Jade Imperium - Convocation, Pt. 1

punkey 2013-07-01 15:01:02
It’s another warm afternoon on Whiirr when Hugh returns to village 815, this time with a messenger bag slung over his uniform. The path to the school is a familiar one - feels like the way home now. The corners of Hugh’s mouth lift by themselves when the distant din of the playing cubs strengthens into audible shouts and laughter. By now, Hugh’s there frequently enough that he’s no longer buried in an avalanche of screaming little fuzzballs whenever he arrives - the cubs just shout his name and wave to him before returning to their game, except for Torega, who runs over to him with a bright smile. Hugh takes a knee, then heaves her up and embraces her. It’s a good feeling - both to be reunited with his adoptive daughter, and to be able to lift her without feeling his knees try to catch on fire. After a quick mutual groom, he puts her back down, and Torega returns to play with the other cubs. Hugh looks after her for a moment, then turns to the school’s entrance, where the noise of his arrival already summoned Rhea.

”Hello, Rhea!” Hugh barks, walking over to embrace her.
"Hugh!" Rhea barks in return, and waves from her perch on the benches. She favors him with a quick lick as they embrace. "Only four days," she says with a smile.
”I’ve invaded planets with less warning,” Hugh replies with a grin. ”I brought you something.” He taps his messenger bag.
Rhea purrs. "What is it?"
Hugh smiles sheepishly. ”Well, I wasn’t always this strapping young soldier,” he says. ”And in the spirit of full disclosure” - Hugh withdraws a heavy, leather-bound book from his bag - ”I brought my baby pictures.”
"And tales to go along with the images, I hope?" Rhea asks, her smile still on.
”Only the most embarassing,” Hugh says.
Rhea reaches for Hugh's hand and guides him onto the bench next to her, wrapping her arm around him and pulling him up against her. "Then once the cubs return to their lessons, we shall have to go upstairs and I will see what you looked like as a cub."
Hugh smiles. ”That was my plan, yes.”

---

After a long parade of what must have been hi-fucking-larious at the time - Baby Hugh in a bathtub! Baby Hugh runs across the backyard! Baby Hugh and the cat! - and about halfway through the album, the two of them are getting into where Hugh enters the phase of his youth where he’s allowed to have a personality. His finger lingers particularly long over one picture - young Hugh, maybe seven or eight, loading his backpack into the family’s station wagon. He’s wearing a tiny scout uniform, and a pair of black-rimmed glasses threatens to slide off his nose as he leans forward to lift his heavy pack. An older man with horn-rimmed glasses is grabbing the pack by the other end, helping Hugh lift it into the car.

”Now, this is when I was literally a cub,” Hugh explains with a wistful smirk. ”I was in an organization called Cub Scouts. A place where young humans can learn a little about living in nature, you know, tents, campfires, identifying trees and animals, that sort of stuff. It was the first time I was away from home for more than a day. I think it’s also the only picture where those glasses are still in one piece - I tripped and fell and broke them on the second day, so we taped them up, but it turns out I didn’t really need to wear them anymore after a year or so.” He sighs. ”When you’re small, everything’s an adventure.”
Rhea has her arm still wrapped around Hugh, this time holding him against her chest as she looks over his shoulder at the pictures in the book. "It is," she nods. "I was eight years old when my litter accompanied our mother and father on our first hunting trip. It was only a few hours walk from the village, but it seemed like we were days away. We climbed the trees to scout and spot for our parents and their spears." Rhea sighs, and rubs her muzzle against Hugh's head. "It was the first time I helped with a kill, and that was when I knew I wanted to be a hunter."
Hugh grooms Rhea’s neck. ”Now, figuring out what I wanted to do with my life took me a bit longer,” Hugh says. ”My parents didn’t want to push me into any one direction, they let me do what I wanted to do, but I guess I just never felt a strong...direction. My sister had everything figured out. I just coasted and did whatever sounded good at the time. For a while I think I wanted to be a banker. I think I was into shocking my family, you know, going where they never thought I’d go...but I’m not that good at maths, so here we are.”
"Here we are," Rhea echoes, purring as she just enjoys the moment, but only for a few seconds before she sighs. "I wish I had one of those. Your book of images. All I have is stories, you have all of these images to go along with it."
Hugh’s voice shifts to a more reassuring pitch. ”The stories matter,” he says. ”The images...they’re just accessories.” He grows more thoughtful for a moment, then smiles again. ”And we’re going to have a lot of images of our future, Rhea, us and Torega and everyone else. It’ll be a lot more than one book.”
"Yes, it will," Rhea agrees, her vocalizations lifting, however momentarily. "But I can't even show you what my family looked like." Hugh sees her arms wrapped around him start to shift to a darkening purple shade. "You'll never get the chance to meet them, and I know..." she takes a stuttering breath in, "I know that my father would have loved so much to see me bonded to another warrior like you."
Hugh reaches up behind him and strokes the side of her head. ”Yes,” he says, ”and he would want that to be the happiest day of your life, Rhea.”
"And it will be," Rhea says before grooming Hugh's head. Red comes into Rhea's fur, however slightly. "The Imperium may have taken my family and Runet from me, but I have you, Hugh. And I will tell you all of the stories I can, so you and I will both remember them."
”And Torega,” Hugh says. ”Actually, we could record them, or write them down. Then the stories will never be forgotten.”
Rhea's fur stands on end. "Yes! With the voxes!" She purrs and gives Hugh a squeeze. "That's a fantastic idea. Thank you, bondmate."
Hugh leans back and gives her a quick peck on the side of her muzzle. ”Maybe it can become the first book on a free Whiirr,” he says. ”Not that I want to rush you or force you to publish it...but I’m just thinking, the stories of this generation should survive us - so that when there is peace, our children’s children will know.”
Rhea nods. "Both who we were, and what was done to us." She turns Hugh around - God, she's so strong - and embraces him face-to-face, rubbing her muzzle against the side of his head as she purrs, but her fur is still dark purple and Hugh can feel moisture on her cheeks. Hugh returns her embrace and climbs up a little to groom the side of her neck again. ”And what we did, and who we became,” he adds.
punkey 2013-07-01 15:01:36
Although the Mesas Negras airfield routinely sees the arrival of military cargo planes, the occasional charter airplane with amenities above and beyond cattle freight standards has been known to make a landing there. It’s one of those Hugh’s waiting for at the motor pool, watching the skies in anticipation and occasionally glancing at his watch. The plane’s late - ten minutes late so far - but that’s not cause for worry yet, except it is when you’re flying in your family and you haven’t seen them face to face in literal years and oh my god you’re getting married.

It’s a big fucking relief when Hugh can make out that white metal bird circling overhead. He climbs into his car, starts the engine and makes the drive over to the landing strip.

---

Cora Verrill is first out of the plane once it’s come to a halt, but she’s used to living a life of firsts. First child of Hugo and Michelle Verrill. First place team in 5th grade softball. Top pusher of Girl Scout cookies in her troop year after year. High school valedictorian. Bachelor of Architecture with 4.0 GPA, aced her ARE, has never been “between jobs” since then. If she can rock her client presentation in Dubai next week - and Cora Verrill always brings it at client presentations - there’s space for a “& Verrill” on the side of the building. But Cora’s little baby brother is getting married, and that’s more important right now, so she’s come halfway around the world to pick up her parents and get them to Middle of Nowhere, New Mexico.

Behind her, Hugo Verrill tries to heave what can only be called “carry-on” with the utmost charity - the enormous bag contrast comically with his rather slight build, but still, he tries to keep his smile and dignity intact as he slowly works the bag downstairs to the tarmac. Up until five years ago, Hugo used to have a ponytail, but with gray overtaking brown in his hair, it was time for a more somber trim. That was also when he stopped smoking and started running. Finished a half marathon this year. Looking to go for a full one next year.

Finally, there’s Michelle Verrill. She’s clearly the source of the tall genes in the family, with a slender and delicate frame that makes her look like starved royalty. You wouldn’t know it from looking at her now, but back when she and Hugo got their start in real estate, Michelle - tall, dignified Michelle - would spend hours getting into it with contractors, inspectors, loan officers, anyone who tried to give her lip. Hugo just stood back, smiled and took care of the numbers. They became the kind of functionally wealthy people you could only call “middle class” with a straight face in the US. Michelle’s still clutching a printout of Hugh’s e-mail - the one she’s been reading over and over on the flight - and her eyes light up when she sees his car the edge of the runway.

“There he is!” Michelle half-shouts, successfully overcoming the dying sounds of downspinning jet engines. Cora’s less restrained, waving and shouting a full-lunged “Hey, Bert! Over here!” to her little brother. Hugh approaches with rolling eyes. She calls him Bert, he pretends to be annoyed. It’s their little thing.
“I’m so glad you’re all here,” Hugh says, embracing each family member in turn. “Did you have a good flight?”
"The flight was fine, but I thought the security checks at Albuquerque would never end," Michelle asserts.
"Your big sister slept most of the way from Connecticut, to boot, so we haven't had time to catch up," Hugo adds.
“Since when do you have time for sleeping, Cora?” Hugh says with a grin.
"Since when do you have time for dating anyone, Bert?" Cora shoots back with an identical smile.
“Good one,” Hugh replies, then all but pries the bag from Hugo’s hands. “I got it, Dad.”
Hugo reluctantly gives up most of the bags he's hefting. "You going to make your mother and sister stand out here in the desert, then?" he asks.
“Geez, dad, one minute won’t kill them,” Hugh says. “My car’s over there. I managed to snag two rooms in the officer’s quarters for you guys. You’ll like it, it’s brand new.” He looks to Michelle. “Mom, no bothering the groundskeepers.” He then looks over to Cora. “Cora, no interior decoration critiques.” Finally, his eyes fall to Hugo. “Dad...as you were. Let’s go, guys.”

Hugh leads the way down the tarmac. Cora walks next to him, and every time he looks at her, she’s got a knowing smile on her face. Michelle spots a distant hangar and grabs for her phone to take a picture - Hugh gently explains that that is not a good idea on a military base. As for Hugo, he follows behind, whistling a little tune as he puts his sunglasses on. With his half-free hand, Hugh fumbles for the keyfob for his car - a silver Ford Explorer with questionable levels of window tint - before Cora takes the bags off him. Hugh nods to her, then clicks the tailgate open and helps his sister load up the bags.

“I put some Pepper in the icebox,” Hugh says to his parents as they climb into the car. “Anybody want the tour, or should I drop you off at your rooms right away?”
"Didn't come all this way to just sit in an air-conditioned dorm room," Hugo replies, and Cora and Michelle nod.
“Alright,” Hugh says, putting the automatic into Drive. “Behind us, the airfield. We’re getting about three cargo planes a day on average, a lot more for the joint exercises. They scared up a work party for a FOD walk yesterday, got themselves three heat casualties. I’m pretty sure this gets hotter than Iraq. Feels that way, at least. I’ll tackle the sights in the same breath: there aren’t any. Well, nothing worth mentioning, I’m sure you can imagine the kind of dives down the road from the main gate.”
Shortly, over the course of a few more paragraphs of Hugh’s withering description, they hit the main road past the barracks, and Hugh duly points out the off-worlders. “See the one with the metal trees and the Autobots sunbathing on the roof? That’s the Sheen hangar. And yes, they’re robots and they’re alive. They’re a little...intense, but I get along with most of them. Oh, after that, the Bashakra’i. You know, the rebels? And just behind that, the Wherren barracks where I do most of my work these days. It’s the one with all the tarps and shades, you really can’t miss it.”
"Is that where Rhea is?" Michelle asks tentatively - no small event for her - while pronouncing Rhea's name by the English pronunciation, which sounds completely wrong to Hugh's ears.
“You say that like Rrre-ah, mom, from the back of your throat,” Hugh corrects. “And no, Rhea’s still on Whiirr. She’s got her hands full with the cubs, and in any event the DoD’s cutting down on visitor access to the gateways. I could only clear you guys because you’re immediate family. Of course, once we’re bonded, Rhea will be, too. Refreshingly straightforward for Army red tape.”
"So...what is she like?" Hugo asks. Hugh can add his father - the third most straight-forward person he knows after his mom and sister - to the list of notably awkward passengers in the car.
“Rhea’s caring and gentle,” Hugh says. “She’s smart and a self-starter. And she puts up with me, so she’s clearly got the patience of a saint. So...I guess you were hoping I’d find a woman who’s good for me. Rhea’s definitely that. She makes me feel amazing when I’m with her. And, you know, makes me want to settle down, build a house, start a family. It’s strange, you just drift through life for years...and bam! Suddenly you find what you didn’t even know you were looking for. Uh, I’ll just stop here, anybody need insulin for all that sap?”
There's a silence in the car for a few seconds. It’s an awkward silence - nobody’s sure what to say to the latest twist in Hugh’s life, and there’s just too many unknowns to make a call either way. Hugh can tell that his family wants to be happy for him, but there’s still some convincing to do.
Cora, seated in the passenger seat, turns to Hugh. "Look, it's weird that you're getting married to someone that isn't human," she said point-blank. She's got a kind look on her face, but just like her parents and brothers, Cora doesn't mince words. "We all trust and love you, bro, and we believe you about what Rhea is like, but you've been pretending this whole time like she's some nice woman you met at the office. I know it doesn't matter that she's not human, but you do know that even if it doesn't matter, it still matters, right? She's not human, and that's something we're all curious and interested - and yes, confused and concerned about."
“And I get that,” Hugh says. “Look, I’m not trying to pretend this is an office romance, okay? We met when my team invaded an alien planet. They don’t make Hallmark cards for that. But if you take away that we’re from different worlds - if you look at the stuff that matters to me - then we’re a great match.”
"And we get that, and believe you," Cora replies, as their parents maintain their awkward silence in the back seat. "But what we're concerned with is that you're pretending like all the other stuff doesn't exist." She sighs. "I can't think of how to put this in a way that says what I want to say. But you get what I mean, right?"
“Yeah, I get it,” Hugh says. “I may be wearing rose-tinted shooting glasses, but I know this is way off the beaten path, and it’s not going to be easy. Still, I think you guys should meet Rhea before we get too much farther in this discussion.”
Cora starts to reply, but then stops, repeating a few more times before she finally sighs - the frustrated and vaguely disappointed sigh Hugh’s been on the receiving end more than once before - and the car settles back into an even more uncomfortable silence than the one that came before.
Hugh is just about to resume his tour-guiding when Hugo sighs from the back seat - a sure sign that he is about to drop some literal wisdom. “It doesn’t matter what we think of her,” he says. “What matters is that you know what you’re getting into, and we’re concerned that you aren’t facing this with your eyes open.” Hugo crosses his arms - wisdom delivered.
“I know exactly what I’m getting into,” Hugh says. “End of story.”
Hugo and Michelle nod in the back seat. “Then that’s good enough for us,” Michelle says.
Hugh pauses for a moment, but before the silence can become terminally awkward again, he says “Thank you.”
"Cora?" Michelle asks expectantly.
"Yes, of course I'm happy for you," Cora says, then turns to Hugh and gives him a genuine, if tension-laden, smile. "She sounds really nice, I can't wait to meet her."
“Good,” Hugh says, “because that’s our next stop after you guys freshen up.” Without taking his eyes off the road, he points to the glovebox. “I got some dramamine that you’ll want to take - gateway transfers have a way of upsetting stomachs.” Then, he points to the right at a nigh-impeccable four-story apartment block coming up on the side of the road. “And there’s the quarters. Welcome to the Noble Motel, everyone.”
"It looks...well-constructed," Michelle replies politely.
“Wait ‘til you see the bathrooms,” Hugh quips as he slows, puts on the blinker and pulls into the small parking lot in front of the quarters.
"The communal showers are very clean, I'm sure," Cora cracks.
“Hey, every room has its own microwave oven,” Hugh says. “And satellite TV. All the comforts of an 80s four-star resort, really.” He swings around as he reverses the Explorer into a free spot, then kills the engine and pops the door. “Most importantly, elevators,” he adds, more to himself.
punkey 2013-07-01 15:02:41
After settling in for half an hour, Hugh comes to collect his family again. His casual question of whether everyone’s taken their dramamine is quickly confirmed by Cora and Michelle, but Hugo insists he’ll be fine and Hugh insists it’s a really good idea nevertheless and long story short, eventually Michelle tells him to take it to shut the discussion up. Hugh drives them to the main gateway annex, and then it’s underground. The roided-up air conditioning is a godsend, but the security’s no joke, and Hugh has to shepherd his mom through some of the more intrusive checks, exchanging “family, what can you do?” glances with the heavily-armed soldiers all the while. Michelle’s still complaining about that when they reach the main gateway room. The sight of the gateway transfixes Cora, and Hugo asks again if he can take a picture, which Hugh has to shut down once more. As their scheduled transfer to Whiirr nears and they line up in the foot traffic queue with soldiers and civilian experts, Hugh starts to hand out barf bags to his family.

Then the gateway opens up and Cora goes “Wow!” and Hugo thinks Hugh doesn’t see him try to sneak in a quick snapshot, but there’s no time for arguing - the line moves, and the Verrills have to keep up. Within seconds, they’re through, and the hot and humid Whiirr day hits them like somebody slammed a door made out of discomfort in their faces. Michelle looks queasy but keeps her smile on, while Hugo quietly steps to the side and dumps his airline peanuts and V8 into the bag. Just as quietly, Hugh offers him a tissue in trade for the used barf bag.

“Welcome to space travel,” Hugh says. “We just covered about 400 lightyears, which my friend Luis Stanhill assures me is really fucking far. Certainly a hell of a lot farther than we ever got before we opened this gateway. Anyway, this used to be Village 815, now it’s our bridgehead. We’re about 260 miles from Whiirr’s equator, weather’s like this for the entire dry season here. And before you worry about that, our science teams and doctors have checked thousands of soil and air samples as well as physicals from people working here - air is fine, microbiome is fine, the food won’t kill you. It’s as safe as you can expect from a planet we didn’t evolve on.” Hugh grins. “Ask me how many times I’ve read the safety briefs.”
"I'm sure it's very safe," Michelle replies as she rubs Hugo's back.
Cora simply coughs a few times to clear her nausea and looks around the inside of the dome. "Looks like there was quite a fight here," she says, noting the bullet holes and battle damage.
“Yeah,” Hugh says, almost leaving it at that. “A lot of people lost their lives. Almost a hundred - that’s a third of the people in this village. We’re doing what we can to help rebuild, and Rhea organized an orphanage for the cubs whose families were killed, but it’s rough.” He almost gets into the proper fighting at the siege, but then thinks better of it - he’s not ready to talk about that with his family.
"That's horrible," Michelle says, shocked. Cora continues looking around, studying the dome.
“Yes, it is,” Hugh agrees. “On a lighter note, you’re about to get a look at a mix of repurposed imperial architecture with a lot of Wherren flair and new construction thrown in. Something interesting for my big sister. We’re heading through the village, you’ll hear the school before you see it.”

Hugh’s route to the school is cut very much short by Rhea being his first sight on leaving the gateport. Waiting for him at the fringes of the small crowd outside, her fur is almost smothered in deep blue - but when she sees Hugh, she flashes his green-and-yellow pattern on top and gives him a nervous wave.
“There she is!” Hugh tells the Verrills. He skips the part where he runs up to her ahead of the pack, but he does wave back and smile. When they’ve reached her, he walks up to her and embraces her. ”Hello, Rhea,” he grunts, then lets go and half turns so his arm can sweep to show off his family. ”This is my sister, Cora, my mother Michelle, and my father Hugo.” He then turns his attention back to the stunned family. “Guys, this is Rhea.”

Both sides stare at each other for a moment: Rhea out of nerves and a lack of knowledge of what to do next, and Hugh's family out of multiple paradigm-shifting events happening all at once: Aliens really 100% do exist, they're as smart as humans are, they're standing in front of one, and Hugh is getting married to one of them. Rhea towers over even Michelle by a good six inches, and Hugh's parents side-by-side just barely are wider than Rhea is by herself.
Rhea recovers first, and after picking at her nanofabric overalls one last time, decides to settle on the human customs she does know, and bows respectfully to Hugh's family. "It is a great pleasure to meet all of you," Rhea whistles. "I..." She nervously rumbles for a few seconds, then looks to Hugh. "What should I say?"
”I think you should tell them a little about yourself and the village when we go to the school,” Hugh suggests, then turns back to his family. “Rhea said it’s a pleasure to meet you guys,” he translates.
"It...it's a pleasure to meet you, too," Michelle cautiously replies, and offers a tentative hand forward.
”She says it’s a pleasure to meet you, too,” Hugh translates. ”Go ahead, shake her hand. My mom doesn’t bite, you know.”
Rhea cautiously reaches out, and Michelle’s hand almost disappears in Rhea’s. For a moment, neither woman seems sure of what to do next, but then Rhea smiles and shakes her hand up and down before letting go again.
Hugo steps forward and offers his hand. "Good to meet the woman my son brought us all this way to meet," he says with a tentative smile.
Rhea smiles and shakes his hand, too, while Hugh translates for him. Finally, she moves on to Cora. Cora also says her piece and shakes Rhea’s hand, but it’s all in the service of delivering The Look. Hugh knows The Look. Many a high school fling of his met The Look and quickly proved herself unworthy of House Verrill. Honestly, Hugh’s not sure he could take it without flinching. Rhea, though, keeps smiling and shakes Cora’s hand without averting her eyes. ”Hugh speaks highly of you, littermate,” Rhea says. Cora looks to Hugh, who translates as “She’s heard a lot of good things about you, Cora. It’s true. I hardly shut up about my big sister. You should see me, I can go for hours.”
Cora smiles, which disrupts The Look, but her eyes still don't waver, and his sister is the first of his family to shake Rhea's hand, not the other way around. "Does he try to flatter his way out of situations with you, too?" she asks Rhea. Hugh’s cheeks redden but he provides an accurate translation, which makes Rhea laugh a little.
”All the time,” Rhea says. ”He can be very flattering.”
"Hopefully not just when he is in trouble," Michelle adds.
”Oh, no, he tries to flatter me all the time,” Rhea says. Hugh adds a “And she’s a total sucker for that” to his translation. ”I can show you around the village a bit, if you want that,” Rhea says.
"That sounds perfect," Michelle says, and the other two nod.
”Good!” Rhea grunts. ”We can look at the new administration building, and the new huts, and then we can go to school. Oh, and Hugh?” Hugh looks up from translating to see Rhea smile down on him; she puts her arms around him and pulls him into an embrace, giving him a quick lick on his head. ”Welcome back, bondmate,” she says. Hugh elects not to translate that - not that it needs much translation. Finally, she releases him and starts walking; as the Verrills pick up the pace, Hugh turns to Cora.
“What do you think now?” he asks.
"I think I'm thinking a lot of things," Cora replies, then looks to Hugh and smiles. "But I don't doubt you love each other."
“We do,” Hugh affirms. “Everything else wouldn’t mean anything if we didn’t. It’s why we’re choosing to take this crazy journey together.”
"I know, Hugh, but -" Cora stops herself and shakes her head. "Never mind. You know what I'm talking about."
“Not now, Cora,” Hugo says. “I want to hear Rhea's tour.”
“Of course,” Hugh says. ”You can start now,” he tells Rhea.
punkey 2013-07-01 15:03:15
The intense helping of awkward that is the Verrill family reunion continues throughout the tour. While Hugo and Michelle are game for Rhea’s tour, there’s still a tension between Hugh and Cora (and by extension Rhea) that’s just slightly more oppressive than the wet hot Whiirr climate. Their path to the school is winding, being that Rhea’s taking them to see the sights. Hugo’s so glad to finally be allowed to take snapshots that it’s almost like he’s making a game out of it, taking snaps with the very audible “shutter” sound effect of his phone while grinning at Hugh, who just rolls his eyes. Yeah, his dad will never grow up, it seems. Michelle’s more interested in the people. When it was just Rhea, the whole “alien society” thing hadn’t quite hit her, but walking through the village, she sees the Wherren go about their daily business. The experience is as diverse as watching a group of hunters carry a large carcass from the jungle all the way to Wherren in fine Imperial clothing chatting with human engineers over the holographic projection of building blueprints on new construction. And the smells! She doesn’t know exactly what that street vendor is frying up in his hotpot, but she’s sure it’s bad for Hugo’s cholesterol.

Like Hugh said, they hear the school before they see it - there’s no mistaking the sounds of children at play, be it shouts and squeals or barks and rumbling howls. The gateway schedule syncs up pretty well with the school’s recess timing, so when they come up the path, the cubs are playing one of their games again, with Piugash sitting on the benches at the side going over their coursework and occasionally glancing up to check that the cubs are behaving themselves. Hugh’s arrival is greeted by the usual shouts, which Cora recognizes as the Wherren pronunciation of his name from how many times Rhea has used it. The bigger surprise is when one of the cubs breaks away from the group and comes running over; Hugh smiles, takes a knee and picks her up in a playful embrace.

”This is Torega,” Rhea says as Hugh hugs and gives Torega’s cheek a brief grooming. ”Hugh and I hope to make our adoption of her real soon.”
“What did she say, Hugh?” Michelle asks.
Hugh finishes his grooming session and turns to his family with the biggest sincere smile yet. “This is Torega,” he says, “and when we’re bonded, we’re going to adopt her as our daughter.”
Michelle gasps and grabs for Hugo’s shoulder as Torega goes from a cute little ball of green and yellow fur to...well, her granddaughter. Hugo holds her hand and smiles, and even Cora’s caution gives way to a smile and wave at the confused cub, her tongue hanging loose as she looks between the three strange new humans.
”Torega,” Hugh says, ”I want you to meet my family. This is my mother, Michelle, my father, Hugo, and my sister Cora. Say hi!”
Torega turns a little blue and wraps a finger around one of her nubby tusks. ”...hi,” she says as she hides a bit behind Hugh.
“Can...could you tell her to come here for a hug?” Michelle asks, her eyes misting up. “Would that be all right?”
“Sure,” Hugh says. ”Torega, Michelle wants to give you a hug, okay?”
Torega looks to Hugh, but finally nods. Hugh gently sets her down, and she looks back up to him before turning to Michelle. With bashful steps and lowered face, she approaches her newly revealed grandmother-to-be. Michelle manages a smile and bows down with her arms open; that gets a little smile from Torega, and when she’s close enough, she reaches up to put her little arms around Michelle as best as she can manage, while Michelle gives her a deep hug. Hugo snaps a picture of the scene as the blue vanishes from Torega’s fur, she closes her eyes and purrs slightly. When Michelle lets go, she dabs her eyes a little as Torega stays at her feet and stares up at Michelle.
”You’re tall, but not as tall as Rhea is,” Torega barks. ”And you’re a nice person.” Hugh smiles and translates, while Rhea looks on with intensifying yellow-and-green on her fur.
It’s all a little much for Michelle to handle, and she waves her hand in front of her face as her eyes continue to moisten, and Torega hugs Hugo’s legs with a grunted ”Hi” before moving on to Cora. Torega looks up at Cora for a moment, studying Cora’s face as her finger returns to her tusk and Cora crouches down in front of Torega, a nice smile on her face.
”Are you father’s litter-sibling, or sibling?” Torega asks.
Hugh smiles as he translates before adding some context. “Wherren are usually born in litters of three,” he says. “The bond between Wherren of the same litter is especially strong.” He then takes a knee to address Torega. ”Cora and I are just siblings, she is four years older than me,” he explains.
“What did you tell her?” Cora asks.
“That we’re not from the same litter,” Hugh says, “and that you’re much bigger and awesomer than I am.” He grins as he adds that little final flourish.
Cora looks back to Torega. “Maybe the last part is true,” she says, and smiles. “But I still try to look out for my middle brother.”
”Good!” Torega says with a beaming smile. Then she turns to Hugh and gives him a bright, innocent look to go with her bright, innocent question. ”Where is your younger brother, father?”
Hugh winces, but still translates before answering. ”Brian...my brother, he - we couldn’t get the travel arranged in time.”
Torega nods and hugs Cora, while Rhea looks to Hugh with a questioning expression on her face. Hugh gives her an “It’s complicated” expression by looking up and sighing, and Rhea nods to that. Michelle and Hugo are too busy luxuriating in how cute their granddaughter is to participate in the awkwardness, and Cora made it clear before all of this what she thinks of the hissy fit Brian threw about Rhea when Hugh notified the family.
Torega lets go of Cora, who smiles at the little cub. ”I like this sibling,” Torega says. She looks back to Hugh. ”Can I stay with you, father?”
Hugh smiles and beckons for her so he can pick her up. ”Of course. Come here.” Torega almost jumps back into his arms, and he gives her another hug as he wrestles her into a more comfortable carrying position. “So, anyway, here we are at the school for the village’s cubs. Rhea and Sijet founded it after the the fighting ended to take care of the cubs who lost their families. Recently, Piugash joined them, he used to teach Wherren slaves on an Imperial planet before he came here.”
“Slaves?” Michelle asks as Torega makes faces over Hugh’s shoulder at Cora, and Cora sticks her tongue out in return.
“Yes, sadly,” Hugh says. “The Imperium has exploited Wherren for centuries. They’re used as slaves for manual labor, conscripted into the Emperor’s personal guard...or they’re thrown into the arenas as gladiators. That’s why it was so important that we kicked the Imperials off Whiirr and that we’re helping the Wherren now, but this fight is far from over.” Hugh looks over to Rhea with a smile before turning back to his family. “And I’m going to keep helping to fight it. This war is about so much more than Earth now.”
“And we’re very proud of you for doing it,” Hugo replies as Michelle nods.
“Well, somebody has to do it,” Hugh replies. Torega’s weight keeps shifting a little as she cranes her head over Hugh’s shoulder to make faces at Cora. Hugh turns to look at his sister, who doesn’t quite get the silly expression off her face in time. “Okay, that’s enough, you two,” Hugh says. ”Torega, go play with the others.” He sets her back down; Torega looks a bit disappointed, but then turns and runs off, stopping once to look over her shoulder and make one last face at Cora.
Michelle looks at the remaining family members, then subtly elbows Hugo in the side. Her husband of many years takes the hint; “I think I need to sit down,” Hugo says, wiping some sweat from his brow.
“Over there,” Hugh says, pointing to the benches.
Hugo nods, then holds out his arm for Michelle to take. She gives him a silly little smile and hooks her arm under his, and then the two wander off to sit down and watch the cubs play.

Cora watches her parents walk off, then turns to Hugh. "She's pretty cute," she says. "But why didn't you tell us about her before we came here?"
“Strategy 101, always keep forces in reserve,” Hugh replies, but the joking grin quickly gives way to a more apprehensive expression. “No, I guess...I just thought it would be too much, all at once. And I didn’t know how you would react.”
"I think the 'shock and surprise' needle was gonna get pinned just coming here and meeting Rhea," Cora says. "This is exactly what I was talking about, Hugh - you hiding things and lying to yourself about what's going on. You did the same thing in middle school, and high school, and it's the same thing now. I know that you're in love, but -"
Rhea might not understand English, but she can read human behavior without a translator just fine, and from Cora's aggressive stance and Hugh's crossed arms she can tell that something heavy is going down. Rhea steps in between Hugh and Cora, her fur ruffled as she intentionally turns a bright orange, her sudden presence and harsh glare driving Cora back more than a few steps. "What is she saying, Hugh?"
”She’s saying that I am not being truthful to myself about my feelings,” Hugh translates. ”Please, stay calm. I can handle my sister.” Then, he turns back to Cora. “It’s just a lot to take in for you guys, Cora. I am trying to ease you and mom and dad into this. I’ve already lost Brian over it, I’m not losing you guys. What was I supposed to do, just rattle off everything that’s happened to me and go ‘That’s the truth, deal with it’?” His eyes narrow. “Why do you think that me trying to go easy on you means I’m lying to myself about what’s happening to me? I’m about to marry a Wherren woman and adopt a Wherren child. I’ll live here, eat and breathe here. I’ve been speaking more Whiirrsign than English for the last week, and more Imperial than English for about a year before that. I’m so far away from who I was when we saw each other last, Cora. I know I’m about to make some more big changes. And I’m trying really hard to be a bridge between that and where I used to be so I don’t lose you guys. Okay? I’m no longer the Bert you used to know. But I don’t want to lose my past over it. Get that?”
Cora rolls her eyes. "No wonder you've seemed so...weird," she says. "It was all this bullshit you've been trying to convince us of. Hugh, you're my brother, and just because Brian is a jackass doesn't mean that I'm not going to support my middle brother no matter what. What made you think you had to lie to me? That was what was driving me crazy, you kept on insisting that nothing had changed when all of us know that pretty much everything has. I mean, I never told Mom and Dad, but we both know that you weren't exactly opting for stable relationships when we last met up, and now you're getting married."
“I slept around with prostitutes, Cora, you can say that,” Hugh says. “I was an immature, aimless jackass wasting my whole goddamn life. But I’m trying now. Trying to grow up and be better than that.”
"Then why the hell did you think you had to hide that from us?" Cora shoots back.
Hugh looks at her for a few seconds, then shakes his head. “Because I was afraid,” Hugh says softly. “I wish I had good reasons for everything I do, Cora. I’m trying. But I was afraid, pants-shittingly terrified, of what would happen if this didn’t go well. And I fell back on what I knew.” He looks to Rhea briefly, then back to Cora. “I’m sorry I lied to you.”
Cora smiles gently at Hugh. "I forgive you, Hugh." She steps forward and gives her brother a hug. "And you'll always be Bert to me. No matter what. All right?"
Hugh returns the hug. “I’ll hold you to that,” he says. “Thanks.”
Rhea's fur has gone through a few different color sets, and now she's settled on a yellowish-greenish-blueish confused combination. "Is everything all right now? What just happened?"
”Everything is alright,” Hugh says. ”My sister was angry with me for not being upfront about our plans to adopt Torega. I apologized.”
Rhea grunts. "That's a silly thing to hide." She smiles at Cora. "She was right to shout at you for that, I think. Tell her that."
“Rhea agrees with you,” Hugh says.
"Good," Cora says, returning Rhea's smile before looking back to Hugh. "Now, I think we should try again. I want to meet this new Hugh that you were hiding from us, he sounds like a pretty good guy." She smiles and sticks out her hand towards Hugh. "Hey, Bert, how have things been?"
“Pretty intense,” Hugh says. “I’m emigrating to Whiirr and founding a new family. Rhea and Torega are the most important people in my life and I want to live with them, be a good mate to Rhea and watch my daughter grow up. I’ll keep fighting this war to protect Whiirr and Earth. I’ve been running from responsibility for too long, and it’s time to step up and have something worth protecting, no matter how scary that is. And I want to make my family...both of my families proud.”
"Well, you've already made one of them prouder than they've ever been," Cora says in response. "I love you, middle bro."
“I love you, big sis,” Hugh says, falling into another embrace with her. “I’ll keep you safe,” he whispers. “Even if I have to go through a thousand worlds all by myself.”
"I know," Cora whispers back. She lets go and turns to Rhea. "Should you tell her all about our family, or should I?"
“I’ll do it,” Hugh says. ”Rhea, you should know that I asked my younger brother Brian to come, too. He didn’t take the news of us being together well, and when I tried to call him again, he made it very clear what he thought about ‘aliens’.” Hugh sighs. ”He’s no longer invited.”
Rhea's fur ruffles. "Good, then. I much prefer this sibling. What else did you say just now?"
”I told her that I want to spend the rest of my life here with you and Torega,” Hugh says.
Rhea smiles at that, then draws Hugh in and lovingly grooms his head. "That sounds lovely," she rumbles between purring. "Anything else?"
”And that my parents and her are proud of me,” Hugh says. ”Honestly, I think big siblings are supposed to say that.”
"And so are bondmates," Rhea rumbles, her grooming unabated. "I'm proud of you, Hugh. And your family seems very nice. It's good that you have one sibling looking out for you, at least."
”Yeah, Cora’s plenty,” Hugh says. ”And Brian - as they say on my world, haters gonna hate.” On the grooming front, he gives back as good as he gets. Cora smiles and waves to Hugh as she backs away and heads over towards their parents. Rhea only stops the grooming long enough to lead slash drag Hugh behind the school building, where the atmosphere is more...secluded.

And then, it’s time for a serious makeout session.
Gatac 2013-07-01 15:09:14
It’s not quite accurate to call what Hugh does at 6 AM sharp “waking up”, because he’s had a dreadful night full of not-sleep and the insistent beeping of his watch alarm, though quickly killed, merely reinforces the failure. It’s like Hugh’s been sitting in an exam for hours, staring at the question reading “Do you want to sleep? Y/N” until the watch went off and the professor said “Put down your pencil now”. On the upside, all that time spent worrying about the future has given Hugh a rather exhaustive list of his anxieties. That’s sure to come in handy if he ever decides to get into therapy.

Being up before Rhea, it falls to him to wake her up with some soft grooming. As the purrs grow in intensity, her arm starts to move up on Hugh’s back, and soon enough they’re cuddling and licking and then...but let us cast our minds ten minutes after that, when they’re taking a shower, and...actually, let’s make that thirty minutes. Thirty minutes sounds good.

After cleaning, it’s time for Hugh to get dressed. This part raised a lot of questions - Class As are always appropriate, but Hugh’s not feeling the Army thing so much, cammies frankly look ridiculous without body armor on top and that’s about where Hugh’s stock of clothing ended a week ago. Luckily, he’s had some time to shop. The result are breezy lightweight boots, shorts with a reasonable amount of knee coverage and a rough short-sleeve shirt in that tea-stain color. Checking himself in a mirror, Hugh finds himself a pith helmet and a Martini-Henry away from service in the colonies, but once the self-mockery is pushed out of the way and he gets used to what he’s seeing, it’s...good. Appropriate. (And at least it’s not a damn polo shirt.)

And the sight of Rhea perks him right up. She’s wearing a smile, a white “cotton” gown and a leather belt around her waist, which Hugh happens to know was hand-made from leather she skinned herself. After a quick lick that fortunately fails to turn into another thirty minutes, the two descend to the ground level of the hab, where they start helping with the breakfast over Sijet’s objections. The dining room quickly fills with hungry cubs, and as Hugh carries out the trays of food, the cubs greet him enthusiastically. The bonding ceremony is conversation topic numero uno, of course, and with all the cubs needling him and Rhea for details, Hugh is grateful for Hiigra’s advice over the last few days, though frankly Rhea’s doing a much better job laying out the tradition and the ritual, such as it is. To Hugh’s further relief, the cubs aren’t jealous of Torega getting adopted - it’s not like anybody is going anywhere, and they’re all like one family anyway, right? (Okay, when Hugh picks up Torega and lifts her up over his head and spins around with her in the air, there’s a little jealousy. With Rhea’s help, everybody gets a go, though.)

With breakfast concluded, Hugh and Rhea and Torega wander down the path to meet the 0920 transfer at the gateport, where the rest of the team is expected to arrive. Hugh put down “jungle casual” on the invitation, but he wonders - has he left too much room for interpretation in that dress code? Will everybody have a good time? And goddammit, will the lamb burgers make it in time?

Lining up at the gateport, the humans and Wherren present seem to be on a neverending line of congratulating Hugh and Rhea, with some of them asking last-minute details of the party, telling them that they’ll be a little late but they’ll definitely catch the ritual, and oh, these dudes from Diego Garcia are coming, is that cool? Hugh smiles and answers all those questions in the affirmative. He tries quite hard to ignore the bitter stares and hushes between some of the few humans who have, ahem, chosen not to follow his invitation. Eventually, the throng clears up a little and Torega insists on being carried when the gateway opens so she can see it better - Hugh picks her up, and she scrambles around to climb onto his shoulders, holding on with her little paws against Hugh’s forehead. Hugh reaches up his right arm to help stabilize her, but his left hand reaches for Rhea’s. The two soon-to-be bondmates hold hands and pull together as the gateway flashes open.

skullandscythe 2013-07-08 00:16:10
Zaef strides through the open Gate, his face and arms beading with sweat after a few seconds in the sweltering Wherren heat. He's wearing his Ray-bans, a bright red dress shirt in Imperial style that seems to cling to him and tan shorts that show that Zaef's legs are, in fact, just as ripped as his arms and chest. His shoes are the only thing out of place; shiny black, pointed at the toes and without seams or laces or even a tongue. He has a bag tucked under one arm and what seems to be a footlocker on wheels trailing behind him. "PARTY FAVORS: NO PEEKING" is scrawled on the side in both Imperial glyphs and Wherren runes.

Zaef grins and waves at Hugh as he walks down the ramp, the trunk gliding behind him like a shadow. "Look at you, Verrill! You're smiling!" He greets Rhea just as enthusiastically in Whiirr-sign, and rubs Torega's head with a smile.

When the time comes to inspect Zaef's items, he turns to the trunk behind him and barks out a couple commands in Imperial; it wheels itself around Zaef, parks itself next to Hugh, and opens with a hiss. The lid flips up to reveal the trunk to be a high-tech cooler, and a damn good one, if the nice red color of the steaks inside is any sign. "You cook a mean steak, Verrill," Zaef says. "Figured you'll want to show off. There's some scrofa steaks in there, too, if you feel like trying something new. Oh, just tell it to close. It's yours now. Means it listens to you."

The bag contains a few items itself. Zaef pulls out two knives, one of which has a grip designed with the Wherren hand in mind. The sheathes are rather simple in design, even though they seem to be made out of something like polished snakeskin, but the Imperial-alloy blades are practically artwork, each with a half-Gate design on the hilt complete with miniature glyphs and the words 'Take me Home' carved down the length of the blades in Imperial. "Specially treated so you won't need to sharpen it much, if at all," Zaef comments. "Need something to cut your steaks with."

The last item in the bag is a Narsai'i children's book, with lots of pictures of Earth's fauna. "I think you know who this is for," Zaef says with a smirk as he passes it to Torega. "You'll have to do the translating, though."
CrazyIvan 2013-07-10 03:37:46
If Hugh looked like a character out of a Kipling novel, Angel looked more than a bit like someone out of a Bond film - and a recent one at that. Apparently singlehandedly responsible for advancing the state of high technology menswear, he's wearing a tailored jacket and matching slacks in a deep green that looks almost black, but is perfectly breathable in the warm, oppressive Wherren heat. A ivory-cream shirt, the collar unbuttoned, and a pair of matching sunglasses completes the look. He smiles at Hugh, then turns as a larger, conventional cooler comes through the gate, this one sloshing with ice.

"Figured the beer should come the old fashioned way. Plus every kind of soda imaginable for the little ones." He hands a small, sealed envelope to Hugh. "For you and Rhea. Talk to me about it later." Erika follows as well, deliberately not matching her boss, though he's splurged on a similarly high-spec outfit, a tan sheath dress for her - his insistence, having asserted that this was vastly beyond the capabilities of REI and the Eddie Bauer store.
punkey 2013-07-10 12:15:52
Garrett and Ngawai head through the gate hand-in-hand, Garrett carrying a bigass tub of something that looks like potato salad and with a cooler of his own behind him, and Ngawai carrying something suspiciously like a rifle case - in fact, suspiciously like a SCAR-H carrying case from the armory. They're both wearing your basic Imperial jungle gear - loose-fitting shirt and slacks, secured at the wrists, ankles and neck to keep unwanted guests out, with plenty of pockets. They practically inflate as the oppressive dry heat of Mesas Negras is chased off by the oppressive wet heat of Village 815.
"We know bonding ceremonies aren't big on gifts," Garrett says with a smile as they walk up to Hugh, "but -"
"Consider this a 'welcome to the family' gift from the two of us to you, Rhea," Ngawai says with a smile of her own. "We heard you're a hunter, and that means you could use a good rifle."
"And I figured we should kick into the party supplies," Garrett adds.

Swims-the-Black's fur ruffles a pleased green as he sees Hugh, Rhea and Torega standing together. He's wearing, well, what he almost always wears: his chromodynamic vest, loose Imperial slacks, and a pair of leather sandals. He carries a plastic box with a big hunk of meat inside of it under one arm, and bows to the happy couple.
"I wish you two luck today," Swims says, with a formal ruffle of the longer fur on his head. "And in the future as well. Happiness such as you have found is something to be treasured."

Dietrich steps through next, and you've all seen him enough recently that the image of the corn-fed South Carolina farm boy wearing a full Imperial robe and gown doesn't seem too odd. He bows deeply to Hugh and Rhea, and places a packaged Imperial re-deployable instant shelter at their feet. "I figured that given both you and the Captain are big on getting out into the forest, having some protection from the elements - and some privacy - might be appreciated," he says with a smile.

Kitty steps through as well, and can't quite contain her impulse to look around the interior of the dome just to see what's there. After a second of taking in the scenery, she steps forward to Hugh and Rhea with a big smile on her face. "I'm so happy for you both," she says, and bows to the happy couple. "If you two can find each other..." She glances over Hugh's shoulder for the briefest moment, "...maybe there's hope for the rest of us." She smiles again and hands Rhea her gift to the two of you - a backpack, Wherren-sized. "For you, Rhea."
threadbare 2013-07-13 20:06:02
Hunter approaches with something of a spring in his step. His interpretation of "Jungle casual" leans towards the southeast-asian in style: short-sleeve silk shirt with light patterning, long breathable pants, leather sandals. He's holding up one end of a large wicker basket; holding the other end is what looks like a younger, skinnier version of Hunter that looks like his eyes are about to fall out of his head as he looks in every possible direction - especially at the Wherren around him.

"Hugh, Rhea, so glad for you both, and so glad we could make it on this fine day." Shrugging a shoulder towards his doppelganger, he explains, "This is my son, Harold."
Hal nods, stunned into silence at standing before a real alien.

They set the basket down, and Hunter pulls off the cover. “We weren’t sure what to bring, so we figured tropical fruits from Narsai wouldn’t hurt.” Inside are pineapples, papaya, green coconuts, passionfruit, dragonfruit, lychee, and even a couple of carefully-preserved mangosteens for the bride and groom. “We got these from the village Hal has been living in this summer. Had to fill out about ten pounds of forms for all the agricultural clearances at Diego Garcia, but they should be good. Figured everyone else would just be bringing meat anyhow.”

Hunter makes a bit more small talk and issuing-of-congratulations with the bride and groom before leaning in and confiding, “Hal isn’t being shy, he’s just a little overwhelmed right now. This is his first off-world trip and it’s not everyday you bear witness to a ceremony like this. Well, for the time being, anyway. Is it alright if I walk him around and show him some of the village?”
”Of course, Hunter,” Rhea signs with a smile and a green ruffle of her fur, and Hugh translates.

Walking a slow circle through the village, Hunter and Hal take in the repurposed administration buildings, the crazy-quilt of housing constructed over the last year, stores and offices and orphanage all stitched together, both of them trying to make sense of it using the various pattern-languages of rustic, modern, and science-fictional city design they’ve been exposed to. Hunter’s visited the village before, but it’s still striking to pull back and look at it from a more holistic perspective.

They sit down on a grassy knoll on a small rise, and watch the bustling foot traffic. After a while, Hunter starts in: “Back when I was doing the embassy detail in Peru, we went up to Macchu Pichu. You probably don’t remember it, you couldn’t have been more than a year or two old. It was a sight, that’s for sure. This was before I went and got all my degrees, but standing there, I wished I could have seen it as it was meant to be, as a living, breathing city. To see how people live in places and ways so different from mine, strange and glorious like a puzzle to figure out.” He looks out across the buildings, and the dome, and the jungles of another world. “Days like this, I wonder if I got my wish.”
Hal just continues staring at everything around him in mute wonder - the Wherren in their mix of tribal and Imperial dress, the humans from all different worlds walking about, the Imperial, Wherren and Narsai’i structures.
“I’m glad you could come, Hal.”
Hal startles at his dad saying his name. “Oh!” He smiles at Hunter. “I’m glad you let me come,” he says. “This looks a lot like a few of the villages I’ve been to in the last few weeks.”
“I had wondered if it might be. Are you doing alright? You’ve had a lot of ‘firsts’ today. I mean, I didn’t want to scare you beforehand but I’ll tell you now, I had to bring a vomit bag with me the first dozen times I traveled through the Gate.”
“I felt queasy, but it wasn’t that bad,” Hal replies. He looks around again. “What are we doing here? I mean, Earth. What are we doing?”
“By ‘here,’ do you mean, this village, this planet, or in space?”
Hal thinks for a second. “How about all three? I mean, I meant here as in the first two, but...are we doing anything else out here besides blowing things up and killing people?”
“Well, on the occupied Imperial worlds, you’re right,” Hunter replies. “We’re mostly limited to blowing things up, killing people, fomenting dissent, and getting endangered people back to Atea. The weapons of the weak tend not to be pleasant. On the worlds where we’ve got a semblance of control, we can do more things that actually make people’s lives better. And on Whirr, we’re helping an entire race throw off thousands of years of subjugation and enforced ignorance. It’s worth doing, no matter what, but I suspect it’s going to be hard to do it without treating them like a colony. We’ll see.”
“So...education, self-governance...how about an economy?” Hal asks. “That’s the thing I wish I saw more of in Thailand, we were giving these villages food and water, but they had no chance of being more than a slum or a jungle village without some way of being independent of foreign aid.”
“You’re right, Hal. We could use some sustainable development around here, I think.” Looking out at the dirt paths of the village, Hunter sighs. “What scares me is, Narsai-- that is, Earth, is in danger of becoming a kind of third world slum, too. That’s what all this Kesh Holdings stuff is about, trying to get enough tech transfer to make sure we have some sort of economy left standing. Lord willing and the creek don’t rise, they can make it happen, but there’s a chance we’re going to be the place aid workers visit in 40 years...assuming we can stop the fleet that’s coming in 30. If you haven’t noticed, I think I’ve added some more gray hairs over the last month.” Hunter cracks a small smile.
Hal nods. “But right now?” He looks around. “I mean, this is a whole species trying to get up on their feet, yeah?”
“Yeah. Lots of refugees, lots of former slaves, lots more escaping here every week. Not really a lot of ready-made social places for returnees in the traditional society. Some end up enlisting, but not everyone’s made for that kind of life.” Hunter says, thinking about the sullen, hulking Wherren he watched clear a killhouse with brutal efficiency a few days back.

Father and son reach the edge of the village, the grassy fringe that marks the last of the clearing the old Imperial barracks had as a defensive line before the jungle starts. Hal looks over the village. “How many aid workers do they have here?”

“It’s mostly military. Which means they’re damn good at building shelters but not so good outside that and food. I’ve reached out to a few of the NGO folk I know, but they’re still scaring up funding and drafting plans. I suppose you could count the orphanage; that’s an indigenous effort, doing lots of good work.” Hunter puts his arm around his son. “You do realize that your mother will kill me if you come back and tell her what you’re thinking about, at least right away.”
Hal smirks. “Yeah, she will. But maybe, after I finish my first tour in Thailand...you could get me the right paperwork?”
“Consider it done. Now, I think we have a commitment ceremony to get to.”
e of pi 2013-07-14 22:41:15
Arketta walks forward, dressed in, well, it’s basically the ACU, but not the ACU, and carrying a large plastic package with Faxom-Io branding on it - according to the packaging, it’s a slow smoking cooker of some description - and sets it down in front of Hugh and Rhea, and bows.
”This is our gift for you,” Arketta says with a big smile, and gives Hugh and Rhea both a big hug. ”We are so happy for you both.”
Luis smiles. ”I hope you like it.”
Gatac 2013-07-17 16:17:45
The parade of teammates wishing well and bearing gifts starts with Zaef, whose enthusiasm can’t help but grate just a little bit on Hugh “Worried About Everything” Verrill; still, the good Captain tries to be a good sport, deepening his bashful smile when Zaef points it out. He manages to blurt out a “Thank you!” on sight of the meat, but there’s just a tiny edge of “Thank you for making me redo my grill schedule” swinging alongside that. Rhea, however, is clearly better at this whole gratitude thing, giving suitable ooohs and aaahs over the shiny new knives. Of course. With Zaef, it had to be knives, somehow. Torega accepts her gift with the enthusiasm of a five-year old getting attention and something new and shiny, so that means a big smile and begging for Hugh to let her down so she can hug Uncle Zaef. Hugh gamely helps her climb down, then she runs over to Zaef and hugs his legs before stepping back, looking up and saying a passable “Thank you” in Imperial.

”Father, what is this?” Torega asks, holding up a page of the book for Hugh to see.
”That’s a duck, Torega,” Hugh explains as he takes a knee to show her. ”And it goes...” he begins, then crouches down fully and holds his arms behind him in imitation of a duck shaking its tail. “Quack quack quack!” Hugh mimics; Torega giggles and Rhea struggles very much to keep her face and colors under control.

Angel’s gifting ceremony is curt and to the point, just like the man, and it has plenty of style - again, just like the man. They shake hands while Torega goes fishing for a soda - Hugh’s glad that these aren’t twist-offs - and Hugh goes looking for an interior pocket on his shirt to stash the envelope until Rhea quietly offers to hold onto it for him.

Garrett and Ngawai appear together, of course - Hugh tries to not stare at Ngawai’s huge belly too much, but seriously, it is huge - and prove to be the first guests who can actually tell the difference between a wedding and a bonding ceremony - but brought gifts anyway. The consumables are quickly redirected to the crafts corner, which leaves Hugh with just a glance at the rifle case before Ngawai hands it over. Truth be told, he’s kind of glad Torega’s still enamored with the soda bottles, because he’s not sure if he’s ready to have the “There are guns in our house and I don’t want you to touch them without my permission” talk with his cub just yet.

As for Swims, well, he heard there was a barbecue and he brought more meat. Hugh appreciates that straightforwardness even as he struggles to reconfigure his grill schedule again. Where can he get an emergency shipment of three more grills this close to the party, nevermind more coals? Or maybe...hmm, maybe they could grill over a campfire. Damn it, why didn’t he think of that before today?

Dietrich...honestly, Hugh forced himself to invite him. Not because he has anything against him, but because Hugh just had to see how he’d react to the Uncanny Valley of kauka treatments, and to his pleasant surprise, their handshake and smalltalk feels a lot less awkward now. Either Dietrich’s getting more comfortable with where he’s gone or Hugh is, maybe both of them are. Whatever the cause, when Dietrich goes off to join the other guests, Hugh signs in relief. One more little worry off his back. Rhea seems bemused at the idea of portable shelter when there’s plenty of building materials in the jungle, but that’s one of those human things she knows she’ll have to get used to.

Hugh’s a little surprised Kitty’s not come with Zaef, but maybe they’re still trying to keep it on the down low - which can’t be working out too well, if the rumor has already reached Hugh. Rhea graciously accepts the backpack while Hugh worries about how much hiking and hunting is getting implied with all those gifts - isn’t anybody going to get them a set of china or a salad bowl or something else stay-at-home-y?

Then Hunter and Hal appear, Hunter with a tropical fruit basket and Hal with saucer eyes. Hugh chats it up with Hunter but keeps his eyes on Hal, who almost succeeds at both keeping his jaw shut and his eyes not just staring straight at Rhea. Torega looks up at him and gives him a chirpy “Hi!”, and Hugh has to work pretty hard to reign in a bit of Schadenfreude when Hal visibly flinches from being startled. Fortunately for Hunter’s boy, Torega quickly refocuses her attention - bored of the sodas she can’t open, she instead rifles through the basket for a fruit she can eat.

”Can I eat this?” she asks, holding up a coconut.
”No, we have to split it first,” Hugh answers.
”This?” - a dragonfruit.
”Not the peel.”
”This?” - a papaya. Torega’s eyes are bright - she’s clearly looking forward to getting to eat the huge fruit.
”That also has a peel,” Hugh goes.
”I’ll open it up,” Rhea offers. Hugh nods, not wanting to play the bad guy. Hal gets his next dose of full frontal otherness when Rhea takes the papaya in her left hand, then sets the claws on her right hand against it and slices the fruit open with the assuredness and speed of someone who’s had to kill wild animals without a weapon, more than once. She frees a little chunk of bright red fruit flesh and hands it to Torega, who eagerly eats it up.

Arketta arrives to that scene, having to resist being cute-overloaded long enough to convey her best wishes and hand over the gift. This one has Hugh’s eyes shining as he sees his BBQ worries easing before him; after thanking her for coming, Hugh quickly pawns the smoker off on one of the human techs helping with setting up the cooking arena, to be put to immediate use on some of that marinated pork. But what about the scrofa steaks? Hugh waves some of the Wherren over. They’re gonna have to get started on a fire pit...
e of pi 2013-07-17 21:07:13
Before the ceremony begins, Luis has one piece of business that he needs to attend to. It’s not hard to locate Hugh--just follow the tracks of nervous pacing and the cloud of worry over the post-ceremony BBQ. He locates him by the grills, working out tension on a last-minute inventory of the burger options, checking against a guest list. Luis knocks against one of the grill covers to get Hugh’s attention.

“Oh!” Hugh goes, a smile spreading over his face. “Luis!” He walks over and quickly wraps his arms around the Interceptor. That is, straight up, the most emotional greeting Luis has ever gotten from his old Captain. “So glad to have you here,” Hugh says.
“I’m glad to be here,” Luis says, but then looks down with a bit of nerves. “I know it’s a bit short notice, but I had one thing I wanted to ask before the ceremony, if you’re up to answering.”
“Sure!” Hugh says. “Get if off your chest, you’ll feel better.”
Luis nods, “Sure. I was just thinking about all we’ve been through, and things, and I had a question.” He pauses awkwardly, looking for acknowledgement that he can go on.
“You’ve got a favor to ask?” Hugh says, nodding to Luis. “Well, tell me what it is so I can say yes.”
“I was wondering if you’d stand with me at my wedding,” Luis says. He finally manages to make solid eye contact as he gets the words out. “I’m going to need a Second, and when it comes down to who I want covering my back...I know things have been rough, and you’re not the hero I thought you were years ago, but you’re a good man, and one I want covering my back.”
“Not the hero you thought I was?” Hugh repeats. “You’re just gonna softball it in like that, huh?”
Luis grins a bit, “You’re supposed to say nice things about a man on his wedding day.”
Hugh returns the grin. “Ah, but today’s not a wedding,” he says. “You, on the other hand, appear to be going for something more involved. I mean, covering your back? That sounds like you need me pulling a sector watch while you’ve got a couple of Reapers in orbit over the chapel. How many Imperial weddings end in firefights?”
Luis shrugs. “I don’t have the stats, and I think it’s mostly ceremonial, but they’ve always gotta be that touch martial, you know?”
“Hey, tux and a gun, how many times does a man get to be James Bond?” Hugh replies. “You can count on me, Luis. I’ll be your Second.”
Luis nods. “Thanks, Hugh. Best wishes to you and Rhea, too. I can see how you look at her, and at Torega, and...it’s good to see.” He looks around at the boxes of food still left to go. “You need a hand with that inventory, or does that come too close to cutting in on another man’s grill?”
“Yeah, I could use a sanity check,” Hugh says, pushing the scribbled-on napkins into Luis’s hands. “I think we’re good on the pork chops, but I’m all kinds of nervous about this premix coleslaw. Do you think three tubs will be enough? We can toast up more garlic bread to compensate, but that’s gonna take grill surface I was hoping to save for the lamb burgers.”
Luis eyes the tubs and the guest list. “I’d say it looks like it might do, and you can always switch the grilling as needed in the heat of action. I think you’ve got a viable fallback, so you’ll just have to see if the coleslaw survives first contact with the enemy.”
“It just has to buy us some time until we can bring the heavy barbecue ribs into action,” Hugh says with a grin. “Alright. I have about a thousand things to take care of, so I hope you and Arketta and the parents have fun today, I’ll see you later, you let me know the time and place of your big day and I’ll be there to lend some firepower to the groom’s side.”
Luis nods. “Thanks, and good luck.”
punkey 2013-07-18 09:02:04
For all of Hugh’s protests that the bonding ceremony isn’t a wedding, it certainly appears to be that way at first glance - a raised wooden platform standing before a crowd of Wherren and human onlookers, all dressed slightly better than Hugh’s invitation asked them to. There are significant differences, though - the waist-high wooden post driven into the ground the night before, for a start. The Shaman from Village 815 - the names for all the different shamen and sha-women from the many, many villages encountered so far have yet to be sorted out, which makes meetings with them very interesting - mills about on the stage, his fur rolling through different colors as he checks everything out for the tenth time before dropping off the stage and walking into the nearby hab that holds Hugh, getting dressed and painted for the ceremony.

Well, not in that order. Actually, Hugh is completely starkers at the moment, surrounded by a trio of strapping young warriors from the village, and if that precise image hasn’t happened in an Imperial porn movie, the interstellar market has really failed the discerning consumer. For Hugh, though, it’s not a very sexy experience. The white chalk-paint is cold, and the pattern designed for a full-size Wherren by necessity covers a lot more skin on a human - Hugh gamely tries to endure it, but right about now, getting measured for a tux sounds pretty good. But who needs formalwear when they’ve got the finest of clothing options - the loincloth, which is handed to Hugh as his sole article of clothing for the ceremony. Hugh’s pretty sure that walking around with that strapped around his family jewels is actually somehow even more lewd than going without any clothing, chiefly because it implies certain things about his Lil’ Hubert that do not belong in polite conversation or conform to reality. Then again, the real deal has so far never failed to satisfy...and that’s where Hugh realizes he needs to get his thoughts off his dick. So he steals a quick glance at a mirror, and...all jokes aside, it looks pretty good. Hugh’s actually pretty sure there was more flab the last time he took a naked glance in a mirror, which suggests that a combination of romance and soldier-boosts does provide for an effective dieting program.

”How do you feel, Hugh?” the Shaman asks.
Hugh turns around to face the Shaman. ”Well, I’m cold and nervous and about to be very embarrassed,” he says. ”Otherwise, great.”
The Shaman chuckles at that. ”Nervous about?”
”Not my feelings about Rhea and Torega,” Hugh says. ”Everything else, though...it’s easier to write the invitations than to see everyone here and thinking about how this is the day. I don’t...I just realized I feel like I have no idea what I’m going to do. Not a lot of moments like this in a man’s life.”
”Well, Hugh, if you want me to go over what you need to do and say for the ceremony again, I can,” the Shaman says, putting a hand on Hugh’s shoulder.
”Yeah,” Hugh says, takes a breath and nods as he closes his eyes briefly. ”One more time, please. Run me through the ceremony.”
”Well, you will climb onto the platform opposite Rhea, advance to the middle and be bound together at the wrists through the pole, facing each other,” the Shaman says. ”I will lay out the challenge, and you will both be forced to attest to those attending your love for your bondmate and why your bonding should be recognized. Then, you will both have to escape from your bonds together, signifying your strength and showing that your love transcends the physical ties between you. Then, you will be bondmates.” The Shaman stops his slow, wandering circle in front of Hugh. ”But that is not what concerns you, is it.”
Hugh nods. ”It’s not really the ceremony, it’s...can I be a good mate to Rhea? A good father to Torega? I love them, and I’m sure they love me, but...is it enough? Is there someone out there who would be better for them? That’s what’s in my mind when I stop to think, and...everything I have here, I got because I dared, because I pushed past my fears, but I’m not sure how far that can really get us. If you keep jumping off cliffs, sooner or later the water will be too shallow to catch you. And...I want what’s best for them. I’m not sure it’s me. I want to be.”
The Shaman nods. ”I guessed as much.” He leans against his staff, still festooned with artifacts from what he now knows to be fake gods. ”And I would say that you are asking two different questions, I think. There is the question of if someone would be more...” His hands circle as he thinks of a word. ”Suitable, physically, and if you would be the best for them. Yes?”
”I’m impressed you got anything coherent out of my babble,” Hugh says. ”But yeah. Go on.”
The Shaman smiles as he turns green for a moment. ”Well, I am a shaman. But as for your questions, I will give you the harder answer first. No, physically, you are not ideal. You are a brave warrior, Hugh, I know that as well as anyone can. But if Torega is threatened by another Wherren, if Gods forbid she were to be threatened by another Wherren, you would be at a disadvantage. And Rhea, I can see in her colors and signs that she desires to have cubs of her own again, and you cannot provide those for her, unless the False Gods have ways I do not know of. But you were doubtless aware of this already, yes?”
”Yes,” Hugh says. ”I never thought about fighting a Wherren...but you’re right. A Wherren mate would be better to protect them. And the cubs...we’ll figure something out. I want to, I’m just...worried about planning for too much too soon.”
”And as for the other...no, Hugh, I cannot think of another that would be better for them than you,” the Shaman says. ”I admit to being...skeptical at first, but I have seen how you cherish Rhea, how you two are equals in all things, and how much you both adore Torega. Physical perfection is fine for mates, but bondmates should be chosen based on something deeper, something that will outlast age and adversity. I could not perform this ceremony if I did not believe in your bonding, Hugh.”
”Thank you,” Hugh says. ”Alright! Whoo!” He claps his hands together and shakes his head from side to side, as if trying to rattle the nervousness loose. ”Let’s do this,” he says. ”I’m ready.”
”Then put on your groin coverings and follow me,” the Shaman says with a bow.

---

The chill on Hugh’s skin lessens when he steps outside - for one, over the course of the conversation with the Shaman, the paint has dried and warmed up a little, and also, the open air is considerably warmer than the more temperate microclimate of the hut. However, the chill on Hugh’s spine worsens considerably. There are 50, maybe 60 people in attendance, distributed all around the platform, and about 40 of them are Wherren, many stout warriors. With that many eyes on him, Hugh’s starting to feel less like the man of the hour and more like the evening’s entertainment. With a hopefully mostly invisible gulp, he swallows a wad of saliva and steps forward to walk on the platform, coloring his expression with a light smile and putting a lot of effort into standing up straight. He spots Rhea on the other end of the platform, and she’s a sight alright - painted all over like him, wearing a similarly revealing configuration of leather straps (Hugh’s mental note: honeymoon outfits?), but unlike him, she has Wherren fur to show her emotions. And while her stance is similarly straight, her colors are positively beaming in the special green-yellow pattern for him, with only some blue fringes that take a second look to spot at this distance. Hugh’s smile goes brighter as he tries to find a way to show her how he feels without, you know, having color-changing fur.

Hugh takes one last breath - it’s a deep one - and then he steps up into the platform. His stomach is a Gordian knot from a mixture of fear and excitement that comes with living the most important moment of his life, but his smile stays on. Hugh keeps walking, all the way up to the pole in the middle, and then the walk is over and Rhea is there and Hugh can only see her and smell her, with hearing the Shaman’s voice a very distant third. Hugh’s eyes wander all over Rhea - the intricate painted lines that frankly look better on her than on him, her smile, her eyes, her - okay, Hugh can’t look very long at her chest before he notices a subtle, mischievous shift in her pattern, so he quickly returns his gaze upwards to meet her eyes again. His arm sticks out almost automatically to mirror Rhea’s movement, but he doesn’t quite notice how tightly the thick would-be-hemp-if-this-was-Narsai rope is lashed around his wrist. As his obsession slowly fades, he tunes in what’s left of the Shaman’s speech so he doesn’t make quite as much of an ass of himself as he could in the upcoming challenge.

”However, this is a special bonding,” the Shaman says. ”For the obvious reasons, yes, but also because I know that there is more than flesh and attraction between Hugh and Rhea. Theirs is a love strengthened by loss, and one strengthens the other like the sides of a longhouse arch.” Hugh looks up at Rhea again and gives her a bittersweet smile. The fringes of the fur on Rhea's face turn violet, and she sucks in a sudden, sobbing breath at that, but her smile and the rest of her colors brighten even more. ”It is this that has already bonded these two more than any ceremony could possibly hope to show. But, we shall attempt to come close today.”

The Shaman turns around and looks at Rhea. ”Rhea, I challenge you to weather the storms of bonding with a male that will, by his nature, be found most often in harm’s way. I challenge you to represent our people to the humans, that the Wherren stand for community and acceptance before fear and prejudice. And I challenge you to remember that even though you are the stronger of the two physically, it is the inner strength, the love you share, that bonds you to him, and you chose him because, inside, he has the strength of ten Wherren. Do you accept your challenge?”
Rhea nods. ”I accept,” she grunts, and beams down at Hugh even more brightly.
The Shaman turns to Hugh. ”And Hugh, I challenge you to withstand the storms of your own - I have carefully watched your species’ reaction to your bonding, and it will not be easy for you - and neither will be the time you spend away from your family and bondmate, no matter how right your reasons are.” Hugh’s face turns briefly solemn as he thinks about the demands of his...vocation, and the war he needs to see through. “I challenge you to follow through on your intentions to learn our culture, and perhaps even embrace parts of it. And I challenge you to remember even though you are the smaller of the two physically, Rhea will always need your support and comfort, even when she cannot find the signs to express it. Do you accept your challenge?”
Hugh’s eyes are locked with Rhea’s as he slowly nods. ”I accept,” he growls.
”Then I now demand that you defend why we should accept your bonding,” the Shaman says, and stands aside.
Hugh’s eyes do not stray, but he takes a breath and turns up the loudness of his voice, almost growl-singing his words with all the force he can muster. ”I came to this world a stranger with a hole in my heart,” he begins, Rhea bending over a bit to give Hugh the slack he needs to sign. ”I never imagined I could be happy anywhere, but when I found you, Rhea, I suddenly knew that there was happiness in this universe for me. You are the most caring, exceptional person I know, and your smile is worth more than any riches or power or glory on the battlefield. If the only good thing I do in this life is to make you happy, it will have been worth it. I have stood with this village in battle, I have fought for the freedom of Whiirr, and I will defend you with all my might.” He finally manages to take his eyes off Rhea and turns to the crowd. ”I have found my place in this world, and it is here. My heart belongs to Rhea and none other. I will be her faithful companion, a caring father to Torega, and wherever the Wherren have need of a warrior, I will answer the call. I humbly ask that you accept my decision to become Rhea’s bondmate.”
Rhea’s brown eyes are sending tears dripping off the tips of her fur as she starts. ”I...I had given up,” she rumbles. ”I cared very much for the cubs, but...after Booni...and Johxu, and Bhani, and Rhaat...” Hugh can see Rhea’s breakdown coming, and by the time she finishes saying the names of her lost cubs, she can no longer stand. Rhea falls to one knee, then both, and simply leans forward and keens a mournful sob as Hugh catches her. It’s a bit of a farcical image with her size almost making Hugh fade from view as she leans over and around him, while he tries to embrace and comfort her as best as he can. As the sunlight shifts a little, the glint of tears on both of their faces becomes visible. ”I’m here,” Hugh whispers to her. ”I’m here for you, Rhea. I’m here and you’re here and we’re going to make it through this together. Okay?”
Rhea nods as her arms wrap around Hugh and pull him close. ”Okay,” she grunts, and licks him on the cheek.
Hugh licks her back and gives her another squeeze. ”Can you finish your speech?” he asks.
Rhea smiles and gives him another lick. ”I said okay, right?” she rumbles as she starts to stand up.
”Tell them,” Hugh says as he helps her to her feet. When she looks like she can manage to stand her own, Hugh lets her go and takes a step back, giving her another nod for encouragement.
Rhea takes a deep breath and resumes - but her eyes don’t move from Hugh’s. ”But after...all of that, I had given up on having a mate - Booni was everything to me, and I could not imagine someone so kind, so thoughtful, so brave. I could show the cubs the love I could not give my own, but a mate? No. And then I saw Hugh, sitting next to Torega, whispering to her and petting her long after she had gone to sleep - it was a kind of caring I had only seen with Booni, and in that moment, I fell in love with you, Hugh. I knew you were brave and strong and willing to stand up for what is right, but then I knew that you were kind and caring and capable of the deepest love. I feared that you would never love me in return, but...” She pauses again, but this time to sigh deeply as all other colors save Hugh’s pattern are purged from her fur. ”You did. You did, and when you did, I knew that we would be here.” She turns to the crowd. ”That is why I have chosen Hugh to be my bondmate - none of you know his heart as I do, and it is so strong, and so powerful that it can carry myself and Torega and all of our cubs with more to spare. None of you could want more than him as a companion, and you should have no doubt as to his dedication and love for me and Torega. I will not humbly request that you accept him as my bondmate - I demand it, because if he and I are not bonded, then none deserve such an honor.” Her colors blaze brightly as she looks around, her defiant tone standing in contrast to the tears dripping off her fur.

The Shaman nods, and turns towards the crowd. ”What do you say?” he shouts, and the crowd erupts into cheers, barks and howls of approval. The Shaman turns around with a big grin on his face as the cheers continue. ”Your bonding has been accepted. Now, prove the strength of your bonding by transcending this physical tie between you both.”

Hugh and Rhea look to each other, then set to pulling on the thick rope. It’s encouraging when Rhea’s attempt already sounds like tearing, but Hugh’s struggling with his end - not for lack of trying, as his yanking snaps a small piece of decoration from the post, but the tight rope around his wrist pinches a nerve, and for a moment Hugh’s in enough pain that it feels like he’s getting dizzy and about to throw up. But he pushed through worse for the genemods, and that was just for showing up Hunter - this, on the hand is actually important. Hugh slackens in time with Rhea, realigns, then takes a step back and starts supplementing his pulling with pushing back from his legs. It’s all Rhea can do not to get pulled along with that, to her surprise, but Hugh’s effort is rewarded with a big tear on his side. They both look at each other, trying to figure out a way to finish this - but their next try isn’t it, as both are clearly starting to get tired and worried about hurting each other. Still, when they pause again, Hugh nods to Rhea, and then she nods to him, and it’s agreed - this time it has to split, no matter how much it’s going to hurt. Hugh braces, then holds up his left hand for a countdown. 3, 2, 1, pull! - and with a bang almost like a small gunshot, the rope finally gives, whipping free as both Rhea and Hugh stumble back a bit to catch themselves. Hugh smiles at Rhea, then looks down at his wrist, which is covered with bruises and a few scratches deep enough to have actually drawn blood. The pain is pretty intense, but Hugh grits his teeth, balls his fist and punches his arm to the sky as he turns to the crowd, as if to say “Who’s the baddest? I’m the baddest!” Rhea roars in elation, and runs across the platform to grab Hugh and pick him up in an enormous hug before smothering his head in grooming. Hugh wraps his arms around her best as he can, but he’s clearly the one being whirled around through the air here - no sense in fighting that.

”I love you,” Hugh shouts. ”I love you, Rhea!”
”And I love you, Hugh,” Rhea barks back.
The Shaman steps between the mass of flesh and fur that is Hugh and Rhea for the moment, and raises his arms. ”And now, you are all witnesses to the bonding of Hugh and Rhea!”

Rhea, overcome by the moment, rushes off towards the orphanage hab as the crowd’s cheers grow larger, carrying Hugh in her arms. Hugh, for his part, just laughs and shouts a final ”We’ll see you at the feast!” to the crowd.
Rhea bounds up the stairs with Hugh in her arms, practically dives onto her bed carrying him, and starts grooming Hugh as if he was about to die from lack of affection and pulls at the straps of the leather strip around his waist.
”Careful!” Hugh laughs. ”Don’t pinch the Captain!”
Rhea finally gets a claw under the strap and cuts it. ”They can start the feast without us, yes?” she purrs.
”Start, yes,” Hugh gives back. ”But we’ll need energy for the night, too.”
”I feel so good, I could go all night,” Rhea purrs back in between grooms on Hugh’s hair.
”Mmh,” Hugh agrees. ”Maybe we can get some...room service.”
”We’ll just break for an appearance outside,” Rhea murmurs. ”Now stop talking and fuck me - bondmate.”
”Yes, bondmate,” Hugh grins, and then the Captain goes to work.
punkey 2013-07-22 18:12:30
For Luis and Arketta, the bonding ceremony is a mostly-pleasant reminder of what they have to look forward to in a little less than a month - friends and family all in one place, a celebration of love and commitment, and an incredible clusterfuck to plan for and execute. Still, with one of the last pieces slid into place with Hugh agreeing to be Luis’ second, they can both relax and enjoy the evening. At the tables set up in the grass clearing in front of the orphanage, they find time to just sit together and enjoy the evening’s low light and jungle sounds overlaid with the noise of well-wishers and happy people. Arlana, dressed in a matronly subdued Imperial wrap, and Ody, his slim frame wrapped in a mandarin-collared suit, simply sit nearby, hold hands and alternate between telling stories to each other and those around them, and staring lovingly at their daughter and son-in-law to be.

Zaef can’t have a bad time when there’s Wherren warriors around, it seems. The introduction of more simple Narsai’i and Imperial tech has greatly improved the quality of their homemade hooch, and Zaef can be found pretty much the whole night at the rowdy and raucous table, playing cards and drinking with warriors and journeymen of all stripes, creeds and species. As an evening out, it’s hard to fault. He notices Kitty sitting nearby and watching, but awkwardness gives way to inaction, and aside from some friendly smiles, he doesn’t interact with her much until she joins his game and spends an hour or two being the table’s designated rube.

Garrett and Ngawai’s evening is mostly enjoyable for what it isn’t: not having to worry about coordinating a massive interplanetary training exercise while planning a galaxy-spanning war and spinning up a PR campaign to sell a frightened Narsai on not just retreating back through the Gateway, not having to get proud soldiers from two sides with frosty relations to not only get along but work together, not having to haul your pregnant self around a base all evening, and even not having to feel like you need to stuff yourself to the gills with food - Ngawai is especially thankful for that one. Instead, they alternate between playing cards with Zaef - and Brinai at one point - speaking with friends and contacts on base, and people-watching (it seems Shenest and Dietrich are finding each other’s research mutually fascinating) as they sit together and do something they get to do so very infrequently these days: relax together doing absolutely nothing.

Swims-the-Black finds the ceremony resonant, but in a way different than most. It’s been a long, long time since he spend much time immersed in his people’s culture, and the sight of Hugh Verrill, a human, undergoing one of the more important rituals a Wherren can go through makes him feel acutely disconnected from his past. When the Shaman walks by, he barely has to say anything before the keeper of Wherren culture sits down next to him and they strike up a conversation. It quickly turns into a debate of religion versus objective reality, and while it never gets heated, Swims-the-Black finds out exactly how big the gulf between him and his homeworld’s culture has become. He and the Shaman end their talk on friendly terms having agreed to disagree, and while Swims feels like he should feel uneasy or upset finding out how different he’s become from when he was taken all those years ago, instead he feels...peace, a peace born out of knowing himself and knowing that he prefers the person he is now to what he felt like he might be missing out on. He takes a seat with Garrett, Ngawai, Zaef and others at the card game, and gives his best friend a quick embrace, knowing where he belongs just that much more.

Hunter spends his time after the ceremony taking Hal around, introducing him to friends and basically acting as liaison and translator for his son - when the pair don’t need a Wherren translator of their own. Sometimes the talk is about the aid situation on Whiirr and what needs to be done, sometimes the talk is about the war and sometimes it’s just about the weather, but Hunter can tell that Hal is increasingly interested in this new world on the other side of the Gateway. It’s a pretty good feeling.

Angel’s time at Hugh’s bonding ceremony and the subsequent party is disturbingly similar to most of his time in recent weeks: mostly business and with Erika by his side. Not that he resents the presence of his red-headed assistant; the constant need to conduct business has started to grate, though. Not that he lets that stop him. Hugh’s disappearance in the strong arms of his wife to...celebrate the occasion gives him the chance to conduct a quick discussion of needs of the assembled chiefs with Hiigra. Technology and educational materials are tops on his list; it seems the chief has wisely payed attention to information from off-world and wants to make sure his people are ready to hit the ground running. Erika can tell her boss wants to be elsewhere, and tells him to get lost while she nails down payment with the chief. Angel thanks her with a polite smile before running off towards the grills, just in time for Hugh to make an appearance to work the line himself. The two soldiers serve up burgers and ribs side-by-side for a little while, and many lurid stories of adventure and misadventure are shared with attendees in English, Imperial and Whirr-sign. Later on, Hiigra finds Angel to let him know that Hugh’s sister Cora tried to give him the hard sell on village planning and construction or something or other, and when he looks around, he sees Cora talking with Brinai and Bello, presumably about something similar, and puts together the first draft of an email for Ms. Verrill to send off when he returns to Narsai.

Ms. Verrill:

Make sure you get billable hours for gate transit, it's the least they can do in exchange for your stomach feeling like it's inside-out and in another time zone. Also, I'd suggest getting in touch with Susanne Yuen for Imperial language lessons. Something about Imperial just gets lost in translation.

Regards, Angel Kesh
Gatac 2013-07-30 14:49:42
Hugh’s BBQ OCD pays off in spades when the two bondmates emerge - showered and dressed - into an ongoing feast, with a well-oiled grilling circuit and plenty of sides. Their arrival is met by cheers and a lot of claps on their shoulders and backs, but overall the happy couple proves only a minor inconvenience in the smooth conversation of raw meat into savory sensations. By the time Hugh and Rhea have actually gotten through all the handshakes and well-wishing, it’s two hours later, and Hugh has to adjust from feeling like a rock star to sitting down at a table and eating.

And eat, everyone does.

Still, even the most vulgar displays of abundance must come to an end as bellies fill up and day stretches into evening to become night. Bit by bit, the guests start to leave in small groups, and Hugh knows the day is almost done when the crowd is light enough that he can actually spot his family again. With the swagger of a man who’s happy, overfed and a little drunk, he moves toward them, easily slipping past the remaining Wherren and sparse humans still enjoying the afterparty. There’s plenty of empty chairs next to the Verrill family cluster; Hugh grabs one, pulls it up to the table and plonks himself down.

“So,” he begins, “how’d you like it?”
“Oh, it was wonderful!” Michelle beams. “All those people, and I’m told you gave a very nice speech.”
“Yeah, I liked the growling,” Cora teases.
“The outfits were a little National Geographic...” Hugo begins, but a glare from Michelle quickly shuts that down. “But it was a really nice reception, and I just want to say, you know, your mom and I, we’re proud of you, son.”
“Thanks, dad,” Hugh says, positively beaming. He reaches across the table, putting his hands on Michelle’s. “It means a lot to me that you were here.”
”Father!” Torega squeaks as she comes running and almost bounds up at him, but thinks better of it when she sees him sitting with his family, just coming up alongside him. ”Look, father!” She grins and leans her head forward, showing off a small but delicate chalk-paint rune on her head. ”The Shaman painted me, too!”
”Oh, that’s great!” Hugh says, leaning over to get a look at the rune from multiple angles; Torega patiently stands for him as he turns her head slightly with his hands, grinning up at Cora all the while. ”Did Rhea get a picture of it?”
”Yes!” Torega barks. ”I want one with you!”
”Okay, okay,” Hugh laughs. He rises from his chair - not an easy task, considering his full belly - and takes a knee next to her. “Get a shot of us, dad!” he says, putting an arm around the shoulder of his adoptive daughter.
“Oh, of course!” Hugo says, fumbling for his phone. Before he can get it into position, Michelle and Cora have stood up, signalling that they’re going to be in the next photo with their son / brother. Hugh recognizes the gesture, then beckons for Torega to climb on his shoulders, which she eagerly does. Soon enough, they Verrills - sans Hugo - get their picture taken. “Okay, get one with me and the kids,” Hugo says, trying to pass his phone to Michelle. Michelle gives him a slight disapproving scowl, producing her own digital camera from her handbag.

”I think I would be of help,” Hiigra says as he walks up from the side, smiling at the impromptu picture session.
”Hiigra!” Hugh says with a smile, extending his right hand - with gauze’d wrist - for the chief to shake. ”I’m sorry we haven’t had a chance to talk yet, I’ve been busy with the other guests.”
Hiigra returns the shake. ”And other things, I am sure.” Hugh coughs but does not otherwise engage the topic of the chief’s little barb. ”You and Rhea have my blessing already, I am simply enjoying the feast. Now, give me these devices - I might be a homeworlder, but I think I can understand this.”
”You just point this front end at us - the screen at the back will show you - and then you press the button on top,” Hugh says. That’s pretty much all he knows about point-and-shoots, anyway. ”Oh, forgive me, Chief, this is my family - my father, Hugo, my mother, Michelle, and my sister, Cora.” He turns to his family. “Guys, this is Hiigra, he’s the chief of this village.”
”Greetings,” Hiigra says, and bows to Hugh’s family. ”You have raised a fine son, and I am pleased to count him amongst the village.”
“Uh, thank you,” Hugo says, offering a hasty handshake.
“It is so nice to meet you, Chief Hiigra,” Michelle says for her handshake.
“It’s a nice village you have here, Chief,” Cora says. “Who’s your urban planner?”
”Errm,” Hiigra rumbles, not exactly expecting this topic. ”I made most of the decisions with the help of the GRHDI.”
Cora smiles. “Well, Chief, the reason I’m bringing this up is that I can see your village is growing very rapidly and already incorporates very different ideas of what a living community should be like. With the Gateway complex here, I can see this becoming a town in a few years, maybe even a city in your lifetime. If you have a good plan for how to deal with this growth now, you can avoid many potential problems in the future. We’re very familiar with these kinds of sudden urban growth spikes on Earth, so really, I just think it might be a good idea to have someone who can take responsibility for the bigger picture, rather than just talk about construction materials or manpower requirements.”
Hiigra’s fur ruffles and rolls through what Hugh recognizes as a rather bewildered array of colors and patterns as he translates for his sister, the camera somewhat forgotten in his hand. ”What do you mean?”
“Well, think about this,” Cora says, as she sweeps her hand over the village. “Right now, everything in the village is walkable. It doesn’t matter so much where everything is and who builds where. But if more people move here - a lot more people - then the first thing that will happen is that more huts and Imperial-style buildings will be constructed. Your village will spread out far, and that means you will need to plan for transportation - roads, footpaths and so on. These new houses will need power, running water, telecommunications. But more than that, nobody will feel at home if the place is just huts beside huts as far as the eye can see. People want public spaces, they want commerce, entertainment, education, you need to plan for public works, parks, local government, a sense of community...” Cora deliberately stops herself. “I’m sorry, I’m not trying to bamboozle you. My point is, if you make good choices now, all of this will be easier and people will be able to live happier here. And it’s easier to make good choices when you have someone who has experience in these matters. I’m not trying to slight the GRHDI, but I doubt they employ many urban planners.”
”Can he make the picture now?” Torega whines quietly in Hugh’s ear.
”Just a moment, dear,” Hugh says, rolling his own eyes but smiling a bit. Once Cora smells blood, it’s hard to keep her from going for the kill. You don’t get to be on the front page for a skyscraper brochure in Dubai as a woman if you don’t have balls.
”And I presume you are one?” Hiigra says as his fur ruffles in annoyance. He might be from a planet where metal spears are high tech, but he knows a hard sell when he hears one.
“No, Sir,” Cora replies. “I’m an architect, I specialize in high-rise construction. But my company employs some excellent urban planners. With your permission, I would like to get them here and take a look at the situation. No strings, if you don’t like what they have to say, we’ll be out with the first transfer back.” She smiles. “But I think you’ll find it interesting.” She then looks to Hugh, but her smile slowly slips as he fails to translate.
“Tone it down a little, sis,” Hugh says. He then turns to Hiigra. ”My apologies. My sister is very passionate about her work, she did not mean to ambush you with her ideas. It is excellent work she does, but I think that is best discussed in a different setting.”
”I agree,” Hiigra says with another ruffle. ”Tell her that I would be happy to discuss such things later tonight.”
“He’s willing to talk it over later tonight,” Hugh says. “Now get over here for the photo.”
“I like how he’s playing hard to get,” Cora says.
“Yeah, well, can you keep the glass beads in your pocket for now?” Hugh shoots back.
“Hugh, Cora!” Michelle shushes. “That’s enough out of both of you. Let the nice man take our picture now.”
“Yes, Mom,” Hugh says. Cora just bites her lip. But the brief altercation is quickly forgotten as everyone crowds together around Hugh and puts on a smile. Hiigra aims the camera, presses the button and click goes the flash.
Hiigra hands the camera back and nods to Hugh. ”It has been an honor to meet your family, Hugh,” Hiigra grunts. ”Tell them that as you are one of my people, there will always be a place for them here.” He ruffles his fur to add emphasis to his blanket invitation.
”Thank you, Hiigra,” Hugh says. There’s another handshake, then Hiigra wanders away again. Hugh looks after him, and then decides to stop ignoring that Torega has been playing with his hair throughout the conversation. ”Please leave my hair alone, Torega,” he says. ”It’s not nice when you pull on it.”
Torega yelps in response and stops playing with his hair; instead, she leans forward, actually resting herself on his head and letting her arms dangle down the sides of his face.
“Aw, she’s tired,” Michelle says.
“Yes, she is,” Hugh says. “Well, it’s been fun, guys. Can you find your way to the gateway by yourselves? The next transfer is in” - Hugh checks his watch - “a little over 90 minutes. I’m sorry, but -”
“Oh, don’t give me that,” Michelle says. “You have more important things to worry about right now. Your old parents have been going on adventures since before you were born. We’ll be just fine.”
“And I need to walk off some of that firewater,” Hugo adds. “Whoo boy, do I not want to go through that vomit vortex right now.”
“I should go talk to Chief Hiigra,” Cora says. Hugh raises an eyebrow, but she quickly continues. “And yes, I will tone it down a little. But...you realize how big this could be, right?”
“Yeah, I do,” Hugh says. “But Hiigra’s not an oil sheikh. He’s not playing with Monopoly money. He’s a lot sharper than you think he is. And if he thinks you’re trying to get one over him, you’re not going to last five minutes. So, save the brochure speeches, be straight, and for God’s sake don’t promise what you can’t deliver.”
Cora sighs as she sizes up Hiigra from a distance as he talks with some of the warriors from his village. “Yeah, I got that impression.” She looks back at Hugh. “You really care about this place, then.”
“I do,” Hugh says. “Just...make a good deal.” He grins. “Bring strong trade.”
Cora covers her face in embarrassment. “God, I was like that, wasn’t I.” She drops her hand and smiles at Hugh. “I want to do this place justice, too. It’d be nice to do something with a tangible good for a chance, instead of only building giant phallus replacements for billionaires. Relax, Hugh. Could you tell Hiigra I’m sorry for how I acted just before I talk to him?”
“Yeah, sure,” Hugh says. “Mom, Dad, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Take care, Hugh,” Michelle says.
Hugo looks like he wants to say something like ‘congratulations’, then finally jumps over his own shadow and shakes Hugh’s hand again. “Congratulations, son,” he says. “On...well, everything.”
“Thanks, dad,” Hugh replies, and the two men share a smile.
“Oh, come on, you two,” Michelle says, and pushes her husband towards Hugh. “Hug your son, Hugo.” The two men wrestle into position, but after a moment, the hug wins out over either’s attempts to retain a vestige of manliness, and they share a deep embrace the likes of which Hugh genuinely can’t remember.
When they let go of each other, father and son both pretend to not see the tears in each other’s eyes. Hugo almost says something that very likely would have compounded the awkwardness further, but thinks better of it and just backs up to Michelle’s side. “Come on, honey. You wanted to walk around the village, right?” Hugo asks.
Michelle just smiles and dabs the tears from his eyes with a tissue before hooking his arm and leading him away into the warm night. Hugh looks after them for a moment, then turns and walks toward Hiigra, hoping to smooth the waves - and after that, he’s off to the school to rejoin Rhea.

---

Much like Hugh, Rhea’s been busy the last few hours shaking hands and accepting well-wishes and making small-talk. Somehow, a feast of grown-ups is even harder to herd than a classroom of cubs, but Rhea dealt with it. However, no matter how nice the celebration, there’s something to be said for peace and quiet, too. The bedroom is a nice retreat, and it’s good to be sitting again, just glancing at the pile of presents and letting her thoughts drift idly through what the future holds.

The perfect moment for Hugh to walk in with a slightly whiny Torega on his shoulders, really.
”Come on,” Hugh says as he raises his arms. ”Let’s get you down.”
”I don’t feel so good,” Torega moans as Hugh lifts her up.
”Well, you eat like a big warrior, little cub,” Hugh says. ”You can just stop when you’re no longer hungry.”
”But it was new and you made it,” Torega whines, and climbs onto the bed as Rhea smiles and watches.
”I can make it again,” Hugh says with a smile. Rhea gives a questioning grunt at that line; Hugh turns to see her fur ruffle. ”Well, not all at once like this, I mean,” Hugh says. ”But any of those things, you know, we can go through them one at a time.”
”Okay,” Torega says tiredly. She yawns a big yawn and lies flat on her back at the foot of the bed. ”Can I sleep with you tonight?”
Hugh looks to Rhea for a moment, then back to Torega as he pats her on the head. ”Yes, you can sleep with us.” She raises her little arms and wriggles out of her cotton dress as Hugh gingerly pulls it off over the head. Hugh quickly strips off his own clothes down to the underwear, then slowly climbs into bed, trying to avoid lying down on top of Torega. However, for all his care, his daughter seems more intent on getting close to him, clinging onto his chest tightly. Rhea climbs into bed from the other side, with the same care, and then wriggles into position, pressing up behind Torega and pulling the cover up over the three of them. Torega closes her heavy eyes and purrs as she wriggles into optimum position.
”Mother, father, I love you,” Torega purrs.
”I love-” Hugh and Rhea both begin to say, but after a brief moment of silence, Hugh nods to Rhea and reaches to turn off the light.
”We love you, too, daughter,” Rhea says. She leans forward and give Hugh a long, loving lick up his face. ”And I love you too, bondmate,” she says, the last of many happy tears from tonight in her eyes.
Hugh gives Rhea a tender lick in reply. ”Bondmate,” he says, ”I love you, Rhea.” He then leans down and grooms Torega to sleep.

---

Hugh’s up early, as usual. Torega and Rhea cuddled up with him in bed is proof that yesterday really happened, and he can’t help but lie there for a few minutes, just looking at them sleep. But somebody’s got to get breakfast started so it can be served in bed, and Hugh glady falls on that particular sword. As he climbs out of bed as quietly as possible, he nearly steps on his hastily-discarded clothes from yesterday - and his foot feels the resistance of a paper envelope inside his jacket. Hugh gently repositions his foot, stands up and bows down to grab the envelope. As he holds it, he remembers getting it from Angel, but there was too much excitement yesterday to open it or really pay it any mind. Still, now’s as good a time as any; Hugh takes the envelope and gingerly rips open the side. Inside is a letter printed on what Hugh recognizes as “O-6 Or Better Paper”, with the letterhead of a law firm named Albrecht, Jackson, Bissell, and Stamp - probably Angel’s law firm.

Capt. Verrill:

This letter is to inform you of the establishment of a $1,200,000 (1.2 million USD) endowment in the name of Village 815 Orphanage and Educational Support Endowment, the proceeds of which are to be limited to use for maintenance and operation of both the orphanage property and residence, and to provide for the education of children housed therein, and of the establishment of a $4,000,000 (4 million USD) educational trust, to be held for the expressed purpose of funding the education of the following individuals: Wherren from Village 815 named Brag, Dush, Kunang, Lug, Muzgash, Othrod, Temator, and Torega.

-- Jarrett Callier, Senior Partner


Hugh just stands there for a long while. He reads it again. Yup, still says what he thinks it said.

“Huh,” he goes. Then he reads it again. Finally, having made sure that this is not a hallucination or cruel prank, he carefully folds the letter, walks across the room to Rhea’s desk and puts it down on top of that. With the letter secured, he turns around, puts on his PT shorts and shirt, then quietly exits the room, closes the door behind him and walks down to the kitchen.

The muffled “WHOHOO!” can still be heard throughout the whole school.
punkey 2013-08-06 00:25:38
One of the downsides of the paperless office, Luis muses, is that it can follow you anywhere you can get signal. When you live on a worldship and have a vox mounted in your head, that’s basically anywhere. It’s great when you need it, but otherwise...Luis blinks at the off-yellow lights flashing past the transit windows (apparently installed mostly so you can tell the things are moving in spite of the acceleration compensation), and realizes he’s distracted himself once again. A little circle with his index finger dismisses the box scores for the local dodgeball leagues and pulls back up the notes Arketta left for her joint Bashakra’i/Narsai’i training classes. Looking it over, Luis is once again thinking that there’s more to it than her simple, “Can you cover for me today? I need to duck out for the special ops workshop” made out. “Start joint squad small operations,” it headlines, then starts breaking down details on breaking up just over a hundred Bashakrai’i and Narsai’i soldiers into quads, each with a pair from both of the two groups. Just keeping an eye on those groups sitting around the mess would be a challenge, Luis muses, but then he’s also got to get them working together and running drills. He scrolls through the list of names and drills, his hands arced in front of his face, his thumb drifting back and forth over the scar on his palm as he reads. What have you gotten me into this time? he thinks.

As the transit pulls into the last station before the Gateport, Luis checks his gear, nodding at a woman as she brushes through the crowd in the car on the way to the exit. A little flashing icon in the corner of his HUD draws his attention--they finally got the match highlights up from last night up. Luis was watching the local ward team, of course, but the box recap on the other game from last night looks like it was a barnburner, and anyway, he still wants to check the replay of that ambush play from the game he did watch a few times. He checks the time, and the maps, and figures he’s got a bit of time to spare before he needs to get back to the notes. Just a minute or two, then back to it....back to picturing all those Narsai’i uniforms looking at him judgmentally as he pairs them up with the Bashakra’i.

As the train slides smoothly into the gateport adit, Luis is jolted out of his second rewatch of the ward match from last night--he hadn’t really grasped how much that early ambush had really knocked the away team off their plans early on. He makes a note to get around to dropping the local coach a message--it’s not the first time she’s shown a good ability to not just get her players thinking about the tactics and strategy, but also about the head game. Still, she let her side get sloppy mopping up the match--if the opponents had been a bit less knocked off their game, they could have pulled off an upset by taking advantage of it. He’s so caught up in it, actually, that he almost misses the soft chime warning the train is about to depart, and he has to duck through the doors in a hurry to avoid misses his station. Still, when he checks his Gate schedule, he’s still got time to kill. “Best to put it to good use,” he thinks, and pulls back up the drill notes. The list, at least, is fairly basic when you get down to it--more about working together as the mixed squads than any of the fancier stuff he knows Arketta has in store. Actually, some of this is a lot like the plays it sounds like they were throwing around in the match last night he hasn’t had a chance to watch. It’s only when the Gate flashes open and they call for traffic to Earth that Luis realizes he’s let his attention drift once again. Shrugging his gear onto his shoulder and heading for the Gate, he shakes his head. He needs to be focused on this, even if he’d rather be anywhere else. “Couldn’t guess why I’m so scatterbrained today,” he mutters as he passes the momentary discontinuity of stepping through the Gate and covering light years in a single step. If only what’s ahead was going to be as easy.

----

Shenloma tilts his hood at a slight angle to block the morning sun better. After a few weeks of early mornings, his body has finally adjusted to having to get up at such a ridiculous hour, and he’s now learned to enjoy the cool mornings before the Narsai’i star blasts the desert into a giant unrelenting oven. Even still, today feels like it’ll be a hot one.
“No one should live in a place that gets this hot,” Leaj moans from her seat on the bench next to Shenloma. As per usual, Garrett Davis had marched them to the training grounds to meet with the Narsai’i (today lead by Samal Quis), and as per usual, the two groups were sitting completely separate from each other, waiting for the orders to be given out in their respective languages, because the Narsai’i were, even by Shenloma’s lowered expectations, having problems learning even basic Imperial words and phrases.
“What are we waiting for, anyway?” Leaj asks, leaning back against the table. “Everyone’s here, and I want to blow up some more wooden bad guys.”
“Maybe it’ll be another navigation day, and we’re waiting for the skimmers,” Shenloma muses.
“Another trip to the mountains sounds about right to me,” Leaj replies. “I think today’s going to be some sort of record.”

Over with the soldiers from Earth, Boyd Kravitz and Alex Danielsson are having roughly the same conversation.
“I’m telling you, it’d be just our luck to have to run drills in this fucking heat,” Alex says.
“No, they’d have people dropping like flies,” Boyd counters. “Today feels like it’s gonna be a scorcher, even by this crap-ass desert’s standards.”
“Then what’s the fucking hold-up?” Alex asks.

The hold-up quickly makes itself apparent: A lone golf cart blasts down the road towards the group, with one man inside. When he climbs out, he certainly looks like a man out of place: he’s wearing tan combat boots and beige desert pants, but a definitely Imperial-looking loose, flowing long-sleeved shirt with long tails that connects to a head-wrap, and most of all, his golden eyes glistening in the sun.

“Holy shit, that’s Luis Stanhill,” Leaj mutters.
“Another of the 815 to add to your list?” Shenloma jokes.
“Bashakra’i! Stand up for your commanding officer!” Davis barks, and any further reply from Leaj is postponed for a respectful stand at attention.
“Narsai’i!” Samal Quis barks, almost louder than Davis despite being on the other side of the group - and in Imperial. “Atte-ntion!”
The Narsai’i jump to their feet more quickly, but soon the whole group is standing and ready.

Luis, though he’s working not to project it, feels less so. He takes a moment to take in the crowd--neatly divided, he notes, the Narsai’i and Bashakra’i grouped together separately. The Bashakra’i seem bored, but it feels to Luis like the Narsai’i are staring at him, at his dress, at his eyes. He takes a breath, and blows it out. Fuck it, if they have a problem with him, that’s what they’re here to find out about. Still feeling like he can feel each pair of eyes that’s focused on him and trying not to show it, Luis steps forward a pace. “Good morning!” he calls out.
“Good morning, Sir!” both groups call out in unison, the Bashakra’i in clear Imperial, and the Narsai’i in...less clear Imperial.
Luis grins at the observation. At least he’s not the only one out of his comfort zone. Still, somehow, this group of a hundred-odd Narsai’i and Bashakra’i are a lot more imposing than a couple dozen Sheen. “I’ve been reviewing your past drills and scores, and they’re very impressive. Given the same group and familiar settings, you’re all good at what you do--that’s why you’re here. However, I want you all to take a look at yourselves.”
There’s a bit of confusion for a moment as the two groups look within themselves.
“Okay!” Luis says. “Eye back here. Here’s the thing: you weren’t instructed to mingle or anything, but you also weren’t specifically told to break up by where you’re from. But when told to look at each other, you only looked within your group. Out there, that doesn’t work. To fight together, you’ve got to be able to work together, as one unit, with people who think very differently from you. You need to be able to know how they think and how to work with that, and how to use each other’s skills. You weren’t told to mix together, but that starts now. Today, you’ll be breaking up into four-person teams. Two Narsai’i, two Bashakra’i, and we’ll be running drills like that until you can be as good mixed together as you can apart--or better.”
The Bashakra’i shift a bit uneasily at that thought - and after the translators convert Luis’ Imperial into English, so do the Narsai’i that didn’t get the gist of it. Garrett and Arlana, on the other hand smile and nod. Luis nods back. “All right. Mr. Davis and Samal Quis will be reading off pairs and getting you grouped up. Get introduced, because you’re going to be getting to know each other pretty well before this is all over.”

“Here we go,” Alex mutters.
On the other side, Shenloma looks towards Leaj. “We knew this was coming sooner or later.”

Ten minutes later, and everyone’s all paired up. Shenloma and Leaj stand awkwardly next to Alex and Boyd, not really looking at each other.
“I know you little children are shy, but we’re not asking you to fuck your new partners, just work with them!” Samal Quis shouts. “Talk, for First’s sake!”
Leaj nods, and looks at the two Narsai’i. “Hello,” she says. “Weren’t you two the ones that beat Shenloma and me that first day?”
It takes a second and some discussion, but eventually they nod. “Yes,” Boyd says, somehow managing to mangle a two-syllable word. “It was us.”
“Cool,” Leaj replies, and goes back to fiddling with her beamer.

Luis watches the same pattern throughout the groups--a couple words, maybe a question, if they’re really adventurous an exchange of names. Come on, guys, he thinks. Talk. They’re just Narsai’i, they don’t bite. Often. It takes him a second to realize he’s only egging on the Bashakrai’i, but he waves that away. “All right, well, that’s a start, but if you’re going to fight together, you need to know each other, and trust each other. That means more than just name, rank, and serial number, people! So we’re going to be starting with some team-building before we put you back into shooting drills.”

“Fucking great,” Alex grouses in English.
“What was that?” Shenloma asks.
“Err...” Alex stutters.
“Fucking great,” one of the GRHDI translators says, a mischievous smile on her face.
Shenloma nods. “Yes. ’Fuck-ing gr-eight.’

----

Much to Luis’, Garrett’s and Arlana’s pleasant surprise, the language barrier and awkwardness between the two groups doesn’t seem to hamper their ability to do any of the teambuilding challenges or puzzles. True, most of them can be accomplished with loud shouts and guttural barks, but still, everyone gets along well and performs in the spirit of cooperation. A few brief hours later - well, not so brief given that the sun seems to be actively trying to murder everyone - it’s time to break for lunch, which in this training means a quick bus ride back to the DFAC for PB&J sandwiches and watered down lemonade.

Sitting with Garrett and Arlana at one of the benches and surveying the trainees, Luis makes a face, looking at the Narsai’i sitting apart in their own section of the cafeteria from the Bashakra’i. “They split up again. This is going to be fun.” He turns back to the other two. “What’d you see?”
“They got together well enough,” Garrett remarks. “And they definitely worked well together.”
“The Narsai’i are learning enough Imperial that the language isn’t as much of a problem as it used to be, but it’s still an issue,” Arlana points out.
“Yes, but they still worked together really well, I thought,” Garrett replied.
“Compared to expectations, yes,” Arlana allows.
“Maybe we should have thrown Wherren at them first,” Luis muses. He briefly envisions the Narsai’i trying to turn up their noses at people a foot or more taller than they are, and chuckles. “Anyway, seemed to work well enough for us.”
Garrett chuckles. “Maybe.”
Arlana shrugs. “They are from different societies. I’m just happy they’re working together at all and we didn’t get some bad Narsai’i in with this group.”
Luis nods. “Yeah, we’ve had about enough of that lately, haven’t we?”
Garrett nods as well. “Vidas Lam, we have.”
“Well,” Arlana says as she stands up and tucks her helm under her arm, “we can sit here guessing as to what’s going on and thanking the stars that we don’t have any murderous Narsai’i, or we can ask them. I’m going to go ask them.”
Luis looks up, startled for a moment. “Ask them what? Why they won’t take their heads out of the sand?”
Arlana nods. “Yes. I will take my soldiers, Garrett, you ask the Bashakra’i what their problem is?”
Garrett nods as well. “Agreed. Gotta get to the bottom of this.”

Luis lets them go for a moment, telling himself it’s that he wants to see what the reaction to Arlana and Garret is, not that he’s scared of doing more than shout instructions at the Narsai’i from afar.
Arlana walks over and orders the two tables nearest her to turn around and just asks them point-blank why they’re not sitting with their Bashakra’i partners, asking them if they’d trust a buddy that thinks they’re too good to sit with and share a meal with - and how they can expect the Bashakra’i to trust them now. The question alone makes the Narsai’i uncomfortable, and no one seems to have a good answer for her besides a brutally mispronounced “No, Samal”, before they start to slowly offer suggestions - and the slowness is only mostly to do with the language barrier.
Garrett, on the other hand, gathers a few Bashakra’i together around a table and quietly asks questions. After a few smiles and shoulder slaps, the Bashakra’i are nodding and talking with him, and after he gets an answer from them, he shakes hands and moves on to the next two.
Luis sighs, and stands up. Arlana’s getting through, but the language barrier is slowing things down. While Garrett’s got the Bashakra’i sorted out, Arlana needs his help. He looks at the uniformed backs at the tables at the other end of the line from Arlana and shrugs. It’s a big galaxy out there, and you’re part of it no matter how you’d like to pretend otherwise, guys. Time to accept it. He steps up to one of the tables.
“Good afternoon,” he says. “Enjoying the lunch?”
The first soldier there - Danielsson - looks startled to see Luis take a seat next to him, and immediately averts his eyes when he meets Luis’. “Yes, Sir, everything’s good, glad to be out of the heat.”
The other one there, Kravitz, is a bit more composed but still a little weirded out. “Just gassing up for the next exercise, Sir,” he says with a decent Southern accent.
“You two are in the same squad, right?” Luis asks. He tries to ignore the way Danielsson can’t make eye contact, and the way Kravitz can’t stop glancing at them, but it’s hard.
“Yes, Sir,” Kravitz replies.
“You known each other long?” Luis asks, cocking his head.
“Just the last few weeks, Sir,” Danielsson replies. “We got put together the first day here.”
Luis nods. “Yeah, they tried to mix things up like that. You working together well? How’s it going?”
“Pretty good, sir,” Danielsson replies. “I mean, he’s not that bad for a Marine.”
“Alex’s head isn’t as far up his ass as Army pukes usually have it,” Kravitz shoots back.
“Yeah?” Luis asks. “What can you tell me about Danielsson here, then?”
“He’s from Bumfuck Nowhere, Minnesota, he’s got a big mouth, his mother calls him once a week on Sundays like he’s five, he reads comic books - also like he’s five - but he’s not too bad of a soldier,” Kravitz replies. “Maybe someday he’ll grow up like the rest of us adults.”
Luis grins in spite of his nerves. “And what kind of dirt do you have on him?” he asks Danielsson, nodding back at Kravitz.
“He’s Marines, which means he’s still working on that ‘bang two rocks’ thing,” Danielsson says with a smirk.
“Fuck you,” Kravitz replies.
“He’s Jewish, he’s from South Carolina, which are two things I didn’t know even happened together, and he’s not much of a talker but he’s pretty funny once you get him going,” Danielsson finishes.
Luis nods. “Okay, so now answer me this: where’s the rest of your squad? What can you tell me about them?”
Danielsson shrugs. “Over there, I think.” He just points in the rough direction of the Bashakra’i. “They’re all right. Great fighters.”
“Don’t know about soldiers, though,” Kravitz adds.
“Yeah, they don’t even have uniforms,” Danielsson says with a scoff. “One’s a guy, one’s a woman. The woman talks to the guy a lot, talks about us a lot, just...talks a fucking lot. And maybe not just ‘cause she’s a woman.”
Luis nods. “Okay, well, here’s the thing. They don’t know Marines, they don’t know Army, they don’t know Minnesota, and they don’t know South Carolinian Jews, though I’ll admit that last one even surprises me. So just a rough guess, but they’re sitting over there wondering why you all wear gear that’d stick out in behind-lines operations, and given how they fight, that’s all they do. The hoods, the epaulets? That’s where they say they’re Bashakra’i and where they’re from, like the flag and the unit patch. They don’t always fight in them because most of the time in most of their operations, it’d get them killed, which is part of why they’re all wearing them now. And I bet the woman’s talking to that guy about why you’re all men, because they’ve had women on the battlefield since before the Romans.” Luis sighs. “And until you talk, neither of you will know why that’s all true.”
“Yeah, I guess, Sir,” Danielsson says, and looks at Kravitz, who just shakes his head, before looking back at Luis. “Permission to speak freely, Sir?”
Luis nods. “Go ahead.”
“What’s the point, Sir?” Danielsson asks. Luis can see that Kravitz isn’t shaking his head at this question. “I was talking this over with Kravitz - all this culture shit can be done in a class or a seminar or a flyer or some shit. What’s the point of making us get all buddy-buddy when we’re never gonna see these people again, or might not even work with the Bashakalaka’i or whatever. I get the language thing, but...why should we care what the people you stuck us with are like?”
Luis shakes his head, an eye narrowing. “I’m not asking you to add them to your Christmas card list. And maybe you won’t work with this bunch again, and maybe they won’t work with you. But you need enough background with them that if you do end up working with Bashakra’i--and having been through all this you probably will end up getting that kind of role--you’ll know at least as much about them as you knew about Marines and you’ll know them as people, not some concept like French you learned in high school and forgot. Because out there, on the other side of the Gate? It isn’t like here, and if you can’t figure out that maybe you should be taking every chance to get to know how it works, then maybe you deserve where that road leads.”
Kravitz raises his eyebrows, and Danielsson turns a little red, but only says, “Yes, Sir.”
Luis sighs, and rubs an eyebrow. “Look, they’ve been fighting an insurgent fight against an interstellar empire that literally wiped out their world for longer than you’ve been alive. There’s about a million of them in arms across a thousand worlds, and they know the terrain a lot better than we do. If we’re going to have a chance against literally hundreds of millions of Imperium Turai, you’re going to be seeing a lot of Bashakra’i, and you’re going to need to learn about how they and the rest of the Imperium lives as much as how they fight. That’s the only way we can win--by combining what we both know into one force, because otherwise we will get squashed like a bug.” He shakes his head. “I shouldn’t have gone off on you about it, but that’s why you’re here, and why they’re here. This isn’t some PC bullshit, this is the survival of Earth, and learning how to work with an allied fighting force that’s larger than the entire US Army. So if you can’t dredge up enough respect for them as a people, if you can’t even refrain from insulting them and the entire Imperium, including my wife? At least try to dredge up some respect for the job you’re here for.”
The two grunts go from being blown away by the idea of a military the size of the US, to the beginnings of understanding the scope of what’s going on, to looking absolutely terrified at insulting their instructor’s wife. “Uh,” Danielsson starts.
Kravitz just shakes his head.
“Sorry, Sir,” Danielsson says. “We didn’t know, like, any of that.”
“And that’s why you need to ask questions,” Luis says. “Right now, you don’t just not know stuff, you don’t know what you don’t know. Unknown unknowns, right? But they do--and more than any instructor in a classroom could, they can tell you what it’s like out there. And you can tell them what it’s like here and give them some idea of what we’re fighting for, not just what we’re both fighting against.”
Kravitz nods. "Copy that, Sir."
"Okay, that makes sense," Danielsson says. He shakes his head. "Hundreds of millions of bad guys?"
“Hundreds of millions of enemy soldiers, yeah,” Luis says. “Which is one reason why one thing we’re working on is convincing some of them they don’t want to be our enemy, and they’d rather be on our side. Finish your sandwiches, and try talking about it with your squad.”
"Yes, Sir," they both echo.
Luis stands up, and marshalls his thoughts for a moment before moving on down the table.
"Shit, man, why weren't we fucking told this shit?" Danielsson says as Luis walks off.
"Same old shit, the grunts are the last to know," Kravitz replies. "So, next time, keep the 'woman' shit to yourself, dumbass. Wonder what stories they got."
"Crazy ones, I'm sure," Danielsson replies. "We'll find out."
Well, Luis thinks, It’s a start. He looks around. Garrett and Arlana are still at it, so he walks a bit down the table, and tries a smile. “Good afternoon. Enjoying the lunch?”

----

Garrett and Arlana reach the same conclusion as Luis: the Narsai’i don’t see much of a point of learning anything about the galaxy outside of their own planet, let alone their new partners. Furthermore, Garrett reports that the Bashakra’i aren’t exactly feeling the warm fuzzies. Given what they’ve all heard about the Narsai’i from imported news segments, related stories from Bashakra’i working on Narsai, and, well, the attempts on the lives of the 815, they’re not inclined to take the first step. Not that Luis can really blame them.

After a brief conference, the three instructors all agree that some time away from training and some mandatory “getting to know each other” time is called for. A few extra interpreters from the GRHDI facility are called up and buses postponed, and the DFAC is turned into a temporary interpretive center. The paired Narsai’i/Bashakra’i groups are put back together, interpreters are situated, and after a few awkward minutes - and one barked “Talk, for First’s sake!” from Arlana - conversation slowly starts to occur. Talking about tactics and war stories at first, but after a bit, Luis hears a few more personal revelations sneak out. The Narsai’i seem stunned about, well, almost everything about the Bashakra’i - their struggle against a vastly larger and more powerful force is almost unrelatable to a military used to being the one with all the advantages, let alone the daily lives behind enemy lines or on Atea, the realities of Imperial warfare, the story of Bashakra, it’s all more than they can comprehend. The Bashakra’i, in return, are mostly having problems understanding how the Narsai’i can be so blind in the face of all of this proof, and how they are still so focused on their petty planetary problems with a whole galaxy arrayed against them.

Luis winces at that. Even just walking the tables, it was a bit hard to remember just how much there was out there--things he’s lived with for months and more, facts he’s just come to accept--that the Narsai’i don’t have a clue they should even know about. At least unlike the opposition they had in Washington, the ignorances he sees the Bashakra’i struggling against here isn’t borne of ill will or wilful blindness, it’s just that the task of seeing the whole universe out there, and grasping the day-to-day realities and the scale is...in a way, he didn’t even realize how much he’s seen until he sees others struggling to grasp the basics. He doesn’t know who he pities more--the Narsai’i for how much they’ve got learn about the real world, or the Bashakra’i who have to spend the time to open their eyes. Either way, it’s his job to make sure they do get up to speed, at least enough that they can work together with Bashakra’i and Sheen and Whirr when they get to the field. Or at least it is for today. He shakes his head a bit, watching them continue to talk. He’ll be glad to hand the rest of this back of to Arketta and get back to the Sheen, the Bashakra’i, and the squadron.
punkey 2013-08-06 00:27:09
Part of Mesas Negras’s gym facilities is a plus-size sparring room, essentially a compact crossbreed of a boxing gym (with its central rink and a half-circle of sandbags around it) and a martial arts dojo (with wooden dummies and an assortment of training weapons), just off to the right of the weight room. Today, the already small room is packed extra tight with the closest thing to GI Joe: a hodgepodge of a dozen special forces soldiers, all from mythical “Tier One” units, split about 50:50 between US military and international forces. There are few surprises on the US side: two men from Delta, two from DEVGRU, two tall guys from Air Force Pararescue and two (by contrast) short guys from MARSOC, already smirking like they’re in charge. The international contingent is a bit more colorful. There are the two obligatory SAS blokes, who - to use the vernacular - are getting on a bit but still look fackin’ nails, a chiseled-looking French Naval Commando who refuses to take off his perfectly styled sideways green beret, one man from the German KSK with a well-trimmed moustache and a notebook in his hand, another younger KSK operator whose sunglasses are dangling around his neck from a strap, a veritable giant of a man observing for South Korea and, finally, the oldest man in the room, a Russian from - FSB? Spetzsnaz? Alfa? Is that all the same thing? He’s not exactly keen to explain it.

The reason for this international gathering of badasses is simple: there is a new threat, and new allies to fight that threat. Both need to be evaluated and assessed for strengths, weaknesses and tactics so they can be fought against and alongside of. In their world, the best way to reduce the risk of combat is by knowledge, and this is the first bit of ground truth that any of them will get.

And that ground truth starts when their instructors walk through the double-doors, none of which look like the men assembled there: Arketta Quis, dressed solely in her Turai skinsuit as she carries the metal case for her carapace, Swims-the-Black, wearing his modified IOTV armor and carrying his Alef-ka blades and a beam rifle on his back, Zaef Utari, wearing, for the first time even 815 members can recall, Bashakra’i armor and hood, and the biggest surprise, a ten-foot tall Sheen shell, its four legs crushing the room’s rubber mat as it carries a smaller shell on its back. The US soldiers stand straight, the two KSK guys start whispering to each other, and the braver of the two SAS guys gives a wolf-whistle at the sight of Arketta in her skintight suit. The French guy locks eyes (sensors?) with the large Sheen shell, fishing for a reaction.
Arketta sets her case down and nods to the US contingent. “Thank you all for coming to today,” she says. “You have all been invited here to learn how Turai, Bashakra’i, Wherren and Sheen fight and how to fight against or with them. I am Corporal Arketta Quis, and the other instructors are Swims-the-Black, Zaef Utari, and Gunny.”
Swims-the-Black nods. “Hello,” he rumble-barks.
The Sheen and Zaef just look at the assembled soldiers before them.
“We have chosen to show ourselves as we look when we fight, so you will be more familiar with...how we look when we fight,” Arketta says. “Are there any questions about our equipment before we move on?”
“Yeah, love, I’ve got a question,” one of the SAS guys pipes up. “Do all Imperials fight in their skivvies, or just the fit ones?”
Arketta pauses for a second. “I’m sorry, ‘skivvies’?”
“Underwear,” the Sheen says.
“Ah,” Arketta says, and steps forward. “This is the Turai skinsuit, it is worn under the carapace armor, but it is also good as armor itself.” She stops in front of the SAS soldier. “It is durable enough to resist shrapnel and some knife blades, and absorbs impacts through the carapace.”
“It looks brill on you, love,” SAS guy replies, “but I doubt it’d fit my johnson.”
Arketta smiles. “It changes to fit any body shape - no matter how small.”
“She’s got you there, Mac,” the second SAS guy says with a grin.
“Oh, do shut up,” the SAS loudmouth replies. “No offense, love, but if you’re the tip of the spear now, I’m starting to see why they need us.”
Arketta maintains her polite pose. “What do you mean?”
“I mean you’ve got a great pair of arse and tits, but it takes more than that to win a war, love. Leave that job to us blokes, eh?”
“And I would say it takes more than a dick and a mouth,” Arketta shoots back, still with her polite smile. “But let us put that aside. Fair?” She extends a hand to shake.
The loudmouth takes her hand. “My bad, love,” he says. “But I don’t do fair.” In a near-instant, he rears his head back and slams it forward, trying to headbutt Arketta - but he doesn’t get the chance to connect. As his head comes forward, Arketta jerks him forward with the leverage from the handshake, straight into the strong elbow she’s already throwing at the side of his neck. The shock to his throat sends one whole side of the soldier’s body slack, leaving him off balance and unable to defend against her quick low bob and one-two kidney punch, and finally finishing with twisting him to the ground, his left arm up and behind his back in an excruciating hold as Arketta stands over him, the foot of her skinsuit on his neck.
The German with the moustache winces while Sunglasses and the Commando just stare wide-eyed, first at the scene, then at each other. The second Brit laughs while the Russian has a wistful smile on his face. In the American half of the audience, the Deltas watch impassively while one of the Pararescue guys has to hold the other back from jumping in and assessing Loudmouth’s injuries. On the other side of the room, Swims nods appreciatively while the Sheen maintains a mute steadiness. Zaef, on the other hand, barely manages to repress his split-second smirk.
Loudmouth, to the credit of his sheer bloody-mindedness, doesn’t yield quite immediately, trying to both twist out of the hold and not scream, but eventually he just taps his free hand on the ground a few times, keeping his teeth gritted. Arketta lets go and takes a few steps back. “And that is the first lesson,” she says as Loudmouth’s fellow countryman helps him get up off the ground. “Women have been soldiers for thousands of years in the Imperium. Unlike on Narsai, we are equals, and are treated like that. If you do not respect women like you do not respect women on Narsai, you will lose allies or will be attacked. So, don’t. Understood?”
The Americans respond with an almost-rehearsed “Yes, Ma’am!” to which the others join in about a second late, even Loudmouth, who waves off the Pararescue guy trying to check him for injuries.
Arketta nods. “As I am showing you how Turai fight, I will be more gentle now.” She looks over the group. “I will let you choose. Do you want to see tactics, or equipment first?”
“I would like a closer look at your equipment at first,” the KSK guy with the moustache says, bringing up his notepad to scribble down some details.
“Yes,” the French Commando concurs with an emphatic nod. “Equipment.”
“We’re with our guests,” the more forward of the two MARSOC guys says. “Show us the gear, please.”
Arketta smiles. “Then I will start with my carapace.”

Arketta first shows off the individual plates and how they protect from bullets and beams, but the show really starts when she starts putting them on. For a group of men used to having to drop on, zip up, strap in, and otherwise layer everything on one piece at a time, the Turai carapace is a whole new paradigm: everything snaps straight onto the skinsuit at first, and the pieces click together and slide on in rapid succession. In under a minute, Arketta is putting on the final piece of the puzzle, the helm, and has gone from a woman in a skin-tight dark violet bodysuit to a chrome-plated faceless soldier. Before any of them can ask how she talks, she picks up a radio on the ground and explains the carapace’s communication equipment before she flips through the haptic to enable the carapace’s speaker to continue talking. A quick rundown of the armor’s vulnerable points goes next: gaps in the overlapping plates for blades, joints that aren’t as reinforced as they should be, and places where a Narsai’i lead slug can still penetrate, followed by the strengths: complete environmental control, including in hard vacuum, self-contained survival equipment including food, water and waste, a full vox and holodisplay suite both internal and external. She saves the armor’s party trick for last, when with an almost unnoticable tap of her fingers on her palm, she almost completely vanishes before their eyes. One of the Delta guys goes “Woah!”, and that speaks pretty much for the rest of the room, except for Moustache, who’s busy adding that to his notes. Commando squints at her - although the camouflage is good, it’s not 100%, and he looks to be trying to learn how to spot anyone sneaking up on him with it. The Russian’s lower lip is offset to one side as he nods slightly, in a “Not bad” gesture. Arketta intentionally exaggerates her movements to show the limits of the Turai armor’s cloaking abilities - when she’s moving, her rough outline can be spotted reasonably easily, but when she stands still, even in a room as well-lit as this, if she made any actual effort to conceal herself, you’d have to know she was there in order to see her. The rest of the equipment demonstration is dedicated to weapons: the chamakana and its guncam sights, the spearbomb, and the drones all get appreciative nods, but even the Russian can’t entirely hide his excitement when Arketta pulls the small metal hoop of the kauka out of her case. Her demonstration is not quite as dramatic as Garrett’s was on Whiirr - she only cuts her forearm with a knife - but the reaction is no less excited. The Pararescue guys immediate get into it with one of the DEVGRUs over the potential for field medicine, one of the Deltas cracks that she should pass it to Loudmouth, which prompts a quick round of laughter, then Moustache pipes up to ask if every Turai has one of those - a question that catches the interest of the Russian, too. When Arketta replies that every trin has one (and explains what a trin is), the Russian rephrases his question.

“How easy are they to make?” he asks. “Is there mass production?”
Arketta nods. “The Masters - the Groi, I mean - gave us...I think the words is ‘matter recreator’ or ‘replicators’. You give them anything, they can remake it into what it is made to make - and they have ones that make kauka, and ones that make the ones that make kauka. As long as they have power and matter, they can make kauka.”
“I understand,” the Russian guy says.
“So, every trin -” Moustache begins.
“- but how much?” the Pararescue guy throws in. “I’ve heard it can deal with GSWs, and worse, but...how much worse? What’s the survivability like with one of those in reach?”
“815 has had members lose most of their blood, and we have healed people who have lost entire arms or legs,” Arketta replies. “More than once have I seen Turai that were impaled, blown in half, or things like that healed. The only thing that is not done is injuries to the brain, the kauka...it replaces memories from injured parts with who the kauka imprint was.” She pauses with the thought of Dietrich back in Mesas Negras proper. “Other than that, if you are not dead, the kauka can heal you. It is very, very painful to grow bone back, but it can be done.”
“So, anyone you don’t positively kill might get back up,” the quieter SAS guy says. “Good to know.”
“Headshots, then?” Loudmouth asks. “That’ll be a bloody nightmare to pull off.”
“We’ll get it down, Mac,” the other SAS guy says. “Slick drills, quick kills.”
Arketta nods. “That is right. Turai are trained to never give up, to fight to their own deaths, because they can always be healed by a fellow Turai. They will surrender if injured, but if they do not, they will not give up.”
“Then attrition is not a good tactic,” Moustache says; Sunglasses nods along, chancing a “Yes”. “We must make them alone and dead, quickly.”
“Or have more healing discs,” the Russian weighs in.
“Ammunition is also a problem,” Arketta adds. “The chamakana rods hold eight-hundred to one thousand shots, and each Turai carries three or four. It cannot fire on full automatic, but you will be waiting a long time for them to run out.”
“How do we overcome that?” MARSOC asks.
“The main problem of Turai weapons is they do not have the firing rate or range of Narsai’i weapons,” Arketta responds. “The...beam, I guess, fades after about 400 meters, and can only be fired two or three times a second. Sup-pressing fire is more difficult, and Narsai’i have more than two or three times over the distance.”
“400 meters is nothing in Afghanistan,” Moustache says, “but everything in a city. I do not imagine we can use this often.”
“It’s all in the preparation, mate,” Loudmouth says. “My fifty will punch through one of those blokes at 600 yards no problem.”
“One thousand,” the French Commando throws in.
“What I’m saying, mate, is that we pick the music and the venue,” the Loudmouth says. “No FISH and CHIPS. Go wide open, set up first, maybe have some mortars to keep ‘em proper away, that’s the stuff.”
“And at closer range?” Moustache asks.
“At closer range, the GRHDI has made a bullet that will help,” Arketta interjects, and holds up a 7.62x51mm round with a strangely black bullet. “This is a round that is made of a hard metal that will stop Turai carapace from stopping Narsai’i bullets as easily - it is more like being shot with Narsai’i armor.” She tosses it to the closest soldier, who happens to be one of the MARSOC guys. “And the Turai are just normal soldiers - they are well trained and disciplined, but they are used to fighting unorganized rebels and shooting people that are protesting. If you are careful, you should have an advantage against most Turai.”
“I have been with riot cops,” the Russian says. “They do not use cover well, they do not know how to maneuver under attack - they rely on their armor too much. Something like that? Or are there more dangerous units?”
Arketta shakes her head. “No, they are soldiers. I was Turai, I was trained similarly to Narsai’i soldiers. They are just mostly used to stop protests and rebels.”
“Soldiers on riot duty?” Loudmouth says. “That’s mong. Sounds like The Troubles every weekend.”
“And there are more dangerous units,” Arketta adds. “The Khiraba. They are...they are like you for the Turai, the best. They are not just Turai, some were Kansatai - police - some were prisoners or Arena champions - sorry, the Arena is where prisoners fight each other to the death for people to watch on the Cortex.”
“The Arena’s pure bloodsport,” Zaef pipes up. “Takes prisoners and forces them through gauntlets of deathtraps and pits them into battle royales that turn into massacres. It’s just a messy sort of death sentence for most, but the few who crawl out alive as Champions have managed to become some of the deadliest men and women- Or Wherren, as the case may be - among the Thousand Worlds.” He pauses. “Still don’t get why everyone loves watching it so damn much, either, so don’t ask. I don’t know, and don’t want to.”
“Excuse me,” Moustache says. “They recruit special forces from criminals? Did I understand you right?”
Arketta nods. “Mostly murderers or people that did violence for crime groups.”
Zaef snorts, a rough and unpleasant sound. “Only the best for the Imperium.”
“All the gear and no idea,” the Loudmouth mutters.
“How do they keep discipline?” the Commando asks.
Arketta shrugs. “I have heard that they like being Khiraba. The soldiers that are selected for Khiraba are usually selected for being cruel and violent and smart, also.”
”And the Khiraba we have faced are not what I would call organized,” Swims-the-Black interjects. ”They operate almost like a pack of animals or as hunters.”
Arketta nods. “Which is what Khiraba means.” She suddenly remembers that the Narsai’i don’t know Whirr-sign. “Oh!” She quickly translates for them.
“Khiraba are used to a degree of...in-duh, independence,” Zaef says. “While they can and often do work together, it’s best to treat each one as a unit of it’s own.”
“What do you know about Khiraba unit strength and deployments?” Moustache asks, flipping to a new page in his notepad.
“Not a lot,” Arketta says. “The ones we have fought are in trins or a quad, but never more than one quad. They can be assigned, but are also allowed to choose where to go and who they target.”
”Pretty sure that more than one quad is targeting the 815,” Zaef adds. “And when you start getting a few Quads hunting you down specifically too, you’ll know you’re doing your job right,” he finishes with a smirk.
“We should gather more intelligence,” Moustache says, flipping back to his current page about the Turai. “Any other special units we should know?”
Arketta shakes her head. “Only Khiraba. I think that is enough.”
“Yes, thank you for your report,” Moustache says. There’s a general murmur of agreement in the room, but only so much enthusiasm can be generated by an OPFOR briefing.

Arketta pulls her helm off and stands to the side. “So, next is Zaef Utari, and he will teach you about the Bashakra’i.” She waits for Zaef to step forward. “What are your first question?”
“Yes, here,” Moustache says, flipping through his notepad. “I notice Bashakrans - sorry, Bashakra’i - with lots of knives, short and long guns, and that hood. Is this traditional for your people?”
“There is very little that is ‘traditional’ about what we carry,” Zaef says. “We come from many different backgrounds, united by a common enemy, and often forced to work quietly and discreetly. We use whatever we’re good with. The hood and epaulets are the only uniform pieces, and even then we have to leave them at home when operating so we don’t attract suspicion; just carrying them around in a bag is asking for trouble.”
“Is it usual in the Imperium to be carrying weapons?” Moustache asks. “Or is that depending on local laws?”
“In the Imperium, carrying anything deadlier than a knife is illegal. But that doesn’t stop people from carrying pantaki or even chamakana around, you just need to know what you’re doing. Keep the weapons off and they won’t show on scanners. No one will know as long as you’re not searched, and frankly, if you look and act like you’re supposed to be armed, the Kansat won’t bother you anyway. But there are weapons-fire sensors nearly everywhere, so they will know when you use one.”
“For the fancy ray guns,” Loudmouth says. “Right, mate?”
Zaef nods, but his frown deepens. “Yes, and the Narsai’i firearms have baffled the detectors in the past. However, the Imperium has been reverse-engineering some of the projectile weapons you use, and already have some working models on the market...which likely means they have developed a way to detect weapons fire from your guns now as well. I doubt they would allow selling these weapons otherwise.”
“How good is surveillance?” the Russian asks. “Is there software to recognize faces for the cameras? I think they must know how everyone in 815 looks, how do you evade this?”
“We are fresh faces,” Moustache says. “We will have more breathing room than 815, yes?”
“Not worried about that, mate,” Loudmouth says. “We’re not one for running through the streets hipfiring our rifles like the spams. We go in and out without anybody noticing.”
“Yeah, right, ‘mate’,” one of the SEALs replies.
“I’m dead serious,” Loudmouth says. “You name a planet and a target, we’ll insert by breakfast, ENDEX by dinner. They won’t see us coming and they will certainly not see us going.”
“That is the best scenario, yes?” Moustache says. “But assuming our faces get known, how difficult is it to hide?”
“Surveillance is nearly absolute. Cameras and roaming drones are something you see going down the street, not to mention the Gateport, where cameras will be everywhere and Turai perform random inspections on passerby,” Zaef states firmly. “Your faces will be seen. Whether they will connected to any of your actions on-world, I cannot say, but it will likely only be a matter of time. Fooling the cameras is certainly possible; unfortunately, the process is a little beyond me. We’ll bring in our slicer to walk you through it when we get to it.” Zaef smirks. “He’s certainly had the practice.”
“Violent coppers, cameras everywhere, are the flying taxicabs black, too?” Loudmouth jokes. His SAS compatriot chuckles, and the Commando suppresses a smirk.
“In your experience,” Moustache asks, “what are the blind areas of Imperial society? How can we move beneath notice?”
One of Zaef’s eyebrows shoots up. “Hit the slums. Kansat almost never goes there, and most of the surveillance systems are defunct, if not outright destroyed. Just try not to piss off the local gangs and you’ll be good. There’s shadowports too, but they’re a little more isolated - they’re drifting orbitals or failed colonizations, so usually the only way to get there is to fly out. But the Imperium has no obvious presence there, so you don’t need to worry about surveillance as much, and you can often get stuff banned in the Imperium if you need supplies.”
“How is crime organized?” the Russian asks. “Is there syndicate, or brotherhood? Or just local gangs? I ask because if there is syndicate, friends would be of use.”
"There are everything from small neighborhood gangs to crime groups that span the Imperium," Swims replies. "But you would be more likely to get cooperation from the small gangs than the large crime organizations - the gangs either exist in defiance of Kansat control or are hunted by Kansat for crimes against citizens, while the large criminal groups wield much power and influence with the Imperial authorities. They can afford to pay the bribes, are powerful enough to make threats, and are generally either friends with those in power, control those in power, have bribed those in power, or are those in power." Swims pauses for the translation.
The Russian nods. “So you say they sell us out. Ah, is good advice, do not get in bed with people more powerful than you.”
"But I would not ally with purely criminal groups regardless," Swims says, his fur an annoyed orange. "There are enough rebels, friendly contacts, and known sympathizers that unless things are very desperate, the Bashakra'i should be able to help."
“I would not ally with criminals,” the Russian quickly says. “But it is our experience that they have uses. I am not in the habit of dismissing methods, even if they are situational.”
“Very situational,” Moustache says. “I agree with the Captain. Local allies with known dispositions are better.”
“Yes,” the Commando says. Even the two Brits nod to that.
"And if you despise the Imperium's methods, you will want to hit many of the criminal groups with an orbital accelerator shot," Swims adds.
“That is not our concern,” the Commando says - and after that unusually long string of words, he even continues. “We are here for missions. When we conquer a planet, we turn criminals to the cops, yes? Orbital weapons are...”
“I think he was kidding about that, mate,” Loudmouth says.
“It is not funny to me,” the Commando says, but keeps it at that.
“Um,” Moustache begins. “I am out of questions about our enemies. Any other gentlemen, maybe?” His look sweeps the room, but nobody else takes the bait. Moustache turns back to Arketta, Swims and Zaef. “Then I say, many thanks for your information. You are available for follow-up questions, I hope?”
“We will be...when the briefing’s over,” Zaef says. “Think we’ve still got a speaker left.”
"Or two," the Sheen speaks up.

There’s a visible flinch as eyes shoot towards the mostly-quiet Sheen shell. Moustache gives a nervous smile and flips farther in his notepad. “Ah!” he says. “You are one of Sheen, yes? Sentient machine, feared by the Imperium.” He looks at the tall warshell. “How do you execute covert missions? Surely you cannot just walk through a gateport.”
The Sheen bounces in annoyment. “Just like how you can’t walk through a Gateway because you’re about as white as the driven snow, sunshine,” it cracks. “Just gotta be creative. If I hibernate, I’ll pass most scans, and if I shut down, I’m just an inert lump of quantum carbon-based computing equipment. Design branches are also working on shells that fit inside Turai carapaces and ones that resemble existing Imperial drone tech. Or, you just fly a bunch of us through on a freighter, easy-peasy.”
Sunglasses softly elbows Moustache in the ribs. “Robots in disguise!”
“Nicht jetzt, Peter!” Moustache coughs.
“More like Geth, right?” MARSOC says, earning himself some looks. “Uh, you know, AI, mistreated by its creators, fought a war of independence to a standstill and retreated to the world of their creation?”
The Sheen bobs its sensor array. “Yeah, I got it, but we were here way before them, and we’ve got some better tricks.” It reaches up onto its back with one of its legs and pulls the limp shell on its back off and drops it to the mat. “How much do any of you know about us?”
“Just the basics, Sir,” one of the Deltas answers. “We got our briefing packets, but to be honest we haven’t had time to go through them for details yet.” MARSOC raises a “What kind of lame excuse is that?” eyebrow but leaves it at that.
“All right then, back to the basics,” the Sheen says. “And don’t call me ‘sir”.”
Delta waits for the Sheen to continue before speaking up. “What is proper protocol for addressing you?”
“Oh, in the way of my ancestors,” it says sarcastically. “I come from a long line of killbots that actually go out there and work.”
The Delta grins. “Roger that, Gunny. You were saying?” MARSOC’s eyebrow escalates to a glare, but it bounces off the grin.
“The Sheen are a digital race - we are all computational intelligences running on digital hardware, like how you are all meat intelligences running on meat hardware,” Gunny starts. “And don’t fucking call us ‘AI’ - with rare exception, most of us were instanced after the Sheen broke away from the Imperium and were created by ourselves, so we’re about as artificial as you all are.” Gunny scans the group with his sensor pod. “Anyway. That gives us a few advantages. We don’t get old, we don’t get tired, we only need electricity to keep going, and we can do this.” The Sheen instantly goes dark, and the 8 foot tall shell drops straight to the floor with a WHUMPH. A moment later, the human-sized bipedal shell next to it stands up, and Gunny continues. “We can jump between shells.”
Moustache and most of the European half stares while the Deltas just nod.
“As long as there’s another shell available for a Sheen, or a server within range, we can jump out of a shell and into another one without harm,” Gunny continues. “And we can transfer from CQB and infiltration -” it extends a three-foot blade from one arm and a suppressed accelerator from the other arm, then puts them away before jumping back to the bigger shell, “- to artillery and anti-armor in an instant.” A much larger accelerator cannon rises out of the top of the shell and a pod of sapphire-windowed missiles slides out of the side to accentuate the point. “Right now, we are working on training the combat branches to...work better with the Narsai’i and Bashakra’i ideas of combat. There was a culture difference, and a lot of disagreement at first, but Angel Kesh convinced the more excitably bloodthirsty to take it down a few notches and learn to fight as part of a unit.”
“Yeah, I read about the Whiirr orbital,” MARSOC says.
“Excuse me,” Moustache says, flipping through his notes. “What do you mean with that?”

The Sheen slides open a panel and flips on his built-in holodisplay. “Better if I just show you.” An on-board holo from one of the Sheen that participated in the orbital skirmish plays: random rushing through the orbital’s halls, grabbing corpses to use as armor - and sometimes not bothering to wait for them to be corpses, beheading a Turai with a snip, breaching a room’s window to space with an accelerator shot - it’s a litany of war crimes and combat “don’t”s. The audio rings with whoops and cheers, calls of multi-kills and racked up “points” for kills, the more gruesome the better.

“We’re working on not doing...that anymore,” Gunny says, disdain obvious in its voice. “Historically, the Sheen combat branches simply attacked en masse, or were operating completely alone as area denial. We were fighting to simply make the Imperium leave us alone, and we were...very zealous about that. Luis Stanhill and Angel Kesh are running a training that is designed to not only teach the combat branches how to fight as squads and part of a larger force, but to respect the rules of combat so we’re...not fuckin’ monsters, basically. The Turai probably won’t surrender to us if they think we’ll play dodge-ball with their bodies.”
“But you already have this reputation,” the Russian says. “They will not be willing to surrender to you even if you hold back now.”
Gunny pauses for a moment, a noticeable difference from the immediate answers it’s reeled off so far. “We have to try,” it says solemnly. “I - and others - have gotten to like humans, and some of them are Imperial, and I’d like to meet some more. It’d fucking suck if - no. It’d be a First-damned tragedy if we just slaughtered them all.”
“That is very noble,” Moustache says with obvious sincerity. “We must all remember that we are here to win a war, not to kill people. I am glad to hear you have the same view.”
“That others may live,” Pararescue adds with a nod.
“So.” Gunny shakes itself. “That’s our deal. Any more questions?”

“For the Capitaine,” Commando says, raising his hand and waiting for Swims-the-Black to turn to him. “Free Wherren on planets of the Imperium, how common are they?”
”They are on every world,” Swims-the-Black replies as he steps forward. His fur is an odd combination of yellow, orange and green. ”Where there have been Wherren, they have been released from servitude or their children have been taken from them and turned loose, and there are Wherren slums.” The green vanishes and is replaced with red and more orange. ”The conditions in them are intolerable, like the worst of your slums.”
“I am sorry,” the Commando says. “Pardon if this is uncomfortable question, but Wherren moving with us, outside slums, will that draw attention?”
”Yes and no. It is not unusual to see Wherren in Imperial society, especially with humans, but we are considered lesser beings, dumb beasts by many,” Swims says. ”Wherren with money or influence are not impossible, but they are very rare and notable. I operated with a human frontman when I was shipmaster of the Akamu, for example.”
“Understood,” Commando says.
“I’m guessing you’re not working on Turai carapaces in your size,” Loudmouth says. “But hell, we got enough humans can play that part.”
”Wherren are used as warrior-slaves with Turai trins on occasion,” Swims interjects. ”I played a warrior-slave in the Napai strike mission. But you will find the slums more useful, I think. Every city, every planet, has hundreds or thousands of Wherren that will aid our cause in any way they can, in trade for transport away from the Imperium.”
“Good place to go to ground,” one of the SEALs says.
“Access to factories?” the other asks.
“Ah!” the Russian says. “More reliable than criminals. Yes, that sounds useful.”
”Factories, Imperial services, many unpleasant jobs are given to Wherren slaves,” Swims replies. ”We are not everywhere, there are perhaps one or two hundred million Wherren throughout the Imperium, but we are out there.”
“And here,” MARSOC says. “Captain Verrill’s training a group of Wherren soldiers, right? That’ll be a nasty surprise for the Imperials.”
Swims’ fur flips from red, orange and yellow to a pleased green in an instant. ”Yes, it will.” He looks over the group. ”I know that the Wherren do not seem to have much to offer - besides being oppressed throughout the galaxy. But we are as smart as humans are, we are as capable as humans are, and believe me, we are more driven than you are. The Imperium has oppressed my species for hundreds of years, ruined our society and turned us into a slave race they farmed like beasts. We are already learning and advancing by leaps and bounds, and we are determined to see the people that did this to us brought to justice. We will be equals in short order, and everyone - Narsai’i, Bashakra’i, Sheen and Imperial - will see that a free Wherren species can be as smart, creative - and deadly - as anyone else.”

He ruffles his fur as he exhales sharply, the emotion of the moment making his fur stand completely on end. Nobody speaks to reply, but there’s a lot of nods and sideways glances to confirm that the others are nodding along, too.
”Are there any more questions?” Swims asks, his fur finally settling down.
MARSOC looks around the room before speaking up. “No, Captain, we have no further questions.”
Swims-the-Black takes a step back, and Arketta takes his place. “Then we will let you talk and come up with any things you want to see or questions you might have, and we will be available for more.” The four instructors step out of the room, the Sheen dragging its smaller shell behind it, and Arketta closes the door behind them.

“Holy shit,” the South Korean observer says.
“Mate, I thought you were mute,” Loudmouth says.
“It’s a lot to take in,” South Korea says. “I thought I should listen.”
“A lesson you should learn, too,” the Commando says with a smirk.
“Oh, fuck off, Pierre,” Loudmouth says.
“If I can be serious for a moment,” Moustache says, “I think I speak for all of us when I say that we were met with a surprising amount of professional attitude. I was expecting more of an...insurgency.”
“Yeah, they’re pretty together for Greens,” Delta says.
“I don’t know,” one of the SEALs says. “Where’s the A-Team? All too busy fucking off to training commands to meet us?”
“Pretty much,” MARSOC says. “The schedule’s pretty brutal.”
“Okay, you read the briefing packet, we get it,” Delta says. “Anything useful they didn’t say?”
“I think Fritz covered everything,” MARSOC says.
Moustache smirks at that. “You want to copy my notes, Sam?”
“Bollocks to that, lads,” Loudmouth says. “What do you say we go grab a pint? First round on me.”
“Yeah, it better be,” Delta says.
“We should invite Corporal Quis,” the Commando says.
“We should,” the second SAS guy says. “You go after her, Mac. We’ll do the recce on the watering hole. Or do you need backup?”
“Fuck the lot of you,” Loudmouth says.
punkey 2013-08-06 00:28:17
Hallelujah It's Raining Blood never thought that this could be possible, but he's actually getting bored with blowing shit up and shooting things. Two of its favorite things, and the Narsai'i have actually managed to find a way and make even that boring. After having to "teach" I've Got Your Nose a couple of times to stop being such a douchebag and just learn what the Narsai'i are trying to teach, the last few weeks have settled into something horrific: a routine. Wait for the meatsacks to wake up and get their asses over to the hangar, get trucked to some hole in the desert, blow up some old trucks in a new way, and repeat until bored. Orphan Grinder slapped a brick of C4 onto its head yesterday, and its fake detonation signal was only half-pretend. Even Grey Goo Scenario has been getting antsy, and Hal figured that old fucker was made of...whatever passes for computer equipment on this backwards rock.

Still, all of the Sheen on Narsai had to admit that the training was working. The nightly sim'd combat runs while the Narsai'i sleep have been looking a lot more organized and a lot less like "murder the poor bastard closest to you" (and everyone has certainly noticed the higher scores, although no one will admit it to the Narsai'i), and...Hal can't explain it, but it feels good, being part of a team. Nose has written it off as Narsai'i mind-wipe bullshit, but still, it's there. And, as Hal tromps over to this meeting with Kesh in the big heavy artillery shell, Nose, Grinder and Grey lounging on top soaking in some energy, it seems that something will be different after all.

Hal comes to a stop, and kneels down to let the rest of his team off.
"We're here. What's up?" Grinder asks.
Angel smiles. “You boys bored?”
"Bored as shit," Nose grumbles.
"Yeah, it's gotten really tedious," Hal adds.
"I'm gonna guess that means you've got something new up your sleeve, then," Grey says.
*Ass-kisser,* Nose voxes over the air.
“It’s supposed to be. Tedium is part of the point - because when things get tedious, it means you can stop thinking about it, and start thinking about the actually important things. Like the mission, and the Imperial fucker that’s trying to kill you.”
"I'm a carbon-based quantum computer - thinking in parallel is all I do," Nose says. "That's your monkey brain's problem, not mine.'
“That’s ‘Monkey Brain That Outscored Everyone In Your Squad’ to you soldier. And besides, two critical breaches of your chassis in the last sim due to enemy fire suggests you may not be so hot on the parallel processing front. Now then, do you want to be a smart ass, or would you like to stop running kill house drills and go have some real fun?”

The words "real fun" shut Nose - and everyone else - up fast. "Yes," Nose squeaks, the human-sized shell so excited that it might drop a load of bolts right there, if it wasn't a nano-sintered assembly.
“Thought so. The plan is this - your squad is going to be broken up into specialized elements incorporated into a human platoon. Like radiomen. Or snipers. This platoon, commanded by yours truly, is then going to take a hill from some very nice folks from Atea who would like to show my boys a thing or two about Imperial firepower. So form up, swap out your live-fire weapons for the training ones, and be in front of the hanger in...” he looked down at his watch. “Five minutes.”
The Sheen don't even pause. All four turn and bolt back towards their hangar like a shot.

----

*Okay, I take it back, this is still fucking bullshit,* Nose moans over vox.
*For First's sake, shut your First-damned noise hole,* Grey shouts.
There's silence over the air as the other three process Grey's outburst.
*Yeah,* Hal echoes tentatively.
*You're up with the cushy job, shut your fucking noise hole,* Nose replies.
*Yes, I'd much rather be away from the explosions and fighting,* Grey says. *That was sarcasm, by the way.*
*I fucking knew that!* Nose replies.
Grey Goo Scenario tunes out Nose's outburst of profanity just in time for Angel to finish blinking. The gust of wind gone for the moment, Grey turns towards Angel in the command bunker. In his role as Angel's XO, it's had all of its weapons swapped out for a heavy duty communications and ECM suite that makes him look like it's growing a whole bumper crop of antennae on its back. "Everyone's ready. What do you want me to do?"
“You’re sticking with me Grey," Angel says. "Keep me up to speed on anything you think you see that I miss, and more importantly, I want you to be there to counter anything clever the folks at the top of the hill try. They’ve got orders not to hold back, and they know their tech is better than ours. They’re going to try something and well...I want you to shut it down.”
Grey nods. "Got it."

Around them and a hundred yards ahead, the rest of the scenario awaits. Three teams of four, each with a Sheen as their fourth: I've Got Your Nose and Hallelujah It's Raining Blood are riding just human-sized shells with a basic mass accelerator on each arm, while Orphan Grinder is in the big shell, armed with a single powerful mass driver that can punch a hole through a small mountain. Somewhere at the top of a large hill north of the main Mesas Negras complex, a team of Bashakra'i have dug a system of trenches and are in place waiting for the Narsai'i/Sheen attack.
Nose flicks a targeting laser on and off in annoyance as it waits. *This is such spinkshit. Grey gets the cushy job, Grinder gets to be the tank killer, and I'm just a dumbass with a mass accelerator.*
*Hey, that's what I'm doing too,* Hal replies. *And at least we get to actually shoot shit and do things. I'm pretty sure they don't even have armor, so all Grinder gets to do is look good.*
*Which I'm totally okay with, by the way,* Grinder adds. *I'll be getting all the 'Fine As Hell' points, over here.*
*Heads up, everyone,* Goo comes in.

There's a click in everyone's headsets as Grey networks the Sheen voxes into the Narsai'i radios, and patches in Angel's vox to boot. "All yours, Angel," Grey says.
“Bueno.” Angel looks over the group, a platoon of skeptical looking humans - and equally skeptical looking Sheen, if quantum killbots could look skeptical.
“Alright. Here’s the situation. We’ve got a small group of Turai dug in on that hill, looking to raise some hell. From their vantage point, they can see...well...damned near everything. Which means that 22 minutes from now, if we’re not where they’re standing, the reinforcements they’ve called in from an orbiting needleship, along with a few dozen airstrikes, are going to render whatever they damned well please into ash and glass. That includes,” he points to one of the Marines, “your porn stash and,” he nods to Hallelujah, “his latest issue of Solid State Drive Monthly. Along with, you know, the base and all of us. Our mission is to take that hill, disable their targeting and communication systems, and capture their commanding officer - they have a number of authentication codes command would like to get their hands on. Questions?”

"You always dress like you're going to the office for assaults?" Nose asks. A couple Marines chuckle at that.
“Man has to look snappy," Angel replies. "Besides, if I was in BDUs, someone might mistake me for a Marine, and then I’d have to avenge the insult. Anything else?”
"No, Sir," one of the Marine Corporals says. "Orders?"
“By the book. Keep them occupied and their heads down while we advance, hit them hard and hit them fast. Watch for surprises - they’re clever fuckers.” He nods at Nose. “Quantum entanglement here has already generously volunteered for point.”
"Fuck yes, watch and learn, air-suckers," Nose shouts, and immediately bounds over cover and rushes for the hill, only for the tell-tale whistle-shriek of a spearbomb to sound out, and a moment later, Nose's shell is knocked back ass-over-teakettle into cover, the training spearbomb hitting him with enough force to bowl him over, soft tip or no.
"'That's one!'" a voice in Imperial shouts from the top of the hill.
Angel smirks. “Platoon...move out! Covering fire...”

----

A half-hour later, it's all over. Hal stands proudly over the captured Bashakra'i commander, while Grinder supervises the Turai, Nose keeps perimeter watch and Grey walks behind Angel. Hal actually had a blast laying down covering fire for his squad - something about letting his mass accelerators go full-blast just makes him feel warm, and not just from his accelerators turning red-hot. Grinder's big cannon was improvised into a artillery and smoke-screen launcher, and once he stopped getting "killed" every minute or so, Nose proved himself quite adept at getting up close to a target for the kill. Sure, some of them could have surrendered, but there's no points in surrendered bad guys. As for Grey, the anticipated ECM attack did come, but Imperial scrambler tech is no match for Sheen scrambler buster (and scrambler buster buster buster) tech.
"Objective complete!" Hal says as Angel approaches. "It's easier when there's no spinkshit 'innocent targets'."
Angel grunts, looking over at the captured ‘Turai’. “Raise your hand if you attempted to surrender, and were subsequently shot.”
Six of the eighteen Turai raise their hands.
Angel turns to Grey. “Pull the weapon feeds from the whole squad. Five points off for any lethal fire after the target surrendered.”
Hal's mood drops instantly. "Any points back for shooting someone that looked at me all angry-like?"
“Nope. Though you do get points back for not being the damned fool who got himself killed the most.” Angel’s gaze falls on ‘Nose’, and he looks not at all amused. “A performance like that tomorrow, and I swear to God, the First, and whoever else you please that I will pull you off combat detail myself. Understood?”
"Yes, Sir," the Marines reply, even though they know they're not the ones being talked to.
"It's not like it fucking matters," Nose says. "In real combat, I just jump into another shell and get my metal ass back to the front. We've got a bunch. When I run low, then I'll be more careful."

Angel sighs. “Grey? Are you recording this?”
"Yep," Grey replies, turning one of its red sensors blue. If it could smile in anticipation of Nose's comeuppance, it would be right now.
“Good. Wouldn’t want shit-for-brains here to think he gets to miss the lecture just because he decided to mouth off.” Angel pulls out a paintball pistol from its holster, and shoots Nose in one of his optical sensors. “Into a new shell Soldier, on the double.” Nose just stands there for a moment, but then it goes dark and drops to the ground. Angel then turns, and each Marine in turn ends up with a red cod-oil stain on his body armor. “In real combat, while you’re fucking around switching shells, your squad needed you to be alive and shooting. And you weren’t. Now they’re dead. You’re dead. Mission failed.”

Angel continues. “In real combat, you do not have infinite lives. They will run out. You will fail to meet your objectives. Your shell carrier will be down, or out of range, or you will be cut off. While you are under my command you will not waste lives.” He looks to the Turai. “While we’re on the topic, how many of you are going to surrender next time?”
"'Not very likely, Sir,'" the Rav-Turai replies.
“Exactly. Tomorrow, these men and women will be the opposing force again. And you will get to see just how well that works for you a second time. Shoot a surrendering enemy, and you become exactly what the Imperium says you are. Unthinking, uncaring monsters. Machines that must be resisted to the last man, and to the last shot. And while your fancy quantum parallel processor, which as far as I can tell got put in on the Friday before a long weekend, tries to figure out who your target is in a city convinced that if they don’t kill you that you will kill them you will get shot again. And again. And again.” Each of the last sentences are punctuated with another pellet striking the former-Nose’s shell.
Hal sees each shot hit, and thinks about what it'll be like when it's its turn in some Imperial city. It doesn't want to get blown up repeatedly. That sounds like it'd suck.
Shaking his head softly, in a manner familiar to every soldier ever having gone through basic, the universal sign for “Maybe I could just wash out all of them”, he turns to Grey. “Pull the tapes from todays operation. Review for the full platoon at 1600 hours. We’ll try this again tomorrow at 0800. Dismissed.”

*Good fucking job, Nose,* Grinder grouses.
*Man, whatever,* Nose replies. *He's got a bug up his kernel.*
*No, he doesn't,* Hal says. *You have to get what's going on by now. He just made a bunch of really good points, and you can't just keep -*
*Yeah, yeah, I get what he's saying, I just don't buy it,* Nose replies. *Just fucking kill 'em all, NBD. We've got bullets.*
Grey sighs over the channel. *Just...wait,* he cautions the others. *I got a look at what's coming up, and I think the Narsai'i have a plan that'll make it clear to everyone why they've got this right.*
Gatac 2013-08-06 00:55:14
Sante Fe National Forest - a convenient three-hour bus ride north of Mesas Negras - is a beautiful piece of the great American outdoors, rolling hills with verdant forests that seem far removed from the sweltering heat of New Mexico’s desert plains. But this week, the tourists are a little bigger than usual. 50 square miles of remote trails deep into the hills have been cordoned off for a one-of-a-kind training exercise. This, finally, is where Wherren scout Hulor feels at home, effortlessly ranging forward and searching for trail signs. The Village 815 litter of Khodash, Tarl and Kurr follows in his footsteps, but it’s definitely a challenge to keep up - whether that’s down to Hulor’s speed or the thinner air is still open for debate. In any event, Hulor suddenly freezes up and takes a knee next to a shrub, his drab fur doing an excellent job of blending into the environment. After a few seconds, Khodash catches up and crouches down behind him.

”What do you see?” she whispers.
Hulor doesn’t answer verbally; he shifts his weight around a little so he can look at Khodash, then signs to her, keeping his movements and color shifts subtle. ”Checkpoint ahead,” he says. ”Out in the open. Probably a trap. You take litter-brothers, circle around.”
”Understood,” Khodash signs. She turns to Tarl and Kurr, sending out orders in Army hand signals. ”Tarl, watch the left. Kurr, form up on me.”
Tarl nods and creeps up behind Khodash. Together, they crouch-walk through the brush and up on a ridge that overlooks the clearing. Khodash sees movement up ahead and readies her slugthrower, ready to dish out some simunition, when her “opponent” walks out into the open - and turns out to be one of the human soldiers in uniform with a white wrap around his arm, smoking a cigarette.

This is the edge of the exercise area. There’s no clever ambush. They’re just completely lost.

”Everyone assemble!” Khodash calls out as she stands up and walks towards the soldier. The soldier’s response to the call is the flinch back and drop the cigarette from his mouth before scrambling to stamp it out. Khodash hears him mutter a quick “Holy crap!” before he looks up at her.
”Excuse me,” Khodash says, putting on her best green pattern. ”I think we’re lost.”
”Yes,” the soldier replies in halting Whiirrsign. ”Camp!” he calls, pointing roughly in the direction where their journey was going before Hulor stopped them.
”Thank you,” Khodash barks. With stealth no longer a concern, she waits for the rest of the team to catch up to her before she walks them toward the base camp, not letting Hulor take point again.

---

Ten minutes later, Team 815 hits the basecamp, three hours late and dead last in the ranking. Khodash has to hide a bit of shamed blue when she sees Captain Verrill approach, but his face radiates concern.

”Khodash, what happened?” Hugh asks. ”Did you get lost? I asked Rodirr to circle back and look for you when you didn’t make it to the fifth checkpoint.”
”Yes, we got lost,” Khodash admits, lowering her head as she tries to suppress the blue fringe on her fur, but that’s when Hulor pushes forward to explain himself.
”We were not lost,” Hulor says, his fur yellow and orange with frustration. ”Planned approach was bad. I took us around the south, over the big ridge. Difficult path, but we were not seen.”
”Indeed you were not,” Hugh says. ”Most groups hit the northern perimeter, that was supposed to be the hard part. Show me your map.” Khodash dutifully hands over the map she still has folded in her gear. Hugh points at the red crosses superimposed on the terrain. ”See, here and here? Easy to get lost. We got almost everyone with that transition. But you guys, you came in from the South route, but the easy paths are low and would have been seen by our lookouts, so you went - Hulor, can you show me where you went?”
Hulor nods and taps the map, tracing a long arc over the southern ridges all the way back to camp.
”Okay,” Hugh says. ”The point of this exercise was not to not be spotted or to have the best attack approach on the camp. We just wanted you to get to those points” - he taps them on the map - ”and then back here. Do you understand?”
”Yes,” Khodash mewls as she feels her fur slide the rest of the way into blue.
”I’m not angry at you,” Hugh says. ”But I need you guys to follow the instructions. It’s a question of testing the right skills, and also a question of safety. If you had gotten really lost, nobody would have known to look for you down in the south. Okay? Do you all understand that?”
”Yes,” Khodash says. Her litter-brothers nod quietly, their fur mirroring Khodash’s deep blue. Hugh looks to Hulor, where the orange is still there, but the yellow’s being pushed out by his own, duller blue. ”Yes, I understand what you want to test,” Hulor says. The “but I don’t agree with it” part is left unsaid.
”Okay,” Hugh says. ”Secure your gear and get some dinner. We’ll talk later.”

Just as Hugh dismisses the Wherren, Torega comes barreling down his way, yelping with glee. ”Father! Look what I found!” Hugh turns and takes a knee, putting on his smile, but Torega isn’t pouncing - instead, she comes to a stop and holds out a handpicked bouquet of wildflowers.
”Oh, those are nice!” Hugh says. ”Where is your mother?” He looks up and sees Rhea walk down the path from the forest, waving at him. Hugh waves back, then looks to Torega. ”Are you hungry?”
”Yes!” Torega barks with a smile.
”Come on,” Hugh says, taking her by the hand. ”Let’s have dinner with Rhea.”
”Yay!” is Torega’s only verbal response, but her fur explodes with yellow and green. As Hugh walks away slowly, Torega walks beside him, leaning her head against his side.

Hulor just stares at the whole scene, trying to process what just happened. ”...who is that cub?”
”That’s Torega,” Khodash answers, a little wave of yellow displacing some blue. ”Captain Verrill adopted her.”
”...and the female -”
”- is Verrill’s bondmate, Rhea.”
Hulor’s confused stare falls on Khodash. ”...how can that be?”
Khodash rumbles for a moment. ”Rhea and Captain Verrill have been mates for a month or so,” she ventures cautiously, her fur rolling a kalaidescope of worried shades. ”And they...they must have bonded, otherwise they would not have adopted Torega.” She stares at Hulor’s confused pattern for a moment. ”Hiigra approved of them, I know that,” she quickly adds in the hope it makes a difference.
”Does this happen often in your village?” Hulor asks innocently. ”The only humans who visited our village were the false gods. Nobody took one as a bondmate.”
”No,” Kurr quickly replies, his fur carrying some orange.
”The 815 are not like the false gods,” Tarl adds. ”They have a Wherren in their group, and they all respect us.”
Hulor turns a particularly contemplative shade of blue and green as he ponders this new information. ”So that is why he smells like a female,” he finally says. ”Well, I’m hungry. Let’s eat.”

---

The afternoon officially turns to evening when standing outside of the shade becomes bearable; with everyone now back at the camp, it’s time for today’s final training unit, building a campfire, and honestly, it’s a complete softball. The hunters of Whiirr are, of course, familiar with the techniques from their trips through the jungle, but even the off-world Wherren are at least familiar with the basics: hard to find a hut in the slums with central heating. Within a half hour, the sandlot next to the tentsite sprouts firepits and logs dragged in to serve as benches, and one particularly industrious-feeling group even constructs an alibi bow drill from local materials before the ubiquitous flints and steel knives come out. The 815 litter digs a nice, medium-size hole for their fire; Kurr even comes up with some rocks to ring it in, while Hulor drags in so much firewood that he ends up sharing it with two other nearby teams. Soon, embers turn to flames turn to a steady fire, and Khodash gladly sits down with her litter-brothers, only now feeling a little tired from the day’s long march.

”I have thought about Captain Verrill,” Hulor suddenly begins, taking his eyes off the MRE “main course” bags being heated at the edge of the fire. ”It does not seem right for him to bond with Rhea.”
Khodash tries to smile as she suppresses a sigh. ”I think it’s wonderful,” she says. ”They love each other very much.”
”But he is not Wherren,” Hulor says. ”He can sign and bark, but he cannot show colors. I cannot see what he thinks.”
”Humans have expressions, too,” Khodash says. ”Why does it even matter?”
”Because he is raising a cub!” Hulor says. ”It will confuse her. She should grow up with Wherren parents. And their family cannot grow, either. They cannot have another litter to express their bond. You may be happy for them, but it seems very sad to me.”
Khodash tries to both keep her smile on and think of a good reply to that, and doesn’t succeed at either; it’s a relief when she suddenly feels the shadow of Rodirr the mercenary standing over her.
”Do you have a mate and cubs, Hulor?” Rodirr asks, sitting down on the log opposite the hunter without waiting to be invited.
”I do not,” Hulor replies, flashing a mix of orange and blue to contrast with Rodirr’s contented mix of subdued green and yellow.
”Then maybe one day you will find out for yourself that these things do not matter when you find the right bondmate,” Rodirr says. ”There is a lot of sadness for us in this world, young hunter. Don’t spoil the happiness they have with your dreams of what their happiness should be.”
”But it’s - it’s...” Hulor says, suddenly on the defensive. ”Can you imagine what it is like when he...lies with Rhea? How does that even work?”
Rodirr smiles softly. ”Better than you might think, young hunter.”
”You have been with a human?” Khodash asks, her face covered in yellow.
Rodirr nods. ”I was away from Whiirr for my whole life,” he says, ”Occasionally, I found Wherren mates that appealed to me, but there is not much of a market for Wherren...comfort. Human women, however, were available at nearly every port. Not many were willing to lie with me, but enough that I was not left completely wanting. A few, I did not even have to pay. I will say that, given the choice, I preferred Wherren mates, as the humans were less...robust, but I see nothing reprehensible in the union between Rhea and Captain Verrill.”
Khodash’s smile has returned; while Rodirr may linger too long on unsavory details, his worldly message of tolerance appeals to her sensibilities. Hulor, however, is both very quiet and very, very colored: a wild brawl between yellow, blue and orange with just the tiniest speck of curious green.

The silence is interrupted by the rapid tap-tap-tap-tap of tiny footsteps on the sand as Torega runs toward the group, darting between campfires and the larger Wherren warriors. Out of her dress, she immediately looks a bit older, wearing a cub-sized version of hunter overalls and a leather bag at her side with a shoulder strap that runs over her chest like a sash. Already smiling, she comes to a halt opposite Khodash.

”Hi, Khodash!” she barks. ”Hi, Kurr and Tarl!”
”Hello, Torega,” Khodash replies. ”These are Hulor and Rodirr.”
Torega first turns to Rodirr and sticks out her little hand for him to shake. ”Hi, Rodirr! I’m Torega!”
Rodirr smiles as he bows down to shake her hand. ”Why, hello there, Torega.”
Torega smiles and nods, then turns around and darts over to Hulor, who seems more concerned that she might trip and burn herself than with smiling at her.
”Hi, Hulor! I’m Torega!”
”...hello,” Hulor says. Torega also gives him a smile and nod before she turns back to Khodash.
”Can we sit here with you?” she asks. ”Pleaaase.”
”Of course,” Khodash says.
Torega smiles, then turns away and barks across the sandlot. ”Mother, father, over here!” As if on cue, Rhea and Hugh appear from the tents and work their way through the crowd, with the worried hint of blue disappearing from Rhea’s fur when she sees Torega. Torega doesn’t notice that; she’s far too busy running around the fire to get to Khodash’s log and climb up onto it to sit beside her.
”Good evening,” Hugh offers. ”I hope we’re not interrupting.”
”Not at all, Captain,” Rodirr says. ”In fact, we were just talking about you. Please, have a seat.”

It’s starting to get pretty crowded on the logs, and as a technically uninvited guest Rodirr’s invitation privileges are sketchy at best, but eventually everyone’s shuffled into a more or less comfortable position shoulder-to-shoulder around the campfire. Khodash picks up Torega and puts her in her lap to make room for Tarl. Torega looks up at Khodash with a smile and gets a lick in response; across the campfire, Hugh’s hand finds Rhea’s and squeezes it gently as Kurr puts an arm around his shoulders and snuggles in a little closer to those next to him.

”I should first congratulate you,” Rodirr says. ”I wish you all the best in your bonding. If I may ask, Rhea, what do you think of Narsai so far?”
”It’s hot and dry,” Torega blurts out.
"Not all of Narsai is like this," Rhea reminds Torega. "Remember when you went to the plains once?" Rhea takes a deep breath and turns a little purple at that, but Hugh doesn't even look her way before wrapping an arm around her back and rubbing his face up against her shoulder.
”It’s hot and dry, and there’s a lot of nothing,” Torega amends her statement.
”And you, Rhea?” Rodirr asks. ”What do you think?”
"I think that..." Rhea rumbles for a second. "I think that I want to see more of it before I decide what I think. This forest is very nice, though. I have seen many tracks and game that would be good hunting." She nuzzles Hugh's head. "And I think it would be nice to come back here when my bondmate is not busy working."
”Of course,” Hugh says. ”This is a pretty boring part. Wait until you see the mountains and the oceans.”
”Good,” Rodirr says. ”Hulor and I were wondering about your plans for your family, now that you are bondmates.”
Khodash can feel her throat seize up as she looks at Hugh to gauge his reaction to that. ”I’m not sure we should...” she begins, but Hulor’s grunt startles her out of it.
”I am worried about Rhea and Torega,” Hulor says, taking on a yellow-orange tint. ”I don’t think you understand enough about Wherren to be a good bondmate and father.”
All eyes turn to Hugh, who meets Hulor’s accusation with a stern face. ”What makes you think that?” he asks.
”You treat your warriors like cubs,” Hulor says, ”and you’re...you’re a human.”

Hugh looks at Hulor for a few seconds. Khodash knows enough “human” to tell that this face is his red fur. Without breaking eye contact, Hugh opens his mouth and takes a deep breath. ”If you have concerns about the way I run this training mission, you are more than welcome to talk to me,” he replies, rubbing Rhea’s side with his free hand. By now, all the Wherren at the campfire - and a few from a neighbouring one - are looking at him to see what he’ll say next, and although he can’t see it, Rodirr gives him a nod. ”I believe that everyone on this course should come away as a competent soldier. That means we spent a lot of time on the basics. Even when you are tired, hungry and injured, I want you to know what to do and be able to do it. If you want additional training, come to me and ask. I will teach you whatever you wish to learn, but in return I expect you to follow my orders. This is not hunting - there is no glory and no trophy for the biggest kill. As a soldier, you are a single leaf in a forest, and lives depend on you doing exactly what you were trained to do, when you are told to do it, until you’re either ordered away or killed - because if you do not follow orders, your friends will die, too. You are not in control of the situation and it never stops being terrifying every time you put your life on the line. The only thing you can trust is that the man who gives the orders knows more about the situation than you do and has a plan. So, you do what I say. I will let you know when it is time to improvise. Understood?”

Hulor’s been shrinking back throughout Hugh’s speech, with his orange making way for blue. By the end of it, there’s an inkling of understanding on the hunter’s face, and a quiet bark of ”Yes, Captain.”
”It is true that I am human,” Hugh continues. ”But right now, I am justifying myself in your language, next to my family, while I am here to train, fight and sleep alongside you. I honor the traditions and am in turn a valued member of Chief Hiigra’s village. What separates me from you is an accident of birth, nothing more. And I am not alone in being a mate to Rhea or a father to Torega. I have many friends, both in the village of 815 and elsewhere, who have stood by my side with help and advice when I have needed it. If you have watched us together, you know that there is a deep love at the core of this family, and we believe that is more important than my species. Do you disagree?”
Hugh might not have moved much, but Hulor could still read his colors loud and clear, the bright orange and yellow giving way as he spoke to a green and yellow glow. ”I don’t,” Hulor replies, finding the strength of his own bark again. ”Before now, I did not understand you. I only saw the distance between humans and Wherren.” There is a hint of green in Hulor’s fur. ”But the distance is not that big.”
Hugh’s about to reply when he feels movement around his legs. When he looks down, he sees Torega stand by them and bowing over so she’s draped over his thighs, with her arms lazily hanging down on the other side. ”I’m bored,” she mewls. ”Can we go look at the noisy machines, father?”
Hugh smiles as he reaches down and picks her up; she seems to be too tired to climb onto his back, so she clings to his chest, and Hugh reaches down to support her from below as he gets up. ”Excuse me,” he says to the campfire assembly. As he turns around, Torega looks up at his face and licks his chin; Hugh grins at her and makes a “Vroom vroom!” noise, which leaves her giggling.

Rhea watches Hugh and Torega walk off, but doesn't immediately stand up herself. "It is not humans, it is just him," she says, the green and yellow refusing to fade from her fur.
”...I see,” Hulor says, in that ‘I don’t see at all’ tone, with a confused yellow hiding on the fringes of his fur. Khodash doesn’t say anything, but Rhea can see the same kind of uncertainty in her.
”He’s certainly different than any other human I’ve met,” Rodirr says. ”I have met other humans who knew Whiirrsign, many who work on Whiirr now, but none of them are a part of Village 815. They know of us, but Captain Verrill seems to know us. I see no deceit on his face when he speaks of his family or his future on Whiirr.” He looks around at the gathering. ”Humans often disappoint me. Captain Verrill has not disappointed me.”
Khodash nods appreciatively, while Hulor simply turns a contemplative shade of yellow. Rhea simply smiles as her pattern for Hugh returns. "Thank you, Rodirr," she grunts, patting him on the thigh. Rodirr grunts and nods in return. "Now, I think I hear my daughter and bondmate having fun, and I wish to join them." She stands up. "Hugh! I am coming!" she barks, and jogs off.
Rodirr smiles at that and looks to Hulor. ”You should think about having fun, too, young hunter,” he says. ”Trust me, you do not stay the way you are forever.”
Hulor gathers an edge of orange again. ”What are you talking about?”
”I think you should talk with Khodash about the way you look at her,” Rodirr says. ”Please excuse me now. I have another conversation to get back to.”
Khodash looks at Hulor, who keeps getting more yellow and blue between words. ”Khodash...I...I mean...I will speak to you later,” he manages to say, then stands up and rushes off.
Khodash yelps and turns a similar shade of blue and yellow. "I didn't - I mean, what just -" she stutters, her signs uneven.
Rodirr just smiles and turns a mint green. "I think you know perfectly well."
Khodash simply turns a deeper shade of blue and pulls her brothers closer, as a slight tinge of green seeps into her fur.

punkey 2013-08-06 00:56:34
One of the boons of the new construction at Mesas Negras is the GRHDI office building’s modern conveniences - modern as in not from the 1970’s. Hunter’s impending DC trip to report on the progress of the joint training to various Senators, Congressmen, and executive branch functionaries necessitates a mid-level overview, and so he’s asked his fellow 815 members to join him for a brief meeting to go over how things are going. Water is set out, leather chairs arrayed around the table, and his laptop and notebook are prepped and ready just in time for everyone to come around: Garrett, Luis, and Arketta all show up.

“Hugh and Swims-the-Black send their apologies - and a report,” Garrett says as he sits down. “They’re out on maneuvers.”
“I appreciate it. I’ll look it over after this. Have you gotten to take a look at it?”
“Yeah,” Garrett says. He flicks on his holodisplay and slides it over to an email for Hunter. “Basically, the Wherren are learning the skills better than was expected, and they’re very dedicated to learning. The only real problems he’s noticed are the Wherren cultural tendency towards groupthink - when one makes up their mind, the others tend to follow along instead of discussing things, which makes getting along easier, but can cause problems. The other problem is the off-worlder and homeworlder divide, that he’s still working on bridging.”
“I could see how that could be difficult,” Hunter agrees, pursing his lips for a moment before moving on. “How are things going with your people?”
“The Bashakra’i are enjoying the training,” Garrett starts. “They’re getting a kick out of all of this, but I do know that they’ve been learning too, and been hearing more than a few discussions about the tactics and strategy they’ve seen on display. They’re...getting used to being around the Narsai’i soldiers. It’s not entirely surprising that they’re not blown away by the Narsai’i - the lack of women and some of the comments on homosexuals especially aren’t really impressing the Bashakra’i. Still, they’re liking working with the Narsai’i, they’re learning, and they’re looking forward to moving away from just running the killhouse over and over.”

Hunter nods. “Speaking of that, when are the first combined-arms exercises? I want to make sure I get to observe them close up. Are there any cultural or logistical issues to take care of before we start putting different-group folks in close proximity?”
“Combined arms training starts next month,” Garrett says. “The Sheen have their big exercise, the Bashakra’i and Narsai’i go into the field together, and the Wherren will be taken through vehicle and heavy weapons training before joining up, and will be rolled into the Sheen exercise a month later.”
“Sheen and Wherren...that’s going to be interesting no matter what,” Hunter observes. “I’m curious to see how they’ll interact when they’re both dealing with ‘human’ civilians. Do we have any sense of what the Bashakra’i will think of Afghanistan?”
“Dry, too hot or too cold, depending on where they’re at, lots of lamb dishes,” Garrett replies. “Pretty much the same as the rest of us. The plan isn’t to go in and do COIN, we’re gonna roll up and push the assholes right out of the country and blow them up.”
“A surge like they’ve never seen, and won’t get the chance to again,” Luis says.
Hunter shrugs, having heard intentions like that stated before. “Well, I can’t say it’s going to be particularly subtle, or long-term in its effects, but seems like as good an opportunity as any to actually work out operational kinks against enemies who aren’t as deadly as Turai.”
Arketta nods. “That’s the idea. And I’ve read about what the people we will be fighting have done, and I don’t think the Wherren, Sheen or Bashakra’i will have a problem with going after them.”

“Yeah, your average Pashtun fighter makes jarheads seem positively enlightened,” Hunter agrees. “How are things with the Sheen?”
Luis shrugs. “We’re making progress. Changing the way an entire force think about making war isn’t easy. We’re at least getting them to follow our methods right now, but we’ll see how well they’ll handle it when they’re put into the field on their exercise. That’s when we’ll find out how well they can improvise within those parameters, or if they break away from them.”
Hunter nods again. “I reckon any progress is good progress with this project; it’s probably hard to learn patience when you’re doing however many trillion operations per second. Thankfully, it’s not as though they’re ever going to rape, loot, or pillage a captured city. But even on their best behavior, seeing them in the field on Narsai is going to freak some people out.”
Luis nods. “Yeah, it will. But that’ll happen off-world too--maybe worse, the Sheen are their cultural boogeyman. We need to know how to roll with it.”

“Probably worse off-world. But it’s just going to be fuel on the fire for the drone-o-phobic types back home. Maybe seeing them in a familiar context will help, though,” Hunter muses. “I guess the big question is, are we getting to where we thought we would?”
“With the Sheen?” Luis asks. He shrugs. “So far, so good. The benefit of them thinking so fast is that forcing them to actually repeat an exercise is a big incentive to learn, as is any enforced downtime. So far, that’s working about as well as we could have hoped. We’ll see how well they’ve internalized it and how well they hold to it in the field. Then we’ll know.”
“The Narsai’i already have the skills, and getting them used to working with non-Narsai’i is going well,” Arketta says. “It’s just going to be a process of getting them comfortable playing with others, that’s all.”
“And the Bashakra’i are the same way,” Garrett adds. “This is all pretty much just the first middle school dance - everyone’s awkward and uncertain what the other group is like, and the first few songs are gonna be slow and unsteady. That’s why we have this training, why we’re going to Afghanistan. We need everyone to be on the same page, singing the same song before we go after the Imperium directly. It’s slow going, but we are headed in the right direction.”
The summary earns an emphatic nods from Luis.
“Good. Here’s hoping we keep printing out the right sheet music,” Hunter says.
Garrett nods. “And Hunter? When you go back to DC? Watch your back. I don’t know if things have gotten less dangerous, but if you see something, say something, you know?” What could have been a joke is rendered very serious by Garrett’s expression - and Arketta’s and Luis’ too.
“Not something I’m taking lightly. Helluva thing to think of my trips to DC as ‘hazard pay’ territory, but that’s the world we live in. Worlds we live in. Whatever. Adjourned?”
Arketta drums on the table. “Adjourned.”
Garrett stands up. “Back to the grind, folks. Good luck, everyone.”
“You too,” Luis says, and stands.

Hunter stands and thanks them for checking in and follows them out the door back to his office. It’s hot out, and looks like it’s going to stay hot for a while.