Erika takes a swig of beer. "So, a post-scarcity world of ultra rich haves and struggling have nots, obsessed with celebrity gossip and rumor, where one wrong move could have us both killed." She takes another drink. "Are you sure we're not just moving to Manhattan?"
"Yep." Angel can tell that despite the brave face Erika is putting on - and it is a very brave face - she's nervous about moving to a place where she could, in theory, be arrested, tortured, and executed for simply being in. "That is that. The Bashakra'i movers that came to my place were very polite, and everything I'm bringing is in storage by the gateport. The skimmer will be here in a half-hour once we call for it." She raises her bottle. "Just in time to finish these, I think."
---
"That is good," Yisai says. "I trust the Kansatai and Turai to keep my Interceptors safe, so they can trust us to keep them safe from the skies. And...we should trust Miss Barnes to keep us safe from the Narsai'i, I suppose?"
"She's the Steward," Luis says. "Maybe we'll find somebody better for it eventually, I don't just want the Imperium all over, but at the moment, she's the best we have for the job and we have to trust her to do it."
Yisai nods. "You have expressed great trust in Steward Barnes in the past. If you trust her, then that is enough proof for me. It will be a point of honor for my squadron to be the first to fly in defense of the homeworld, Luis. I will see you at your muster time tomorrow."
----
Travel for the GRHDI and Bashakra’i on Narsai has two modes. One, if you need to be subtle (well, about as subtle as brown and black-skinned people in strange garb, huge walking tusked bear-like people, and talking robots can be), there’s normal Narsai’i transport. The GRHDI has acquired from various federal surpluses a fleet of black SUVs and still (for now) has access to the federal government’s planes to get around, and there’s always private or commercial flights. However, for when it’s not worth hiding that the aliens have landed, the GRHDI has finally put together a decently sized fleet of a couple dozen skimmers. They’re of the “tour van” variety, emphasizing durability and carrying/seating capacity over luxuries, but by Narsai’i standards, a flying van that can pilot itself and crosses the US in just over twelve hours or so is worth buying a few dozen of, and in fact most of the GRHDI’s pilots spend their time on shuttle milk runs across the US, going from the Bashakra’i village to Mesas Negras or DC or (very rarely) Diego Garcia. Most off-worlders, Bashakra’i and Wherren alike, wonder when the GRHDI will be able to bring across proper cruise-engined suborbital hoppers that can make the trip in less than an hour, but that’s still a ways off.
There’s also a hop beyond Mesas Negras that doesn’t get a ton of attention, but is the route that Swims-the-Black finds himself on today, as the skimmer flies over the Angeles National Forest and down towards Pasadena. Nestled up in the foothills is the NASA Jet Propulsion Laboratory, the best research lab for advanced power and rocket designs in the country, and the site of a very exciting NASA project. One of the very first offworlder/Narsai’i cooperations was NASA asking how the rest of the galaxy goes to space, and it just so happened that the GRHDI had access to two highly qualified individuals.
The skimmer sets down on the skimmer landing pad JPL built for the project - well, built might be overstating things. Initially there were plans to just clear a spot at the parking garage roof for them, but when the Bashakra’i just requested a clear few thousand square meters of compacted dirt, as is the normal standard for skimmer lots, that simplified things immensely. It’s on that compacted dirt that Daniel Wiseman, Project Manager of JPL’s Integrated Ground Nonpropulsive Inertial Test Element efforts, awaits. Pushing fifty, but in terrific shape thanks to regular Iron Man triathlon participation, he’s learned enough about the Friends From Elsewhere to keep a hand on his basecamp as the skimmer approaches. He gives Swims-the-Black an appropriate amount of time to get his feet on the ground before he strides up to him, offering a handshake.
”I Than’nul’,” he says in halting Whirrsign. ”Sir, welcome.” ”Good to meet you, Daniel,” Swims-the-Black replies, his pronunciation of English coming much closer than Wiseman’s attempt at Whirrsign. ”I have been meaning to see what the Narsai’i attempt at fusion looks like for a while now.”
Wiseman shakes his head, then gives an apologetic smile. ”I sorry, I understand the last not,” he manages. ”’My Naranai’i is a little better. Come with me, please. We have translators inside.”’ He holds out his other hand, dangling a large lanyard with a visitor ID on it. ”’And please wear this.’” ”Of course,” Swims-the-Black grunts, offering an apologetic wave of blue as he slips the lanyard around his neck.
‘Inside’, then, starts with a typical Narsai’i office - a small entryway with a waiting area and an assistant’s desk, which has had barriers put up facing the front doors, probably to prevent people thinking an assistant actually works there. Swims-the-Black glances down the opening - offices down one side, and a couple of meeting rooms and what looks like the photocopier and break room down the other. Through an airlock that blows the dust from the landing pad off his fur is a large assembly hall painted in a calming medium gray, with testing armatures buried in wires and pipes and gauges in two corners, a few desks and white boards masquerading as ‘offices’ in the third and spares and tools storage in the fourth. Bright red letters on the wall spell out the project name with subtle bolding to scan as IGNITE above an array of pipes bolted to the wall at various heights. Some of them are small enough to be electrical conduit, others thick enough to probably be reactant mass feeds for the main project.
All pipes feed into the center of the hall and the main attraction: Narsai’s first ‘practical’ combined-cycle fusion reactor slash engine. It’s huge. Not only would it not fit where the Akamu’s engines were, it’d struggle to even make it into the main cargo bay, surrounded by a gantry and scaffolding that’s a little more than 15 meters tall. Four round ignition chambers protrude from the central sphere, two on the top half and two on the bottom half, each one opposite the other, each surrounded by the fuel charger/injector mechanism. Banks of ultracapacitators sit in armored boxes below each charger/injector, hooked up to each with thick power cables and tell of a process that’s the victory of raw electric power over magnetodynamics. The centerpiece is the central collector chamber, a massive 8 meter sphere of steel. Instead of being wired for heat collection or thrust, this one is bristling with ports and fixtures for all manner of experimental sensors, gauges and vacuum lines, connected hither and thither in arrangements that probably shift daily to determine the most effective configuration by careful experiment. A thick cooling jacket is welded around it, filled with what Swims-the-Black guesses is lithium or pressurized water. Finally, an exhaust collection tank is connected to the central chamber off the bottom of the sphere. The tank seems dangerously small to Swims-the-Black until he realizes that it’s sized just right to collect a couple minutes of fusion exhaust, which tells him exactly how experimental this reactor really is. If you fired up a proper ship’s engine this size in atmo, you’d want the next few hundred meters downrange of its nozzle cleared. An array of detectors protrude from that tank as well, and Swims-the-Black suspects the exhaust tank doubles as some sort of particle detector.
There are also a half dozen Narsai’i there standing around. It's not an official greeting party, but rather he can read from their eyes that they’re here to see The Alien. Humans from outer space, that’s one thing - in fact, Swims-the-Black spots a couple Bashakra’i engineers working on the reactor. But he’s the first Wherren these Narsai'i are seeing in the flesh. The one exception from the Bashakra'i, a young woman with warm brown skin and hair pinned up into a loose bun, is the first to step forward. She gives Swims-the-Black a little bow, then brings her hands up to sign.
”Greetings, Shipmaster,” she says. ”I am called D’sha Boad.” She pauses to fingerspell her name - Disha Bath - as she’s clearly not satisfied with how she’s grunting it. ”I will be your translator for today. Please let me know if you have any questions.”
Swims-the-Black returns the bow. ”It is good to meet you, Disha. I see the Narsai'i have built their first reactor?”
Disha smirks. ”Reactor might be a bit of an exaggeration, this project isn't even intended to be self-sustaining. But it is being built entirely from first concepts, and without nanofab.”
Swims-the-Black ruffles an impressed minty green. ”No nanofab? The Narsai'i want to do things the hard way?”
Disha smiles. ”Material development is part of the grant,” she explains. ”We want to know if it’s feasible - and besides, as Daniel says, there is no better way to learn how to do something than by building it from scratch.” ”Very true,” Swims-the-Black replies. He looks over the towering reactor with a bit more appreciation. After all the politics and animosity with the Narsai'i, it's nice to be reminded that there's plenty of them that are curious and excited instead of fearful and mistrusting. ”Well, if you would introduce me to your team, Disha.”
Handshakes ensue, as Swims-the-Black learns the names and specialties of the gathered specialists. There’s a guy that is, to hear him tell it, the United States’ foremost expert in indirect temperature sensing, a professor on loan from CalTech who’s spent thirty years of her life on materials to support high-Tesla electromagnetic fields, another guy from Senegal who wrote an apparently ‘mindblowing’ research paper on plasma magnetohydrodynamics in stellar objects…it goes on for a bit like that, as handshakes lead to pointing across the hall to people currently working on the apparatus. Swims-the-Black genuinely appreciates meeting the reactor team, but there's a considerably shorter team member that he's looking for.
It's on the walk around to the other side of the reactor that Swims-the-Black’s ears perk up. “‘s the way it's gotta route! Listen, you can't have these connectors runnin’ next to each other, th’ whole timing goes off!” Red - Swims-the-Black’s former shipkid, seems to be having a…disagreement with someone.
And it's a voice Swims-the-Black had almost forgotten about. “No you listen, you child,” Keeper Hethna Varos snaps, “if the ignition coil lines aren't exactly the same length -”
“Th’ pinch is misshaped and th’ ignitor misfires, I know -”
“We have melted three chambers on this igniter now, and -”
”Have you considered longer leads?" Swims-the-Black barks as he approaches.
There's a gasp from somewhere under the ignition chamber, and soon a bright-red-skinned kid clad only in shorts and shoes scrambles out from under the assembly and sprints towards Swims-the-Black. “Master!” Red shouts as he leaps into Swims-the-Black’s waiting arms. ”Not at the moment,” Swims-the-Black says, and gives Red a groom as the shipkid wraps his arms around his neck.
Varos turns Swims-the-Black’s way and clears his throat. ”Greetings, Swims-the-Black,” he grunts before switching back to Imperial. “And the Narsai'i mentioned that option before. I considered and discarded it, as it would unbalance the entire reactor.” ”Not if the timing of the other firing chambers were adjusted to account for the shifted timing,” Swims-the-Black points out. ”On Akamu, we fitted a 10 chamber reactor and the squeeze was too tight to keep all the charge banks attached to the chambers. It took a week in dock, but One-Ton and I got the timings worked out.”
Varos starts to respond, then pauses. “Yes, I suppose that would work as well. Inelegant, and we would not only have to waste weeks of effort retiming each chamber but wait for the Narsai'i to fabricate a new set of ignition leads -”
“But it'll work,” Red says.
“Yes, it should,” Varos replies. “Remember, we can never know for certain until we test.”
Red nods, then looks back to Swims-the-Black. “‘s good to see you again, Master.” ”And you as well, Red,” Swims-the-Black replies. ”Is there a place where we can talk and catch up?”
Red smiles and nods.
Strictly speaking, the gantries surrounding the prototype are purely structural. They are not designed to be climbed on, much less authorized or signed for human interactions. That has never stopped Red, though, who clambers up along the steel struts with the same ease he used to navigate the Akamu’s service areas. Swims-the-Black follows on the slightly-too-tight stairway that officially leads to the top, but by the time he’s reached the upper gantry, Red has already unlatched a service panel in the side of it and propped it open with a no doubt very expensive bit of precision-milled aluminum, which presumably became very expensive trash when it buckled out of its precision-milled shape during an early reactor test. Swims-the-Black has to actually sit down on the metal grating outside to even bend low enough to look inside the hatch. He’s greeted with a sight straight out of a REI catalog: electric camping lights hanging from fasteners-repurposed-as-hooks, machine-washable pillows and a sleeping bag that takes up most of the available “floor” inside the little cubby-hole. Power leads and network cables snake along the vertical surfaces to a small tablet rigged up to a wall mount. There is, of course, a well-packed snack shelf and even a tiny box cooler just big enough for a six-pack of sodas. ”I see you have made yourself at home,” Swims-the-Black says.
“They made me get th’ sleeping bag,” Red says as he lays down, head poking out of the access hatch. “Reactor’s warm enough I don't need it, but it's nice and soft.” He looks up at Swims-the-Black, waiting for him to get to what he wants to say.
Swims-the-Black clears his throat. ”So, I have thought about looking for another ship,” he says.
“I'd go back with you, Master, but th’ Narsai'i need my help with this one, and -” Red starts. ”No, no, that's not what I mean,” Swims-the-Black says. ”I would get another shipkid, or maybe even see if the Sheen have an engineer that would be willing to come aboard. No, that is not the problem.”
“Then what is it?” Red asks. ”It is…difficult, starting over,” Swims-the-Black grunts. ”It feels inappropriate, somehow. Cheating on her.”
“Akamu was a good ship, but she's gone,” Red says. ”And I know that,” Swims-the-Black says, ”that’s not the problem, it's that it feels wrong not going out with my ship and my crew. I haven't felt like I can make a new ship my own.”
Swims-the-Black looks down and sees Red crunching on some potato chips. “Makes sense to me. It felt weird sleeping in a bed, still don't like it. I like it in here. I tried to make myself find a place, under the bed, in the closets. But it just wasn't right. But also, like, I also think I wasn't looking for something right but for reasons why things were wrong, and that was dumb. I didn't want to stay in here, th’ Narsai'i were giving me a room and that is supposed to be better, right? And I didn't think I should stay in here because it was on the ground, and it didn't have a master or an engineer. But people call me an engineer now, and Daniel is kinda like a master - don't call him that, though. And that made this okay. It's not the same as Akamu, but it's still pretty good.”
Swims-the-Black blinks and stares at Red for a moment.
“What?” Red asks. “Do I got grease on my face?” ”I am an idiot,” Swims-the-Black says.
“What is it?” Red asks. ”Don't worry about it,” Swims-the-Black replies, standing up. ”So, what else are you working on here?”
“Oh! You wanna see Hethna’s gravity thing?” Red says, scooting himself out from his hole.
Swims-the-Black ruffles Red’s hair. ”Absolutely, take me to Hethna’s gravity thing.”
Hethna Varos’s “gravity thing” turns out to be less visually impressive at first glance than the giant prototype fusion reactor - a centimeter thick plate of substrate, about the size of a dinner plate, sitting on a lab bench, a mess of wires soldered onto protruding bits of each layer providing power and monitoring. More impressive at first glance is Hethna Varos himself in conversation with one of the half-dozen Narsai’i scientists in the lab, intently going over the numbers on, of all things, paper on a clipboard.
“So we believe now that the material distortion phenomenon is caused by single-atom edge failures in the vapor deposition process,” the scientist explains, completing the visual cliche by pushing her set of glasses a bit farther back on her nose. “It didn’t show in the initial acceptance testing as it appears to take roughly 70 power cycles at more than 10 kilocoulombs before the deformation affects neighboring atoms. But once that starts, each defect seems to act as something akin to a nucleation site and the subsequent cycles show exponential growth in deformation. About 5 of those cycles are then enough to cause the delamination we’ve observed in the samples.”
“Hmm,” Varos says, rubbing his pointed chin as his golden skullplate glistens in the overhead lighting. “And how did you fix it?”
The scientist gives him a pained smile. “We hacked the lithography,” she says. “We swapped the optical elements and made a few modifications to the focus adjustment mechanism. With the improved edge definition, we’ve reduced the failures by two orders of magnitude. Now it tolerates the 14 kilocoulombs we need to suspend the test object. We’re still working on improving the monitoring process for early detection of inter-layer distortions, but so far it looks…promising..” She pauses. “Don’t tell Daniel we modified the lithography projector.”
Varos looks over at the “gravity thing” - what Swims-the-Black recognizes now as a very simple prototype gravity field projector - and back to the scientist in front of him. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” Varos says. “Impressive work, finding and diagnosing the issue this quickly. Next, we improve the load capacity. I suspect improving boundary evenness through the depth of the projector will pay dividends.”
The scientist’s eyes - and that of the other five team members - all light up. “Yes! That is what we were thinking as well -”
Varos quiets them with a wave of his hand. “Then don’t stand here talking about it, go do it!”
“Yes, Professor,” the scientist says, and they quickly huddle around their laptops in the other corner, already discussing “tighter vaporization timings”, “alloy deposition”, and other things that Swims-the-Black can only guess at the meaning of.
”Impressive,” Swims-the-Black grunts, leaning over to get a closer look at the prototype on the bench.
“Yes, it actually is,” Varos says. “I presume Red brought you here to give you the grand tour?”
“Yep!” Red chimes in from somewhere behind Swims-the-Black. ”However good the exercise is, though, it is a bit patronizing, making the Narsai’i re-design the specifications you presumably bought from Faxom-Io for whatever nanofab they are using,” Swims-the-Black says.
Varos finally snaps his attention to Swims-the-Black and narrows his eyes. “It would be - if they were using a nanofab. They have designed and produced that using only Narsai’i technology. I merely provided the guidance and my knowledge of gravitational energetics. This is the product of my team’s hard work.”
Swims-the-Black stands up fast enough that he nearly bangs his head on the overhead fluorescent lighting. ”Apologies, Keeper,” he says with a deep bow and a strong shade of blue and yellow. ”I…how is this possible without nanoscale fabrication?”
“A lot of hard work and creative problem solving,” Varos says, accepting the apology with a nod. “The Narsai’i might not have the tools that the Imperium has at their disposal, but their best and brightest outshine nearly anyone I worked with during my time on Boranai. They have even helped me continue my Gateway formation research.” He nods towards a server rack with two cogitators crudely mounted inside it in the corner.
Swims-the-Black looks contemplatively at Varos’ research group, busily bouncing ideas off each other and writing things down on a whiteboard. “It seems…like you have found something worth pursuing.”
“Hardly, ‘found’ has nothing to do with it,” Varos replies. “I have dedicated my entire life as a Keeper to understanding a technology that the Imperium takes for granted every day - and not without issue. If my research was considered glamorous or important, I would have been doing it from atop the Spire, not in the field. The Imperium is uninterested in understanding where our technology came from, only what it can get out of it next. It’s simply gratifying to meet people who share actual curiosity with how these things work - and the mental challenge of building something so complex from essentially rocks in a cave has proven to be a most rewarding challenge. If I still had Cortex access, there would be at least three articles published already.”
Swims-the-Black’s colors shift to a fringe of green. ”So you are happy doing this, then.”
“This is not a matter of ‘happy’ or ‘unhappy’,” Varos says, finally turning to look Swims-the-Black directly in the eyes. “I have noticed that you are here looking for some kind of validation -” Varos stops himself before dropping some kind of insult or slur, which Swims-the-Black supposes is an improvement. “Well, validation is for those who are looking for permission to do something. I did not need permission to do this, this is what I do. I gave up the brown-nosing, social climbing, prestige-seeking attitude that is how a Keeper truly advances in their careers for spending over a year of my life living in that stinking jungle because if I did not I would rather stop working altogether. This is what I care to do, and so I am doing it. And by the sounds of things, you are seeking permission from…someone to do what you do. My advice to you - if you truly care about doing something, down to your very core, then the only one who can stop you from doing it is yourself. You have friends, you have power, certainly more of both than I have, and look at what I have accomplished. So either get over yourself and go out and do what you must do, or realize that you only think that you want to do this and stop torturing yourself with fantasies.”
“Save th’ lectures for your students,” Red says. “He’s a Shipmaster. He doesn’t need you telling him what he can do.”
Varos looks back up at Swims-the-Black, who is at the moment a riot of colors. “Yes, of course.” ”I think that we should let Hethna get back to work, Red,” Swims-the-Black quickly barks. ”It looks like there’s a lot of ideas going on that he wants to be a part of.”
“Indeed. Good day,” Varos says, and gives a slight bow to Swims-the-Black and Red before turning to join the brainstorming session at the whiteboard.
---
Swims-the-Black and Red return to the main laboratory, where work now proceeds much like it would on days where there are no aliens visiting. Wiseman’s off in a corner fielding a phone call and can only spare a glance and a quick wave, so it falls to Disha to approach him.
”Is there anything else you would like to see, Shipmaster?” she asks. ”Would you like to have lunch? We have a good cafeteria.” She smiles. ”And yes, I told them about Wherren portion sizes.” ”I wouldn’t want to take up more of your time,” Swims-the-Black says. ”You seem very busy here.” He looks up. ”Which part of this is yours?” ”The coolant loop,” Disha answers. ”It is…not very efficient compared to what we have on Atea. But we are getting there, and there’s some interest back home applying my work here to make us more self-sufficient.” ”Sounds like everyone is surprised at how much they’re learning from this,” Swims-the-Black says, his fur fringing green again.
There are, on a stochastic level, two ways to be a Wherren mercenary: either you’re semi-permanently semi-broke, killing paycheck to paycheck, or you’re dead. Sure, there’s a couple percentage points on top who’ve made a go of running and keeping their own bands, but it’s not an easy life. Like, the best, absolute top outcome? You’re aide-de-camp of the Free Wherren’s Elder of Defense and as such set for the foreseeable future. Unfortunately for every Wherren merc not named Rodirr, that spot is taken. It’s not just that Rodirr actually knows what he’s doing, having seen enough ops crash and burn that he’s learned how to keep things running. It also helps that he’s sleeping with the boss. Also sleeping with said boss is the boss’s bondmate Rhea. They’re rarely all three in the same place but today, in Hug’sh’s office waiting for the conference call of destiny, is one of those occasions.
”The numbers aren’t going to change, General,” Rodirr says, leaned back in a lawnchair. He can’t even read the holo hovering over Hug’sh’s desk with Hug’sh’s big hump blocking the view, but he knows exactly what his boss is staring at, again - the Imperial Turai CONOP of their entire mission to Narsai. It’s pretty detailed, alright, tight as a drum. Hug’sh has to give the Imperials one thing, they know how to plan a mission. Doesn’t leave a lot of air for a viable military option to kick them off the planet again, though. Realizing that Hug’sh isn’t gonna stop looking for an answer that isn’t there, Rodirr turns his head to Rhea, also sitting in a lawnchair to his side. ”You tell him,” Rodirr pleads. ”He listens to you.” ”Bondmate,” Rhea purrs, grooming him behind his ear. ”Has what you’re looking for magically appeared in the many hours you’ve read that document?”
Hug’sh’s ear twitches at the touch. He doesn’t turn away from the holo, but he does lean back into his chair and roll his head to the side, accepting the groom in silence. After a few seconds, he grunts. ”It’d be nice if it would,” he says. ”But it won’t,” Rodirr comments. ”There’s tenacity and then there’s obstinacy. You should learn the difference. The meeting is starting in minutes. You should prepare for that.”
Hug’sh is silent for a few more seconds. ”Has anyone ever told you that you’re too sensible, Rodirr?” he asks. ”Once or twice,” Rodirr says. ”Okay, so, all we can really expect at this point is a yes or a no,” Hug’sh says. ”How do we look without Narsai’i support, Rodirr?” ”It would be…rough,” Rodirr says. ”The Narsai’i are the power in this alliance’s punch. They have their problems, but none of us can come close to mustering the kind of professional force that they can. Losing the Narsai’i takes us from being a true opposition to being insurgents.” ”Do you know how to run an insurgency?” Hug’sh asks. ”Only a little less than I do how to run a military,” Rodirr answers. ”The Bashakra’i would be the ones that would take lead if it comes to that.” ”And I wouldn’t hear the end of it,” Hug’sh moans. ”Bondmate, the call is starting,” Rhea weighs in. She gives Hug’sh a final quick groom. ”Good luck.”
Hug’sh returns the groom, then takes a few deep breaths to get his game colors on. A glance at the post-its on the desk helps him navigate the haptics. Background blur and sound canceling on, set the hab lights for presentation, notes get pinned to the top right corner of the holo, water bottle is in reach. Good. He closes his eyes, breathes out the last of the jitters, then taps the “Join” button to wait for the meeting to commence.
Within a minute, all of the expected parties join in - Brinai, Hiigra, and the Ambassador, and US President Obama, EC President Juncker, Russian President Morozov, UN General Secretary Guterres. Hug’sh presumes that somewhere on a relay is Barnes, as well.
“Greetings,” Brinai says with a seated bow, echoed by the Ambassador, Hiigra, and Hug’sh. “Can I presume that you have reached an agreement at last?”
“You may,” Obama replies. “The renegotiated terms, that the United States retains control over its facilities and personnel and accepts the Gateway Research and Homeworld Defense Initiative as an independent organizing body under the United Nations, in charge of controlling off-world travel and as the Earth point of contact for off-world matters, are acceptable. Each nation will retain its ability to choose whether or not to participate in GRHDI matters and decisions, and will retain control over existing Gateways.” There’s the part that only benefits them, Brinai messages the group.
“The United Nations General Assembly and Security Council have already voted to approve this agreement,” Secretary Guterres continues. “This new office will be called the United Nations Homeworld Affairs Office, and will be led by Director Barnes. You may continue to speak directly with her regarding overall negotiations and military planning for off-world matters.” That is awfully kind of them, Hiigra types.
Hug’sh keeps quiet throughout, neither saying nor typing. The hunt isn’t over before the last arrow flies.
“The Russian Federation agrees to this plan, Director Barnes has made it clear that defending our border with China will be a top priority,” President Morozov says.
“And the EU welcomes the opportunity to further our discussions with Director Barnes, and Misters Kesh regarding economic and industrial partnerships,” President Juncker adds.
“Then it sounds like all outstanding concerns have been settled,” the Sheen Ambassador says. “Please transmit your acceptance signatures on the versions of the agreement you have been provided and reviewed and we can conclude this matter.”
“And return to what we should be doing - fighting the Imperium,” Brinai adds. ”The Wherren look forward to fighting at your side again soon,” Hiigra says. ”And let it be sooner rather than later.”
A minute later, electronically signed copies of the agreement appear in Hug’sh’s inbox. ”And I believe that concludes our business for today,” Hiigra says. ”We shall speak again soon.”
“Yes, we look forward to it,” Obama says, echoed in various ways by the other Narsai’i leaders before they all sign off.
Almost immediately another connection is requested from Brinai, Hiigra, the Ambassador, and Barnes. Hug’sh takes another breath and takes the call. What are the angles? Anything that moves the needle from last time? How soon can Barnes start getting things done and what things, exactly? He drags his mind back to the moment, tries to force all the second and third thoughts down.
”So,” he says, then pauses as if he’s about to get lost in thought again. ”Are we happy?”
“About as happy as I can be given all this unnecessary drama and distraction,” Brinai grouses. “Is it a Narsai’i tradition to drag everything out and never speak about your actual problems?”
“Not everyone can be as refreshingly straightforward as the Bashakra’i,” Barnes says. “And you now have officially a single point of contact for Narsai’i affairs going forwards. I will let Angel know the good news as soon as we are done here. So, what are the next steps? With China still needing containment and general strategy, Narsai will be busy for the time being.”
“As will the Bashakra’i,” Brinai says. “We need to clean up after Botane and refocus on gathering intelligence and consolidating our gains.”
“The Sheen have reached a consensus that they would find exploring the possibilities and experiences in the areas in which we are newly welcomed acceptable in alternative to any further action,” the Ambassador says. ”And the Wherren need to focus on forming a government and starting to secure our own territory and peoples,” Hiigra says.
“Sounds like we each have to get our own houses in order,” Barnes says. “Then I think we should do just that. Hug’sh, Brinai, try to keep Garrett from starting too much trouble.” ”No promises,” Hug’sh says. ”But maybe we can set up some…joint family operations. Though I won’t be responsible for any further park damages.”
“That depends entirely on how much more park damage you intend to cause,” Brinai replies. “I will speak with you all soon.”
Hug’sh just nods to that. He stares at the holo until, and beyond, everyone else has signed off. In the end, it’s Rhea that reaches over his shoulder and taps the “Disconnect” button.
”There,” she purrs. ”That wasn’t so bad, was it, bondmate?” ”...I don’t know,” Hug’sh says. ”Please get the General some fresh air,” Rodirr weighs in. ”Are you throwing me out of my own office?” Hug’sh asks. ”Looks like I am, General,” Rodirr replies.
Hug’sh smiles. ”That’s mutiny.” ”Only if you find time to charge me,” Rodirr says. ”And I happen to know your schedule. I think I’m pretty safe.”
Hug’sh opens his mouth, but Rhea all but drags him from his chair.
”The General does not wish to be disturbed,” she says. ”Until further notice.”
Rodirr grins. ”Yes, Ma’am.” ”Come home with me, Hug’sh,” Rhea says. ”You can lay down with me and groom my belly while I scratch your big hump.” ”...if we lie down,” Hug’sh purrs, ”we’ll do a lot more than grooming and scratching.” ”He’s not kidding, Ma’am,” Rodirr adds. ”Now do leave, unless you want me with you two.” ”He’s mine today,” Rhea says. ”So he is,” Rodirr says, watching Hug’sh get dragged out by Rhea before further banter can delay the inevitable. The old merc allows himself a chuckle as his eyes fall on today’s paperwork. ”Ah, to be with cubs,” he muses. ”But first, let’s see about that war of ours.”
General Bolton gives a speech on the elevated stage erected underneath the Boranai Gate City gateport, congratulating his soldiers on the two years since the capture of the planet and their impending departure. The assembled Boranai’i council are seated to one side, with security provided by both US Army soldiers and Boranai’i Kansatai. One of the council - newly elected Steward Rabo Tanoth - walks up to the podium and shakes Bolton’s hand.
I feel the hot wind on my shoulder / And a touch of a world that is older
From a 9th story window in an empty office overlooking the gateport plaza, Tei half watches the handover ceremony, and half monitors the Boranai’i Kansat sconce feeds on a desktop holodisplay. She clicks on a “borrowed” Narsai’i radio and punches in the frequency and encryption key she has written down in a notebook, and monitors the Narsai’i preparations to depart the planet with equal interest.
I hit the switch and check the number / I leave it on and then I slumber
Surrounded by Sheen killdrone accelerators lifted by the few freighters the Narsai’i/Boranai’i alliance have felt safe letting come through the old orbitals, the first of the new orbital gateways flashes to life - its dialing code hidden behind a shield from prying eyes. Minutes later, it flashes to life again and admits a tugship, the lead element of a kilometer-long train of freight containers bearing Faxom-Io colors.
I hear the rhythm ringing through it / Flamenco guitar y Cumbriá music
Deep in the ground-level slums of Akis, a man wearing a runner’s skinsuit with a slingbag bouncing off his back sprints through the narrow alleys, desperately trying to stay ahead of the two heavier pairs of feet chasing after him. Boyd Kravitz runs behind Alex Danielsson, the two of them chasing after the Imperial spy picking at the edges of the Bashakra’i influence network in Akis. The spy throws over a scavenged shelf unit behind him, but Danielsson just lowers his shoulder and blasts through it - that stim regimen is paying dividends.
I hear the talking of the DJ / Let’s have listen, what does he say
The spy rounds a corner and disappears for a moment, with Danielsson and Boyd hot on his heels. As they round the corner, they see the spy just standing there, back to them - but then he slumps over as Maq steps out of cover and pulls his knife from the spy’s chest. He tosses the shoulder bag to Danielsson, nods, and steps back into the alleys.
I’m on-a Mexican Radio / I’m on-a Mexican, woah-oh, Radio
----
I dial it in and tune the station / They talk about the Iraq invasion
As the hot Botane sun shines down, spraycrete forms are quickly rising to replace the hab blocks leveled by the Imperial response to the Narsai’i invasion of Botane. The Gateport is already rebuilt, this time with new holobanners hanging from it and the surrounding buildings, proclaiming the protection of Emperor Thrax and the dastardly anarchist violence of the Narsai’i.
I understand just a little / No comprendé it’s a riddle
Shouts ring out from one side of the Gateport plaza - backup rushes at a man being held at gunpoint by a trin of Turai, his luggage fallen over at his side as the man drops to his knees, his tunic draping to the ground. Shouts to get down, shouts to freeze, shouts to show his ID, all echo across the plaza as the other citizens look away in fear, just a bit too late to miss the chamakana butt crash into the man’s face.
I’m on-a Mexican Radio / I’m on-a Mexican, woah-oh, Radio
----
I wish I was in Tijuana / Sipping back an ice cold caguama
Sexton Hale steps down the adit from the transit line to see a strange sight - a Dodge Challenger, half-assembled, being off-loaded from a flatbed skimmer on a winch. Kitty is inside steering while Zaef tries to both work the winch and guide her at the same time. Sexton pauses, unsure if he’s welcome to help, at the same time Zaef pauses, unsure if he wants Sexton’s aid. The moment breaks when Kitty turns to Sexton and waves, beckoning him over to help. The ice broken, Zaef cocks his head, motioning for Sexton to take the winch.
I take requests on the telephone / I’m on a wavelength far from home
With the last of the Imperial Turai sent packing, there’s only a few dozen of Bashakra’i Turai and local militia standing guard as Onas and Paul lead the official Bashakra’i delegation to welcome Grinacanne fully into the alliance. Maarh and Vasa represent the rebels, with Rav-Odun Swaketai present to speak for the rebel Turai. Paul shakes Maarh and Vasa’s hands while Onas salutes and bows to the Rav-Odun, who returns the gesture. And behind all of them, Angel steps through with his Faxom-Io entourage, already looking to meet with the newest additions to the Faxom-Io pan-industrium.
I feel the hot wind on my shoulder / I dial in from south of the border
The long golden nose of an Interceptor appears as the center section of the ship transits the Gateway enough to pop into existence on the Mesas Negras side, and the first of the new UNHAO squadron is on Narsai. Swims-the-Black supervises and directs the transport mission, while Luis and Arketta direct the Bashakra’i and Narsai’i workforce moving the broken-down fighters into their maintenance gantries for reassembly.
I hear the talking of the DJ / Let’s try to figure out what does he say
In the 815 offices proper, Garrett and Ngawai are taking a day in the office. With Naloni in her levitating bouncer between them, the married couple pass feeds and information back and forth. Garrett pours over Bashakra’i and Sheen intel feeds and field reports, while Ngawai sifts through tip and rumor, both of them looking for weak points and targets of opportunity - or targets in need of vengeance.
----
I’m on-a Mexican Radio (what does he say?) I’m on-a Mexican, woah-oh, Radio (what does he say?)
Images from Mesas Negras, from Atea, from Boranai, from Whiirr, of Bashakra’i, Narsai’i, Army, Marines, Wherren, Sheen, all taken by dozens of Narsai’i spies and observers, are all collated and presented to the US President and his advisors. The images are passed around the meeting, with their intelligence apparatus briefing the assembled group on what the off-worlders - and those with more than an acceptable amount of off-world sympathies - are up to.
I’m on-a Mexican Radio (what does he say?) I’m on-a Mexican, woah-oh, Radio (what’s he fucking say?)
DNI Blake takes his copy of the report, the prints and papers and USB drives, and packs it up into a thick manilla envelope. A courier is waiting in his office, and takes the envelope straight out of the building and into a waiting car.
Radio, radio, radio, radio (what does he say?) Radio, radio, radio, radio (what does he say?)
Hours later, the courier disembarks their commercial flight in Denver and walks straight to the curb. A beaten old pickup truck is waiting for them, and the courier climbs into the passenger seat as the truck heads out of town and into the mountains. A couple hours drive north of Denver, long after the road has ceased to become maintained or even fully paved, a length of chain link topped with razor wire stands in the woods. Armed men in irregular uniforms man a gate, but wave the truck and its passenger straight through.
A squat concrete building sits in the middle of the compound, and it’s here where the truck stops. The courier steps out and straight inside, navigating the tight halls from memory. In the center of the building is an office with two armed guards posted outside. The courier steps in and hands the manilla envelope to the man behind the desk with a nod before leaving to start the long journey back to Washington DC. The man behind the desk opens the envelope, pulls the photos and dossiers out, and slots one of the USB drives into the computer on his desk - a computer without any networking methods of any kind.
Walter Simmons fingers through the files, and pulls out an set of images showing Garrett and Ngawai leaving their home in the Village, Kitty and Zaef in Mesas Negras, Swims-the-Black and Hug’sh on Whiirr, Sexton, Hunter, FTE, every member of the 815, and he sets to work.
punkey
