light, turning it this and that way. “Groovy,” he says. “Thank you.”
She smiles back at him. “Welcome to the Bashakra’i.”

Danielsson stands up, with Boyd, Shenloma, and Leaj already waiting for him.
“That’s what you get for having a name with so many sounds in it,” Boyd says.
“Yeah, yeah,” Danielsson says. “So, is your DMV that easy too, or is there some kind of karmic payback where it takes three days?”
“It’s the future, man,” Boyd says. “Roll with it.” He looks to Shenloma and Leaj. “So, what’s next on the tour?”
“Meeting your new Rav-Samal and Samal,” Shenloma says. “Check your voxes, you might recognize your new Division.”
Danielsson opens his vox, scrolling through a few new automated messages to the latest entries. He raises an eyebrow - it’s the same unit as Shenloma and Leaj. “Well,” he says. “Can we work with this, Boyd?”
Boyd looks up from his own wrist holo. “I mean, I haven’t heard great things about the people in that unit.”
“Yeah, well,” Danielsson says. “We’ll just have to set the standard.”

The transit journey to their new...Division, apparently (both Boyd and Danielsson get a good laugh about that bit of cross-cultural language shift) shows off well how variable the interior of Atea can be. It doesn’t take long before the shops, stores and offices near the Gateport give way to residential berth blocks broken up by recreational sectors, and finally, fifteen minutes or so further out, industrial blocks and storage blocks. It’s weird to see nanofab sections sharing space with Turai units, but it does make a sort of sense. Quarter-klick down the section from the transit adit is a big roll-up door with a smaller human-sized one next to it.

The smaller door slides open when Leaj touches the panel, and Boyd and Danielsson are instantly transported to...the interior of any infantry unit Company Office on Narsai. A few desks with holodisplays running, very fit people manning them, a tracking board (holographic in this case, of course) on the wall, and a big, somewhat gaudy, and obviously amateur-made piece of artwork on the biggest flat surface available showing off the unit’s self-chosen logo - some kind of wolven-looking predator, with scales and stripes of fur to go with its big teeth.
One of the Turai at the desks looks up. “Rav-Samal wanted to see you all when you arrived, he’s in his office,” he says.
“Got it, thanks,” Leaj says, and turns towards another door, the holotape on the door spelling out “Rav-Samal Dua, Commander, 1st Division of Bashakra’i 4th”.

The door slides open, and inside are a man and a woman, the man at the desk and the woman seated on the sofa sat near the wall. It actually seems slightly odd and out of place, like it doesn’t belong, and as everyone enters the office, it’s obvious why - the plasma cutter marks show clearly where it was cut out of a hab somewhere on the station that hopefully doesn’t need it anymore. They’re both chatting about what sounds like a holoserial when the group enters the office, with all four of them snapping to parade rest, then crossing the Akwhela on their chest and bowing.
“Turai Lelolooth, Abeon, Kravitz, and Danielsson reporting,” Leaj says.
“Thank you, Turai,” the man at the desk - presumably Rav-Samal Dua - says, and motions to four folding chairs in front of his desk. “Please, take a seat. Let’s have our newest Turai sit up front.” Everyone takes their seats, Boyd and Danielsson making up the first row as the Rav-Samal leans back in his chair a bit. “I remember you from Narsai. We didn’t work together much during the Afghanistan deployment, but I saw you in training, and you know your shit.”
“Thank you, Rav-Samal,” Boyd says.
“Yeah, thank you, Rav-Samal,” Danielsson echoes.
“And so I know what you can do, and so it’s only fair you know what we do here. You’ve been with Lelolooth and Abeon for a while, what do you know about what we do?” Rav-Samal Dua asks.
“In four words,” Danielsson says, “what the Narsai’i won’t. I’m not done reading up on your unit history, but I know the big strokes. I know there’s a big galaxy and a lot of stuff that needs to be taken care of if we’re all gonna make it to tomorrow. The way I figure it, you - we - go out there and do it.” He pauses. “My guess.”
Dua and the woman both smile. Neither of them are wearing Turai armor or even a skinsuit, so who she is is anyone’s guess, but judging by her younger age she’s probably a subordinate. “That’s the ravilar version, I guess. But you both look like shooters, so I’ll give you the shooter version.” He leans forward. “We’re the emergency connection for the Bashakra’i. Turai unit gets in over their head, spies need real firepower, someone grabbed or gone, or a hot extraction, we’re one of the Divisions that gets the message. Occasionally we get tasked out for six months or so to cover a real warzone for rapid-response, but otherwise, we’re here, on alert. We train hard, develop new tactics for new circumstances, and generally work be the best at blowing in doors and killing bad guys.”
Holy fuck they’re fucking Delta Danielsson thinks, and sneaks a look at Boyd who’s thinking the same thing but in Marine-speak. “Copy that, Rav-Samal,” Danielsson says, a smirk forming on his lips. “I think that’s in our wheelhouse.”
“Good,” Dua says. “Meet your Samal, Telon Kois. She’s the best Quad leader I have. She’ll work the shit out of you, but there’s no one better.”

Kois stands up, and effortlessly does the “I don’t need to size you up because I’m that good'' glance at both Boyd and Danielsson. She extends a hand to shake, and it’s clear from her grip that if Crossfit were a Bashakra’i thing, she’d have a wall of framed medals. “Welcome to the First of Ten, Turai. Leaj and Shenloma spoke very highly of you. Normally, we’d do in-processing and some PT for your first day, but since we’re all just getting back from that Narsai’i deathtrap, what we really need is hands and eyes for cleanup and accountability. They said you could pull a trigger, but how’s your counting?”
“Well, the Marines taught me to count pretty good, but I can’t vouch for Ranger Rick over here,” Boyd says with a smirk.
“You’re joking now, but don’t come crying to me if you have to count more than 10 and need help untying your boots,” Danielsson counters. Banter exchanged, he turns back to Kois. “I’ve done my share of layouts. Just show me the pile and I’ll get to sorting.”
“Good,” Kois replies. “Shenloma and Leaj will introduce you to Rav-Turai Aksana, and he’ll get you squared away.”
“Any questions for either of us?” Dua asks.
“No, Rav-Samal,” Boyd says. Danielsson just shakes his head.
“Then have fun,” Dua says, then turns to Kois. “Vakiis wants numbers by COB today. Make it happen.”
“Already done,” Kois says, and walks out the door before any of the four Turai can turn to leave.

---

There are many beautiful little nooks on Atea. Then there’s places like the one Leaj, Shenloma, Boyd and Danielsson find themselves in: decadently vast and industrial, each cell in the larger structure as big as a good-size Narsai’i warehouse. Not that you can see the whole structure from inside; your view only goes from one divider to the next, as engineering dictates that the passthroughs be as small as possible. It would be boring, if not for the knowledge that there's a hard vacuum on the other side of the massive bulkhead across the space from the entrance. Inside this vast metal box there are many, much smaller metal boxes - the Narana’i version of shipping containers - and a lot of Bashakra’i Turai sifting through piles of materiel, logging items on the vox holo version of a Mark 1 Mod 0 Clipboard and, as soldiers are wont to do, gently cussing throughout the process.

“So,” Danielsson says, taking in the expanse of work ahead of them. “You wanna start counting from the left or the right?”
“I think we should start by introducing ourselves,” Boyd says as a few Bashakra’i approach them.
“Boyd, Danielsson, Rav-Turai Aksana,” Shenloma says.
“Welcome to the 1st of 10,” Rav-Turai Aksana says as all four Turai snap to parade rest. “Relax, Turai. Abeon, Lelolooth, why don’t you help count rods and quivers.”
“Got it, Rav-Turai,” Leaj says, and they both head off towards one of the containers.
“So, I saw you two in action on Mesas Negras, I know you know your shit,” Aksana says, giving Boyd and Danielsson a nod. “But what’s your specialities? Or do the Narsai’i just train you to kick doors and pull the trigger?”
Danielsson gives Boyd the ‘You go first’ nod.
“Amphibious operations,” Boyd answers. “You need a vessel boarded or a beach stormed, I’m your guy.”
“I was a Ranger,” Danielsson says. “We do airborne and...less conventional warfare. I’m no sniper but I’m pretty handy with a rifle, plus bushcraft, explosives, that sort of thing.”
“Beaches, not too common out here, but boarding vessels we do all the time,” Aksana says. “You do much zero-g with the Narsai’i?”
“No, Rav-Turai,” Boyd says. “Not with the Narsai’i.”
“We got some practice the last time we were here for joint training,” Danielsson adds. “When I say ‘airborne’ I mean jumping out of perfectly good aircraft in atmo and coming down with a chute. Different crazy, but somewhat related, I guess.”
“How close can you get with cloaking?” Aksana asks. “Must not be the best tech if you’re needing some kind of decel device.”
Danielsson glances at Boyd. “There’s no cloaking tech on Narsai’i,” he says. “Our primary concern for airborne insertion is enemy radar. So we bail out a couple of kilometers above ground and then it’s either diving all the way until we’re one klick above ground, or we have a glide chute and open early so we can sail to the LZ away from the aircraft.” He smirks. “You’ve seen a Narsai’i uniform, yeah? Nothing too high-tech there. Just good pattern printing, face paint and whatever natural materials you can find in the AO.”
“Huh,” Aksana says. “Well, that’s certainly one way to hit the action.” He smiles. “Well, what I want from you two is getting on board with the way we do things as soon as you can - but show us new tricks. I know you Narsai’i have all sorts of toys and tactics we don’t - show us what we’re missing.”
“Of course, Rav-Turai,” Boyd says.
“So,” Danielsson says, “Rav-Samal Dua told us you need help with the layouts?” He glances past Aksana. “Looks like you need a lot of help.”
Aksana’s smirk widens. “Protein packs. Check your vox for the Quad receipt.”
Boyd and Danielsson activate their holos and scroll through the newest message. Danielsson whistles appreciatively.
“We’ll get on that right away, Rav-Turai,” Boyd says.
“What do they taste like, anyway?” Danielsson asks. “Don’t say ‘protein’, please. I mean, I guess we’re gonna find out soon enough, but forewarned is forearmed, you know?”
“Supposedly it tastes like what the autochef makes it taste like, but...it tastes like protein,” Aksana says with a laugh.
“Okay,” Danielsson says. “Sounds like the first Narsai’i gear you guys need is some Tabasco.”
“After the layout, Alex,” Boyd says.
“After the layout,” Danielsson confirms. “Anything else?”
“Nope,” Aksana says. “Get to work, Turai.” He turns around and goes off to check in with another trin elsewhere.

“So,” Danielsson says. “I think I had his brother as a platoon sergeant once.”
“Funny, was just gonna say the same thing,” Boyd says. “Let’s get this done. Piles of ten?”
Danielsson nods. “Yep.” They both get down on their knees on the cold metal floor and start stacking beige packs.

Atea, being a self-sufficient city and military base floating in space, has everything you would expect from such a combination - including cheap dive bars full of soldiers. The 1st of 10 has a particular watering hole that they prefer, and it’s there that Rav-Turai Aksana herded his quad to when Samal Kois double-checked and signed off on their layout and accountability at about 1830 Atea time - ahead of most of the other quads, Aksana noted. The “brandy” and “whiskey” there is cheap, and so is the decor, but the seats are comfortable, the lights are low, the games mostly work, and even the two Narsai’i have to admit the music’s not too bad.

“So!” Leaj asks, dropping into the seat next to Shenloma with their order in her hands. She passes Shen’s glass to him and puts an arm around his shoulder. “What do you think?”
“That I need to learn how to ratfuck and spice protein packs ASAP,” Danielsson says. “They look like there’s more flavor in the packaging than in the food. I mean, what do you guys do with those? Or do you just push them through an autochef and hope for the best?”
“Turai issue field autochef,” Shenloma says, taking a sip from his plastic “glass” of grain alcohol. “The plastic nozzle goes in, and it tries to make it taste something like spink or scrofa.”
“It doesn’t do the best job, but it’s palatable enough, and there’s sauce packets that help a lot,” Leaj says.
Danielsson smirks and turns to Boyd. “And we thought MRE pizza was high tech.”
“But seriously though, what do you think?” Leaj says, pushing the issue.
“I think this is where I’m supposed to be,” Boyd says. “Out here, kicking the Imperum’s ass. Getting an upgrade to the premiere door-kickers in the Bashakra’i beats the shit out of sitting around Pendleton or whatever, waiting for another call to some Middle East shithole where most of the people there didn’t do squat to anyone, yet we’re still there blowing their homes up. Here, all we do is kill bad guys. Period.” He downs his glass in one gulp. “I’m fucking here for that shit.”
“Is that right, Captain Akwhela?” Danielsson asks, swirling the quote-unquote whiskey in his quote-unquote glass. Then he actually thinks about it. “I mean, bombing dirt getting nothing done, that’s right. Obvious? But right. And I don’t like saying ‘bad guys’, but if anyone’s got it coming, it’s the Imperium. It’s not even good and evil at this point. It’s stop ‘em or get glassed from orbit.” He pauses again. “And we’re just sitting down there with our thumbs up our asses.” He sips. “Well, correction, we were. Now we’re here, at least.” He looks at Shenloma. “You know, there’s a lot of shit that needs to get done if we’re gonna have a home when this is over. And I was just thinking, if I hadn’t come with you, I’d be down there still, waiting on word that I know won’t come, doing stupid shit that won’t help anything, just getting older and more cynical and more fucked up by the day. You know what I felt like today? What I feel like now? That there’s a purpose here.”
“It’s okay, there’s no one here from Bashakra’i ICE here,” Boyd says, giving Danielsson a bit of a shove.
“I’m actually fucking serious,” Danielsson says. “Yeah, doing layouts is the flossing your teeth of soldiering, but that was good, too. At least something to do, and now I know what half of the shit on our TOE actually looks like. Give me a layout or a barracks sweep any day over staring at the desert and standing by to stand by. I like work. I can work. It’s the waiting that was killing me.”
“That’s good to hear, but...I know you came along for me,” Boyd says. “You made it clear back on Narsai, and...I don’t know why you did it, but I appreciate it.”
“Because we’re friends,” Danielsson said. “Did I forget to mention that to you?”
“Yeah, but...blowing up your whole life is something else, man,” Boyd says.
Danielsson gives a short, sharp laugh. “Oh, yeah, my life,” Danielsson says. “No great loss. See, Boyd, you’re stuck with your parents and your siblings. My life...more the pick and choose type. Life’s what you can carry with you, man. And family’s whoever you’re hanging out with day in, day out, right now. Anything more...I guess it’s good if you can get it. I don’t know if that’s gonna happen here, but it’s not hard to beat what I had going on dirtside.”
There’s a bit of silence at the table. “Shit,” Shenloma finally says.
“I’ll drink to that,” Leaj says, and taps her glass against Danielsson’s.
“So, you’re really down with all this defection shit?” Boyd asks.
“I joined the Army to protect my country, not to join the fucking Army,” Danielsson says. “If they’re not gonna do it, I’m gonna go to the people that will. And where I can hang with my buddies, have some fun and not feel like a jackass twiddling my thumbs.” He sips. “Why’s it got to be more complicated than that?”
Boyd thinks for a moment. “Fair enough. When I enlisted, half of the primary class in my hab block was there with me.”

Shenloma and Leaj both pause and stare at Boyd. “Okay,” Danielsson says, “either I’ve had too much of this stuff or you have. Pretty sure you didn’t grow up in a hab block, Boyd. Or go to a primary class, unless that’s a Jewish thing that doesn’t have an ancient-as-fuck name.”
Boyd’s face freezes for a moment, then he slams his “glass” on the table. If it wasn’t empty, its contents would have gone everywhere. “Fuck. That’s...that’s the first one.”
“That’s not that bad,” Shenloma says. For the first time, Shen looks directly at Boyd’s mismatched eye.
“Yeah, I’ll…I’ll go get you a refill,” Leaj says, taking Boyd’s glass back to the bar.
“Uh, Boyd?” Danielsson asks, every hint of a smirk gone from his face. “Are you okay? Maybe you wanna...call it a night, lie down?” The smirk returns uneasily. “I mean, it’s been a hell of a day and who knows what’s in this shit. Right?”
“No, no, I’m fucking fine, it’s just…” Boyd slams his fist into the seat. “Vidas fucking Lam, that’s the first time that’s happened, and...fuck me.” He leans back and wipes his eyes. “Shit, that’s fucking scary.” He closes his eyes for a moment. “I remember my parents, I remember my family. I remember Parris Island.”
“All the important parts,” Danielsson says, his smirk steadying for a moment. “But you got other shit rattling around in there, too, yeah? That must be a fucking trip.”
“Yeah, it fucking is,” Boyd replies. “Where’s Leaj? I need another drink to toast with.”
“She’s already on it,” Danielsson says. He’s not finishing his drink, though, weighing it in his hand. “Yeah, let’s do another toast. Figure we earned it, yeah?”
“I think we have,” Shenloma says, giving Leaj a peck on the cheek as she returns and slides Boyd another drink.
“To doing the right thing, and making all this crazy shit work,” Boyd says, raising his glass.
“To battle brothers and protein packs,” Danielsson adds, raising his own.
“To new battle brothers,” Shenloma says.
“To kicking the Imperium’s ass, together,” Leaj says, both of them raising their own glasses.
“Here here!” they all shout, and down their glasses together.