Angel regards the exchange with a tired expression, and a deadpan response. "I'm pretty sure sending missile armed robots to do work that could get perfectly good soldiers killed is exactly how we do things on Earth."

Hunter purses his lips. It's obvious what's going on. It's obvious that the rest of 815 doesn't care that's it's obvious. As he walks to approach the front, he idly wonders how it was he became the voice of reason. Around the time I signed on to translate the haphazardly-acquired habits of an oddball commando team into official doctrine and defense policy. You brought this on yourself, Brand.

"General Keating, I understand that a lot of 815 don't have experience with commanding a larger force, and so don't have a sense of the planning and assessment that goes into preparations for a major operation. I also have with me former Rav-Turai Hale, a recent defector here as an observer and trainee, so I'm obligated to show him the way we do things here." Hale, having decided to stay clear of what he can tell is a pissing match in any language, bows respectfully to Keating. "Given these things, might it be possible for you to take us through the METT-TC evaluation that led you and your staff to settle on this course of action?"

METT-TC, as Hunter has been able to recite from his very early days of OCS, stands for the standard set of considerations a commander must take into account: Mission, Enemy, Time, Terrain, Troops, and Civilian considerations. It's a prod, of course, but it's a subtle prod, and one that Keating can respect. Marine to Marine, tell me you've got some reason to pull this besides 'pissing contest.' And if you don't, figure out a way we go through this that doesn't get good men killed.

(Hunter's Talk succeeds)

Not that Keating appreciates being called to account in front of his people - not to mention the Naranai'i, Sheen and Wherren in the room. "'Well, Major Brand,'" Keating starts, narrowing his eyes at Hunter, "'The most important consideration here is the terrain - dense mountains and especially caves means that our air power is limited and heavy armor can't reach the enemy. Artillery is also restricted, which means it's going to take boots -'"
"'Or legs,'" Gunny adds.
Keating ignores the Sheen's interruption. "'- on the ground to take this area. Time is also a factor, if we are slowed too much here we lose the initiative. Fortunately, we've already proven that the enemy has no effective counter against our equipment -'"
"You mean our equipment," Onas interjects. "I saw the Rav-Turai's injuries - half of a load of ammunition, straight to the chest with only some bruises. That would have killed someone in Narsai'i armor."
"'Yes, it's true that you could have saved lives if you had shared your technology with us,'" Keating replied icily before looking back to Hunter and Hale. "'But they also do not seem to have a plan beyond 'slow us down'. The mission is clear - sweep through the mountains and caves and push the Taliban out. It's a remote region, so civilians aren't much of a concern. And...and our men are the best at this. This is what we have done for the last decade. The Sheen have no experience fighting in this environment.'"
"'Uh, excuse you,'" Gunny replied. "'Cave or ship, fighting in dark, enclosed spaces is what we do. A dozen combat stealth shells could shred a hundred of these idiots, no problem. We clear the way and let the shells take the hits - just keep the servers within a half-kilometer and keep shells posted for relays, and the only thing we'll need is enough shells to push through.'"
"'A logistical nightmare and a big fat target, then,'" Keating replies.
"'Or the best chance to keep as many humans on our side alive as we can,'" Gunny replies. The shell lowers itself to its knees to put a sensor pod at Keating's height. "'Look, you gotta show the 815 and Bashakra'i who's running the show. I get that. And I think we all get the message. But, one, we are offering to take the hit for you guys. I'd think that would make us your best fucking friends - saving the lives of your men, like you just said. And two, the whole fucking point of this is to show how we can all kick ass together, and show you Narsai'i that we can fight and win like you guys fight and win. The Sheen just spent six months in the desert getting trained up for this shit. Let us show you what we can do.'"

Keating looks between Hunter, Gunny, Onas, Hug'sh, and the rest of 815. He thinks for a moment - and then nods. "'Fine. You want to lead the way - I respect that. Brand here knows how much Marines hate not being in the front, but I suppose it's acceptable every once in a while.'" He nods to Gunny. "'You made your case.'" Another nod goes to Hunter. "'Both of you.'"
"'Thanks, General,'" Gunny replies.

With Ngawai out conducting reconnaissance, that left Garrett alone with Naloni. The addition of a fairly sizable arsenal to their living quarters has put a whole new spin on the concept of baby-proofing a hab, but with Naloni currently napping peacefully on her back in her Bashakra’i creche, all Garrett had to watch was his holodisplay. Simply because he was on the other side of the globe from his office in DC - and light-years away from his responsibilities on Atea - didn’t mean that either job had stopped. Diplomatic vox missives from Bashakra’i-friendly border worlds jostle for space next to planning management documents for the Virginai village project - until his vox’s filters push a message on top of his currently open projects. An old CIA acquaintance replied to his request to talk with a phone number - probably a burner of some description, since Garrett Davis isn’t exactly a name associated with a long and healthy career at the moment.

“Are you calling from a parking garage, too?” Garrett asks the other end of the line as he opens the connection with a wave. There’s a pause - not a burner after all, but an encrypted phone conversation, the encryption quickly shredded by the quantum processing power of his vox.
“You’re still persona non grata with everyone but the geeks downstairs,” David Griffin, CIA Case Officer (China) replies. “You bet your ass I’m routing this through encryption. Hey, where was the handshake -”
“Naranai’i vox broke it in a few seconds,” Garrett replies. “What do you have for me?”
“Holy fuck, no wonder downstairs has such a hard-on for Imperial tech,” Griffin says. “We could read the President’s sexts with shit like that.”
“We’ve got a spare crate of them,” Garrett says. “Keep this quiet, I’ll make sure one ends up at your condo. Plugging it in to the right place is your problem, but...”
“You got it, Garrett,” Griffin says. “Right, so, China and the Taliban. Been pretty quiet, all things told. Unrest in Tibet and the western part of the country has taken most of what little government attention isn’t being spent on the latest round of corruption cross-fire.”
“Hrm,” Garrett grunts. “Any big raids on Chinese bases or depots in the region? Anywhere even close, Pakistan, perhaps?”
“Not that I’ve heard, but I’m more of a southeastern China guy,” Griffin replies. “I’ll ask around, but I’d say that whatever your team saw in Afghanistan wasn’t raided from a depot.”
“Right,” Garrett says. “Thanks - and the vox is on the way.”

“Hmph.” Garrett taps on the table a couple times. “Hmm.” He waves his work away and clears the space for a new “work”, titling it “China/Taliban Connection?” His call with David Griffin gets put in the work, as does the connection he opens just then to Angel. “Hey, Angel, just got off the line with my contact - and it’s interesting news.”

Angel answers Garrett's call, glad at least for the moment to be free from some of the discussions surrounding Kesh Industries, which, as it turns out, doesn't politely pause when it's CEO is off getting shot at in Afghanistan. Which has, among other things according to his able assistant, caused certain insurance premiums to skyrocket.

"And let me guess. The answer is not 'As it turns out Angel, you're paranoid and should leave the spy stuff to the professionals. This all came from a convoy that got hit six months ago, the Chinese are still mad as hell, and you should go back to worrying about things like the only eligible women on this godforsaken base would have their careers reduced to smoking rubble for talking to you for more than 10 minutes', is it?"

"Hey, you're a Goddamn unicorn - an enlisted man with money, don't sell yourself short," Garrett replies. "But...no, it doesn't seem like there was any big raid on Chinese bases in the region. All quiet on the Chinese/Pakistani border."

The sniper makes a noncommittal noise, somewhere between confirming his suspicions and annoyance. "Which begs the question of where a bunch of insurgents got their hands on a truckload of Chinese made weaponry, does it not?" He sighed softly. "Goddamn, I hate being right."

"There's plenty of other ways they could have gotten their hands on them," Garrett says. "They could have bought them on the market - wouldn't be the first time Chinese equipment has fallen off the back of a truck. Maybe it was leftover from Korea or Vietnam and they bought it from whoever dug it out of a bunker there." He pauses. "But...I wouldn't bet on it. Looked too new to me. I'll keep looking into it. Sound good to you?"

Walking down the side of the busy street market, Ngawai adjusts the burqa covering her face for the hundredth or so time. Head forward. Suspect area is just ahead. Ignore the men with rifles poking around the other men - they won’t bother you. Walk like you belong here.

Giving up almost all of her peripheral vision wasn’t the best idea on a surveillance mission, but that’s the cost of blending in. Two men guarding the entrance to this area - old brick walls shut off the other open roads and paths. Someone wanted this part of the city turned into a fortress. Three men on the rooftops and windows ready to open fire.

The fact that this disguise was less for blending in and more to prevent her from being assaulted for daring to be a woman in public was an entirely different kind of frustration, but Ngawai has put her hatred for the sexist, backwards ways of so many Narsai’i out of her mind for the sake of the mission. Walk through the gate - Garrett was right, they moved out of the way, not wanting to touch a woman. Okay, Ngawai, you’re in the dhavta’i nest now. Don’t get stung.

With no one able to see her face, and her skin is the same tone as everyone else, Ngawai faded right into the crowd in this very, very hostile part of Kabul. This zone is one big red smear across the coalition forces’ maps, completely controlled by various Islamist groups - no clear leader is apparent, but Ngawai immediately thinks that’s because the Narsai’i aren’t trying hard enough. The guards aren’t looking inwards - they’re looking outwards. They’re not worried about threats from within this place, which means they’re all friends here.

Ngawai’s Kansatai training included an extensive three-week training in counter-gang operations: surveillance tactics, how to blend into a crowd, how to profile for bad guys - and most importantly, how to read their behavior to build that all-important gang structure. And that training, here, today, is telling her one thing. This isn’t just some old man with a few thugs behind him. This is something much larger.

Fruit stands share space with open weapons crates, apples and hand grenades are sold side-by-side. DVDs with some other form of Narsai’i language printed over images of local men shooting rifles and rockets at American Narsai’i troops fill a rotating wire rack in front of a table covered with pistols and knives. It’s a First-damn terrorist market in here. There’s...twenty-six different terrorists here, and who knows how many inside. If I was them, every other house here would be a garrison. This...this is not going to be easy.

And as if on cue, the old man himself steps out of a house, accompanied by three other men - one much younger, maybe in his 20’s, and the other two in their late 30’s, perhaps 40’s. All are local men, dressed in local garb, speaking their local tongue. As a result, Ngawai can’t understand anything that’s being said as she carefully cruises past as close as she dares, but the gist is clear. They are arguing about something - something important. Gesturing back towards the airfield - that’s probably not good. Okay, Ngawai, you’ve pushed your luck enough, time to get back.

Ngawai buys a fruit with a slip of paper money and makes her way back towards the exit. It’s time we come up with a deeper approach, because just whacking this guy is definitely not going to solve the problem.

It’s getting hotter and tighter in the command center, thanks to the added presence of several Wherren. On top of a few technicians helping with the integration of Naranai and Narsai tech, Hug’sh has taken over one of the map tables, which is just big enough for him, Khodash and Kararr “Clawbreaker” to crowd around and study the strategic map of the surrounding mountain formations. The map itself is hard to make out in places, being that it’s covered in added English notes and terse Whiirrsign runes as well as several loose stacks of satellite imagery, and any parts of it that do peek out seem to be covered by Hug’sh’s right hand as he explains the lay of the land to his two command track students.

”This road is hewn into a mountainside,” Hug’sh says. ”As you can see, unlike these paved roads down in the valleys, it is not marked with a military loading classification. That means it is not surveyed for use by ground vehicles, and likely unusable by them. The enemy, however, moves on foot, using mules and horses as well as light trucks. Their logistics are much more lightweight than ours, which is an important advantage in this terrain.”
Khodash nods and writes down Hug’sh’s words seemingly verbatim into one of her notebooks, while Kararr just snorts.
”Big deal,” the Clawbreaker says. ”We’ll beat them in a fight and they know it. All it’s good for is running away from us.”
”That might be enough to win,” Hug’sh says. ”Remember, they can’t win a fair fight and they know it. They’re not trying to. They’re trying to stretch us thin, hurt us where we’re weak and then run away before we can respond. They might never beat us on the battlefield, but if this war drags on long enough, expends too much materiel and costs too many lives, we may have to withdraw. And that means they win.”
”We’ll take five of them for everyone they kill,” Kararr says.
”Or ten or twenty, it doesn’t matter,” Hug’sh says. ”All that matters is that eventually we’ll get tired and leave.”
Kararr snorts again. ”They’re idiots.”
”But isn’t that how we fight the Imperium?” Khodash weighs in.
”That’s completely different,” Kararr responds. ”We don’t skulk around and take potshots at Imperial patrols.” He stabs a finger at the location of the FOB, tearing at the paper a bit with his claw. ”We take out their bases and leave no survivors. We win the fights we pick. These Narsai’i cry themselves to sleep wishing they could be like us. They are just peasants playing at being warriors.”
”They’re doing what they can with what they have,” Hug’sh says. ”We can’t beat them in a fight if we can’t force them to commit to one. That is why we’re looking at this map. When we figure out where they’re staging from, we can take the fight to them.”
Kararr’s fur flashes orange. ”And do what your rules of engagement kept us from doing to the Hunter in the training exercise?”
Hug’sh nods, but this movement of his head lets him meet the eyes of Onas, who is standing at the next table over watching the lesson unfold. ”Excuse me for a moment,” Hug’sh says as he wanders over. ”You two keep looking at the pictures, see if you can identify anything that looks like a camp.”
”Yes, Walks-The-Fire!” Khodash barks. Kararr just grunts.

”Teach well?” Onas grunts in his broken Whirr-sign. ”Appear female…Looks female…” He shakes his head. “Sorry. Looks like the female has a better idea of strategy than your bigger friend there, Walks-the-Fire.”
Hug’sh nods slightly. ”She still has to learn how to speak up, though,” he says. ”How are things on your end? Still trouble with the Narsai’i?”
“We have placed our equipment under extra guard, and Bello is back at Kab-ool, looking into ways to foil the Narsai’i spies,” Onas says. “But overall, it is the wary but cooperative partnership we were expecting. I suspect that this is yet another example of your - excuse me, the Narsai’i military being too undisciplined and large for its own good.”
”Narsai’i experience with strong centralized leadership has been decidedly mixed,” Hug’sh comments. ”I wanted to say that from their view, the discipline and authority entrusted into single officers must seem exceptional, but considering the sheer size of the Imperium, I think we do have to count the Narsai’i way as the exception and not the rule. Anyway, I wish I could say that this friction comes as a shock to me, but blatant espionage attempts aside, I feel like the cooperation is working out so far. We’ll see how things go in the first big strike mission. I’ll be monitoring it from here, I assume you will, too?”
Onas looks at Hug’sh for a moment, obviously trying to parse what he just said. “Right.”
Hug’sh smiles. ”I’m sorry, I’ve been told I speak too fast,” he says. ”How are you and Paul?”
“Apart,” Onas replies tersely. “We talk, but it isn’t the same.” He leaves it at that.
The wave of blue and yellow that washes over Hug’sh is brief, but surprises even him with its intensity. ”I’m sorry,” he yelps. The blue fades out, to be replaced by a brown with cautious green undertones. ”Would you like to join us for dinner and some drinks afterwards?”
“Yes,” Onas says. “That would be good. But later.” He nods towards Keating and his people on the other side of the room. “What is your take on this particular Narsai’i?”
”He is a General willing to change his mind on the counsel of others,” Hug’sh says. ”This may sound like damning with faint praise, but it is enough for me to work with. He has something to prove as regards the seeming obsolescence of his way of war in light of the Bashakra’i and Sheen warriors he finds himself working with, and if he is not involved in the covert operations designed to appropriate your materiel, he seems at least aware of it and does not disapprove.” Hug’sh notes Onas’s look and clears his throat. ”The bottom line is, he seems competent, but he’s got a chip on his shoulder and he’s not 100% straight with us.”
“That’s what I think,” Onas replies. “But do you think we can work with him?”
”Yes,” Hug’sh says. ”If not, then around him. We’ve gotten pretty good at that.”
“I’m hoping we find a Narsai’i where that’s not necessary,” Onas says.
”And labor to get that Narsai’i put in charge?” Hug’sh says. ”A Narsai’i leader once said, you go to war with the army you have. Better to accept a workable level of obstruction than to try to engineer perfection.”
“I would be happy with one that I can trust not to look for a place to put a blade in my back,” Onas replies.
”Keating would fit that bill,” Hug’sh says, then gets a little grin. ”If only because I’m not sure he knows how to hold a knife.”
“Hmph,” Onas grunts, and leaves it at that.

There are certain benefits to forward bases, Luis thinks. One of them is that you tend to be secure enough from the front to relax a bit, while being far enough from some of the brass to not worry as much about decorum. Or, to put it another way, if you want to chill with your wife and catch up on some holodramas, there’s fewer people to care. Or at least there is until your bosses’ vox code rings in your head. Luis sighs, and pauses the holo he and Arketta are curled up to watch.
“Bello’s calling,” he says. “Give me a moment?”
“Sure,” Arketta says, and wiggles to the side to disentangle herself from her husband. “He has terrible timing.”
Luis nods, pulls an arm free to be able to sit up on the cot, then activates his vox.
“Stanhill,” he says.
“Samal, I have a mission for you,” Bello says. “We’re low on surveillance assets in this new base. There are a few key areas that require monitoring, are you able to place some sconces for me?”
“That’d depend on where you’re asking about,” Luis says. “What key areas?”
“The main public areas for the most part,” Bello replied. “Listening devices in the dining area, sconces at major intersections for tracking. The trickier part is the Narsai’i areas - we are narrowing our list of suspects for the Narsai’i espionage and thefts, but there are a few of the higher security areas that will require monitoring. That is what we need your help for.”
“Those areas represent a challenge to access inconspicuously,” Luis says. “Which areas?”
“The planning center, the Narsai’i meeting rooms inside it, and their communications lines,” Bello says. “Our maintenance technicians have already placed sconces in the proper Narsai’i quarters.”
“Those are challenging areas for me to place a sconce in,” Luis says. “I might be able to do so, but at risk of detection in the process. How critical is this, and is this a request or an order?”
“Given the degree of involvement that you and Onas reported General Keating seems to have had in the thefts, is that a question that really needs to be asked?” Bello says.
“I believe it is,” Luis says. “If a member of the 815 is found bugging their key areas, it might compromise the entire team, and it’d be a major boost to the paranoia that some of these efforts to seize our gear reflect--it’d undo a lot of good work. It might even lead them to look harder and find bugs elsewhere in the base here and at Kabul. I’m willing to make my best attempt to place those sconces if ordered, and I believe I have some chance of success, but I’ve had my worries along those lines since the start of this program and this seems to only increase that risk of jeopardizing any trust we’ve managed to build up. If it’s just a request, I’m not sure using me to plug that hole is the best course of action at the moment.” Luis pauses. “So, is it a request or an order?”
“You are the only Bashakra’i in place with access, Samal,” Bello replies. “Your people need you.”
Luis presses his eyes shut for a long moment, and blows out a breath. “Understood, sir. I’ll do what I can. Where can I pick up the equipment, and do you have a preference for which targets are most critical and which can be left if if the risk of my detection is too high?”
“Of course, Samal,” Bello replies. “And one of my agents will meet you at our storage hab.”
“Understood,” Luis says. “Is that all?”
“Yes, Samal,” Bello replies. “Good luck.” The ba-deep in his head lets Luis know Bello has disconnected. Luis rubs his knees somewhat anxiously, then pulls himself to his feet.
“Seems like I’ve got some errands to run,” he says to Arketta.
Arketta starts to get up. “Do you need any help with Bello’s errands?”
“I might,” Luis says. “I’ve got some work to do in the secure areas, and it might help having some cover.”
Arketta pulls a shawl over her skinsuit. “’Then I will use my best ‘confused alien’ act,’” she says with a smirk.
Pulling his boots back on, Luis grins. “Sounds like a plan. We’d best be about it--paranoia and duty calls.”

---

A young woman - no more than twenty by Luis’ guess - met him and Arketta in the large hab/warehouse at the far end of the FOB. She tried her hardest to be professional and hard in front of them, but her nervous smile and chipper tone after she bowed to them gave her away as more than a little starstruck. Luis still finds the attention awkward, and tries to be gracious while still being professional, only topped by Arketta’s awkward smile and complete silence. Still, she quickly issued a metal case of sconces, and a second box with a small black metal box with two Narsai’i wire jacks in it - the signal tap. With an awkward wave and excited smile, she bid Luis and Arketta farewell on their mission.

The sconces in the main strategy room were easy enough to place - everyone in there was too busy with their own work to notice Luis and Arketta’s slow tour around the room. The first conference room was empty, so Luis stood watch outside while Arketta used her height advantage to place the sconce up in the far corner of the room. The other Narsai’i conference room, on the other hand, had a single occupant - General Keating himself.
“I think this one’s yours, lahnai,” Arketta whispers as she moves back out of sight of the windows. Luis nods, and steps up to the door to knock.
Keating looks up from his laptop. “Come in, Mr. Stanhill.”
“Good evening, General,” Luis says. “How are you?”
“Busy preparing for the assault,” Keating replies. “Is there something that the GRHDI needs? Or the Bashakra’i?”
“There’s always a wishlist, General,” Luis says. “But what brings me here tonight is..well, call it worries over friction in the ranks.”
Keating sighs. “Do tell.”
“I gather you’re somewhat aware of the...incidents in moving equipment for the Bashakra’i and Sheen forward from Kabul?” Luis asks.
“They are only incidents because your off-world partners refused to cooperate,” Keating replies.
“Co-operate in the diversion of weapons from front-line positions to ‘off-the-book’ uses?” Luis asks, then makes a face. “The point is that that to the best of my knowledge, no requests for equipment samples have failed to be fulfilled back at Mesas Negras, and these attempts here are serving as a point of contention between, as you say, our off-world partners and the rest of our forces here.”
Keating sighs and levels a gaze at Luis. “If they are giving us the real thing,” he replies. “Look, Stanhill, I don’t want to be offensive, but you literally are seeing what they want you to see. You have their technology in your brain, you have their eyes in your head. You might want to consider the possibility that they might want to stay on top.”
“I have, but the evidence of tens of thousands of people and years of operations would be harder to fake than to just be genuine,” Luis says. “At some point, you have to trust.” He rubs an eyebrow. “I have a question for you, though, General. Let’s say we go down to the armories right now, or out to one of the barracks, and I let you personally grab a beamer out of the hands of a Bashakra’i, and then you take it back and it’s exactly what they said it is. Do you think your bosses would accept that and start trusting? Or do you think they’d just write you and your staff and the scientists involved off as ‘contaminated’ and shuffle you to someplace remote like they have General Bolton?”
“We’re not talking about beamers, Stanhill,” Keating says, standing up. “They gave us that as a free sample. Now we’re getting hooked, and they bring in Kesh Holdings, fresh with a friendly Earth face, to sell us on the rest of their technology. Of course we don’t trust them - it’s obvious what your friends’ game is. It’s just sad that none of you GRHDI seem to get it - so it falls to us to pick up the slack.”
“With what, petty thievery of those same beamers and spearbombs you said it’s not about?” Luis says.
“You think that this is just about weapons?” Keating says. “Stanhill, this is about our fucking future. Unlimited energy, teleportation, flying cars, spaceships, nanotechnology, cures for cancer and the common cold, editing the human body - the Imperium has all of that, and more than three trillion people. We simply cannot compete with that right now - and they know it. You’re so worried about this war with the Imperium that you’re blind to the real war - the war for Earth’s culture. All these gifts, Kesh Holdings, these ‘ambassadors’ and that Fifth Columnist village you stood up in Virginia, it’s all going to wipe Earth’s culture clean off the map, and we are doing whatever we can to keep that from happening.”

Keating takes a breath. “Now, I’m not saying they’re our enemies. This isn’t their goal - but you know your history, Stanhill. Whenever two cultures meet, the more advanced culture destroys the lesser - and with the Imperium’s technological and population advantage, Earth doesn’t stand a fucking chance. We are doing what we can to save Earth - and that means we need to skip ahead of Kesh’s little ‘timed releases’. We need to reach parity with them, we need to be more advanced than them - and we need to do it now.”
“That’s pretty bad history, General. Look at Rome--they got a boost from the Greeks, built a stronger combination of their own society and Greece’s, and they built a society that shaped our world. Or Japan! They worked with us and the British and others, and they made a leap of hundreds of years in decades without their culture being “destroyed,” and they did it primarily once their leadership was forced away from a position that cultural purity had to be preserved at any cost in fear of contamination. Treat them with contempt and suspicion, and you invite the same in return, but in working together and finding what we have in common you invite a lot more.” Luis shakes his head. “I just get tired of convincing people of that just to see them written off as ‘contaminated’ too, and I figured it was worth knowing where we stand here.”
“And I don’t see Rome or Japan in charge, either,” Keating replies. “This isn’t about ‘contamination’, Stanhill. I don’t blame you, or Davis, or Riviera, or anyone else on your team. But you need to understand that we’re the good guys, too. When all of this is over, we need to have an Earth worth living on.”
Luis shakes his head, but the conversation is going in circles. Instead, he just says, “Thank you for your time, General. I appreciate the chance to talk.”
“Think about what I said, Stanhill, really,” Keating says. “We just want to even the odds for Earth when all of this is over. Have the next generation of people with eyes like yours have them say ‘Made on Earth’ on them, not ’Made on Narsai’.” He stands up. “I need a cigarette. Care to join me?”
“I don’t smoke, but thank you,” Luis says. “Have a good evening, sir.”
“I trust you can see yourself out,” Keating replies, and walks out the door. Luis follows just long enough to see his departing back, and check with Arketta that the coast is otherwise clear. Arketta nods and says something to Keating, and then gives Luis a subtle nod. Luis turns back into the room, does a quick survey, which turns up Keating’s own surveillance suite. Unfortunately, while the Narsai’i suite is the best encryption money could buy on Earth, it’s nothing to Luis’ onboard vox and Sheen-enhanced hacking systems. A simple loop of an empty room splices neatly into the footage long enough to place the sconce, then Luis clears his traces and he steps out of the room. He nods to Arketta, and they head out.

---

Ten minutes later, Arketta is already stripping back down to her skinsuit in the 815 quarters as Luis makes the call back to Bello.
“Did things go smoothly?” Bello asks as soon as he picks up the connection.
“Smoothly enough,” Luis says. “We had a little run-in with Keating in one of the conference rooms, but he didn’t see us at anything. We mostly just talked about why whatever group he’s part of thinks they need to make off with every piece of Imperium tech that’s not nailed down before the vast cultural juggernaut of the Imperium turns them all into primitive savages and wipes out Earth culture, and how that’s more important than any kind of joint missions or the like.”
“Fear seems to be a primary motivator of your home planet,” Bello replies. “I have the feeds now. Good job, Samal. That must have been difficult for you.”
“I wish I wasn’t getting so used to it,” Luis says.
“I meant acting against your home planet’s leaders,” Bello said. “That must have been hard for you to do.”
“Same story,” Luis says. “I wish we could find some other way, but the situation just keeps popping up.”
“Still, know that you have my support, and that of a grateful Bashakra’i,” Bello says. “I trust that your wife wishes that you would return to her side.”
Luis grins at that, and makes eye contact with Arketta, who is doing her best to be distracting. “That’s an affirmative, sir.”
“Then I shall not keep you any longer,” Bello says. “Good night, Samal.” Ba-deep.
“Done?” Arketta asks as Luis looks at her, patting the spot that he should be taking, curled up in her arms on the cot.
Luis grins. “Done.”

Hale might not have said anything during the “briefing” with General Keating, but Hunter could tell that the former Rav-Turai wasn’t exactly enthused about what he had seen - the crossed arms and tense shoulders told the tale. And as they ate lunch together, Hunter looked around at all the other Narsai’i soldiers and how those that aren’t the few from the Mesas Negras training program still gave the off-worlder personnel a wide berth, and after a moment of wishing that they would just make the effort to understand, that that’s all that would really take, had an idea.

Which is why Hunter leads Hale through the door of one of the Marine senior NCO barracks - habs, Hunter corrects himself, as the interior reminds him very quickly. Instead of flimsy prefab trailers and plywood walls, the interior is spraycrete and roll-out plastic flooring. The door opens into the common area, furnished with spraycrete and metal benches and tables, while a stairway and hallway lead into the housing area proper. A dozen men and a couple women are sitting in the rest area, a TV and computer already hooked up and showing Aliens, of all things.
The Marines all look Hunter and Hale’s way, and it’s an interesting moment as Hunter sees recognition, respect, and then trepidation as they all first look to Hunter, and then to Hale.
One of the men stands up - a Master Sergeant by the name of Campbell, according to his uniform. “On your feet, Marines,” he says, and renders a salute. “Major Brand might be retired, but he still deserves your respect. How are you, Sir?”
“Thank you, Master Sergeant, I’m well. I hope you don’t mind us stopping by, but I’ve been tasked with bringing Hale up to speed with how Marines do things.” Hunter gestures to the former Turai by his side. “He was something like a Gunnery Sergeant before he defected. Officers being how officers are, and the devil of doctrine living in the interpretation, I figured I might make more progress spending some time with the people who actually *do* the things.”
“Hello,” Hale says, hesitating for a moment. “It is fine to meet you all.”
“Good to meet you too, Sergeant Hale,” Campbell says, extending a hand to shake, which Hale does after a moment. “What do you think of the Marines so far?” He smirks. “Should the Turai be shaking in their boots?”
Hale smiles back. “I think maybe.” Despite the friendly intro so far, the only Narsai’i in the room that’s moved an inch towards Hunter and Hale is MSG Campbell - a few others have even stepped back away towards the walls and hallway.
“After the last few days, I think the muj’ definitely are.” Hunter adds. “I did a tour out here in the mid-2000s, and it definitely wasn’t like this. I assume your unit has been in AfPak before. What was that like?”
“Didn’t have laser rifles, that’s for damn sure,” Campbell says. “Didn’t have robots that think, didn’t have bear people. Other than that, mission hasn’t changed - kill the bad guys.”
Hunter notices the room start to empty somewhat. Looking from left to right, he says, “Look, I don’t want to come into your space and force you to make nice. If you have a problem with us being here, say it and we’ll clear out.”
Campbell turns around, looking a bit surprised and more than a bit angry at the attempted vacancies. “And why you’re being disrespectful to our guest and an officer.”
“Weird having him here, Master Sergeant,” one of the other Gunnery Sergeants says.
“Just seems wrong,” another says.
“Sit your asses back down, Goddamnit,” Campbell barks.
“Adapting to weird situations is the Marine way,” Hunter confirms. “You think the shores of Tripoli were filled with people just like us?”
“’Hunter, you don’t need to do this on my account,’” Hale says. “I under-stand. It is strange having someone who fought your people here to help.”
“Pretty much,” one of the other NCOs says.
“No offense, but...you were the enemy a few months ago,” another says. “I don’t like having the other aliens here - killer robots and terrorists, pass. But this is just too much for me.”
“Why don’t you tell them about why you came over, Hale?” Hunter asks.
Hale sighs. “Because I did not like...the Imperium killing....people with no weapons, or like that.”
Some of the NCOs nod, but none of them move closer to staying around. “Did you ever do something like that?” one of them asks.
“Yes,” Hale says. He doesn’t look proud - but he doesn’t flinch away from the question, either.
That doesn’t go over well - even Campbell takes a step back. “What the fuck, Sir?” the Gunnery Sergeant asks.
“Have you brought a war criminal to our side, Sir?” Campbell asks.
“My job is to figure out how to get more Turai to stop killing their own people, and to stop trying to kill us,” Hunter says. “This is taking me into territories I’m not entirely comfortable with. But there are four hundred million of them out there. They’re well trained, tightly-controlled, and utterly convinced that they are doing what they must to preserve life as they know it for their friends and families. Sexton Hale is here because he realized he was on the wrong side, and I need to find thousands, millions more like him. I don’t want us to become like them. I want them to become like us.”
That...doesn’t exactly stop the exodus, but something resembling understanding appears on the faces of those few that are still there. “I understand,” Campbell says. “Don’t have to like it too much - but I understand.” He starts to offer Hale his hand again, but stops. “Good luck, Mr. Hale. Hopefully you find a way to forgiveness for what you’ve done. If you’ll excuse us, Sir.” Campbell doesn’t move - implying rather heavily that it’s Hunter and Hale he expects to do so.

Hunter nods, glances at Hale, and makes his way out. Well, that could have went better...
“Don’t feel bad,” Hale says, switching to Imperial and putting a hand on Hunter’s shoulder. “I don’t think worse of them for thinking I’m a monster - I am. And you did a good job making them see that I am...working on being a better person.”
“I see you, Hale. If you can find the better you, who knows who else could, too?” Hunter says.
“Besides, fear and mistrust seems to be how Narsai’i are about others,” Hale says. “I heard comments about people changing sex - and they were not kind ones. It was another reminder how...bigoted your people can be. So, something we will both have to come to accept.”
“No shortage of darkness around here,” Hunter agrees. “Doesn’t mean we shouldn’t be looking for light.”
“Yes, but I think I will keep that part about me between us anyway,” Hale replies.
Hunter’s eyes widen for a second as he connects the dots and the realization dawns on him, and then he regains his composure. “I hadn’t realized. We have similar situations here, but the transitions are rarely as...complete as yours. In any event, I respect your right to keep that quiet.”
Hale shrugs. "The Cyllan that operated the gene tank did a good job. It was long enough ago I barely remember my childhood as a girl - the mental screens at third year picked me out as likely, but I already felt it, and the evaluations went fast. I had not even started puberty when I went in."
Hunter ponders that sort of erasure, and the handful of servicemembers he knows of who transitioned after they got out. He wonders what his kids (who probably are much more aware about this) would say, what they’d ask. He thinks about institutions and systems meant to identify and help children with complicated problems. He thinks about all this, and simply says, “Glad to have you with us.”

Swims-the-Black sits nested deep into his plus-sized cot, pressed up against the wall of the hab space the 815 present at the JFOB all share. The wall and his gear make a poor substitute for Garrett, Ngawai, or any of his other crewmates, but the shipmaster has learned to cope with being alone, as difficult as it is. The big wherren scoots his hump a little deeper into the pile of blankets and gear, and grunts as he props his holodisplay up on his chest. The first thing he sees is a very welcome surprise - a message from G’het.

”Hello, Swims-the-Black,” she grunts, her fur still instinctively held to a neutral brown, but here and there a hint of green and yellow pokes through. ”How are you? I am doing well. I hope things are going well for you on Narsai.” She pauses and takes in a breath, then lets it out in a huff as she shakes her head and shifts a shade of violet. ”No. I apologize, Swims-the-Black. I am...you know what I am working towards. Let me try again.” She takes another breath in, and lets it out slowly as her fur stands on end and erupts - well, relatively erupts - in a still muted but much more expressive display of greens, yellows and blues. What’s more, she actually smiles at the sconce. ”Hello, Swims-the-Black. I miss you being here. I miss laying against you at night. I miss exploring this worldship together. I miss your musk in my quarters.” She barks with excitement as she remembers something. “I finally was given my transfer to reactor engineering - the cogitators there need optimization very badly, so I have no shortage of work to do. It’s...nice, finally getting to use what I know for something I am interested in, and being respected for it. The humans here recognize my ability instead of minimizing it. It’s...a welcome change. It’s nice to see not all humans are as closed-minded as my owners and their associates were.” She sighs one more time. ”Come home safe, my mate. I hope to see you soon.”

She signs off with a quick wave of her hand, leaving Swims-the-Black in the darkness, blinking over his flattened violet fur. ”That was both welcome and very painful,” Swims grumbles as he shifts around in his makeshift nest. He quickly flips over to his holos and serials to find something to distract himself with - perhaps a technical documentary on modifications to cruise drive cores, or a manual on enhancing maneuverability of freighter-class ships. However, before he can get really dug in with anything on his vox, another call comes in - from Garrett, no less. Swims lets out a quiet bark of excitement as he takes the connection.

”Garrett!” Swims-the-Black barks. ”How goes the hunt?”
”Ngawai is out on patrol, scouting the area and getting the lay of the land, so to speak,” Garrett grunts. ”I’m here with the little one -” A cry from the background sounds loud and clear over the connection. ”Who has just woken up. One sec, Swims-the-Black.” Garrett hops out of his seat and out of sight for a few moments, but returns with a wiggling brown human cub in his arms. ”She’s probably going to be hungry in a few moments, too.” He presses his nose to his daughter’s. ”Isn’t that right?” Naloni squeals and shuts her eyes, too.
Swims-the-Black can’t help but feel the happiness flood over his fur as he watches his best friend with his daughter - with an undercurrent of missing them both very badly. ”When will you have a chance to swing by the front?”
Garrett drops the smile as he turns back to Swims. ”I don’t know, buddy. It won’t be until shit gets sorted out here, though. It’s too dangerous - we need to cut the head off of this problem before it gets any worse. Not just for us - I’d imagine the whole operation has a big terrorist crosshair pointed on its back right now.”
”True enough,” Swims replies, his fur falling back down. ”It’s just...it’s very lonely out here.”
”G’het send a message?” Garrett guesses.
”Yes,” Swims replies. ”It is good to hear her and see her, but…”
”I know, buddy, I know,” Garrett grunts. Naloni finally rolls her head over towards the holodisplay, and smiles when she sees Swims-the-Black on the other side of the connection. She gurgles a nice line of drool down her cheek and reaches for his image as Garrett wipes her cheek. ”Hey, look who it is - it’s Uncle Swims-the-Black!” he grunts for her. “He’s right there, huh, sweetie?”
Swims-the-Black’s fur explodes in the brightest greens and yellows, and the darkest violet all at the same time. He sighs and wipes an eye. ”Vidas Lam, I wish I was there right now.”
”She’ll be laying on you on the sofa soon enough, I promise,” Garrett grunts.

”So,” Garrett grunts as he slides Naloni’s sling on and gently deposits her into it. ”What’s the news?”
”Hug’sh is adapting well to his position,” Swims grunts, his fur shifting to a somewhat more business-like shade. ”He is taking full leadership of the Wherren here, and representing them well. I saw him starting instruction of Khodash and Kararr in leadership and command strategy as well. He is...it seems obvious to say it, but he is acting more and more Wherren now. His human mannerisms are starting to disappear by the day, and he is taking well to being a leader of his people.” A flip of a claw brings up Swims’ notes and scrolls through them. ”Luis and Arketta are still keeping their presence here as Bashakra’i under wraps. Bello has reached out to them a couple times, he’ll probably do the same thing here. They haven’t turned him down yet, as far as I know. Means it’s probably a matter of time before they’ll have to admit to being here as ‘aliens’, not as Narsai’i soldiers. Zaef seems both happy and scared after Kitty Cavanaugh showed up. She’s out flying around the bases, getting data on the Naranai’i equipment performance and Bashakra’i health for the GRHDI and Bashakra’i - which makes Zaef even more nervous. She also seemed to have done some very serious strength-enhancement stim regimen.”
”That, I did know about,” Garrett grunts back.
”Hunter seems...distracted, for lack of a better word,” Swims grunts. ”Perhaps it is his relationship with Honima, but his concern with Sexton Hale seems to be more about putting a good face forward for him, rather than Hale going off and doing something stupid, regardless of what happened on the last mission. I have not figured out more, Hunter and Hale keep to themselves mostly right now. Speaking of which, Hale seems to be genuinely surprised by both the last mission and his talking-to afterwards. I have seen him reviewing Narsai’i battle drills on his holo, and he seems to be taking to some of what he sees.”
”And Angel?” Garrett asks.
Swims grunts in annoyance. ”He is doing just fine. When he is not practicing his drills or his marksmanship he is on his vox to who-knows-where on business. I think he has taken to simply leaving a muted vox connection with his assistant on at all times, and his talks with Gorlan have changed from the usual business-only affairs a few weeks ago to mostly discussing personal details of their days, details of the Kesh household, Hedion’i social matters, and some kind of planned memorial for Tora in the estate’s garden - or building a large new garden as a memorial, I am not sure.” Swims ruffles his fur. ”I do not like spying on Angel like that.”
”Lots of shit going on - gotta make sure everyone’s running at a good even keel,” Garrett grunts. ”You know that very well, shipmaster.”
”Yes, I do,” Swims grunts. ”I do not have to like it.”
”Neither do I, but I can’t be there, so you have to be my eyes and ears,” Garrett replies. ”And you can report back to Hug’sh or Angel or Arketta or Luis all the same - just leave out the part about the death threat and the guy we’re looking for. Cool?”
”Yes, I got it,” Swims grunts.
”I’ll see you soon, Swims-the-Black,” Garrett grunts.

”Hopefully very soon,” Swims replies, and signs off, and moments later is watching a bored-looking Vou Anns engineer rocketing to a very significant value of c as she tests a hot new fusion core.

Sometimes, the burdens of command include a nice room. This is the dire fate Hug’sh has to submit to, anyway; with the chain of command in this operation solidifying and various “eccentricities” getting straightened out, sleeping with the rest of the Wherren troops in the communal barracks is just no longer acceptable, and so he’s had to rapidly redeploy to the leadership quarters at the forward JTOC, sharing an apartment-style unit with Rodirr. More than that, part of this ball-and-chain situation is self-inflicted; while 815 veteran Hug’sh would be a natural choice to keep going out into the field and kick some doors in, General-in-all-but-formal-name Walks-The-Fire is a military leader first and a soldier maybe fifteenth down the line on a long list of formal responsibilities he can’t easily weasel out of. He went out, had his fun, now it’s time to sit at the big boy table without kicking his feet underneath the same. But it’s not like that’s completely against Hug’sh’s inclinations; if the medical exam incident shows one thing, it’s that he needs to be here, large and in charge, a visible not-ignorable sign of Wherren presence and interests. And 815 needs an ally sitting with the brass, too. It just makes sense.

Still, no reason not to rearrange the furniture a bit. Whoever thought Wherren would like having two beds at opposite ends of this apartment has clearly never met an actual sabertoothed rainbow bear. Hug’sh is just in the process of adjusting the final fit of the two cots side-to-side against each other - has to line up, after all, this is a military residence - when his vox gently chimes. Hug’sh gives the bed one final heave before he sets it down and reaches for the vox to answer it. The vox’s polite female voice lets Hug’sh know that it’s Cora Verrill on the other end, setting off a wave of green and yellow in his fur as he pokes the activation glyph.

”Hello, Cora!” he says; the Wherren way of pronouncing her name has been getting more comfortable for both of them. ”To what do I owe the pleasure?”
”Hello, Hug’sh!” Cora grunts over the holo. Her Whiirr-sign has been improving - she’s finally not having to pause for her signs for some of the more common words - but it’s still at the “glad the tourist is trying” level of utility. ”How are you today, brother?”
”Good and busy,” Hug’sh replies. The topic of what he actually did remains politely off-limits. ”How about you? Any progress on the model hab?”
”Yes,” Cora grunts, and then her vocabulary finally runs out and she switches to English. “I have a set of plans that Haraj helped me sketch into my vox. That thing is magic, Bert, I don’t know how I did work without it. Freehand design in three-dimensions - in midair - with models and copy/paste and hand gestures - and it’s smaller than my keys. That...it’s gonna change architecture forever.”
”And you’ll be giving classes on how to use it, 500 bucks per hour,” Hug’sh replies. ”How are things in the village? Is everything okay?”
“Everyone is fine,” Cora replies. “Rhea and Torega stop by a few times a week to leave Torega with me for a few hours, like we talked about. She’s trouble, you know that. Doesn’t sit still for an instant, always asking me what that is, what this does, getting into my purse…” She smiles. “She’s cute - and really smart, Bert.”
Hug’sh chuckles. ”That she is,” he says, then trails off a bit as thoughts of Torega and Rhea come floating back to the surface.
Cora notes Hug’sh’s color change and quickly speaks up. “Well! Do you want to see this model or not?”
Hug’sh smiles gently. ”Of course,” he says. ”Show me.”

Given how long he’s been exposed to Imperium technology, fancy holos really shouldn’t surprise Hug’sh anymore, but the free-floating design Cora shows him does leave him stunned for a moment - all those lines and little details, laid out with what he knows was an agonizing attention to the smallest bits by his big sister. Their previous discussions have obviously borne fruit, as the whole hab is arranged much like they discussed - a few multifunctional rooms, large group beds and a living room arranged as a hub for the family to spend most of their day in. That said, the storage room still seems small to Hug’sh’s eyes, and the way the apartments fit together in the hab to share internal walls limits how much natural light can filter into each, with Cora’s proposed “light orb” in the center of the living room’s ceiling a dubious replacement.

A Wherren would see that like Hug’sh can see it. But as far as anyone’s been able to find, there simply are no Wherren residential architects or interior designers. Taken together with the comparatively ample supply of hunters, mercenaries and gladiators that make up the Wherren contingent of this task force, it all leaves a bit of a bitter aftertaste on Hug’sh’s lips as the discussion about the design winds down.

”I think that looks good and we will see how liveable it is when the trial hab is built,” Hug’sh concludes. ”Have you shown this to Chief Hiigra?”
“I wanted to show it to you first,” Cora replies, looking over her notes. “I think that we can use light pipes for that natural light you suggested, it’ll just be one more thing to prefab and build into the hab. I tell you, Bert, it’s a trip designing for something that’s built like this. I’ll run it by him once I make some of the adjustments we talked about.” She looks up at him and smiles. “Thanks.” Her notebook gets flipped closed. “You talked to Mom and Dad?”
”I’ve been e-mailing with Mom,” Hug’sh says. ”I tried to call them once with a friend translating for me, but it was just too awkward, having him say what I can’t.”
“Oh,” Cora says, her smile dropping away. “I’m sorry, Bert. I didn’t realize that would be a problem.”
Hug’sh takes a breath, then clenches his throat and tenses his lips, producing a high-pitched yelp that sounds - after a bit of reflection - almost kind of a bit like “Kor”, adding a barked “Ah!” after a moment. There’s a spot of blue on his face as he coughs from the effort. ”It’s a work in progress,” he adds.
Cora’s stunned - she’d never seen Hug’sh try to speak English before, and the distance between intention and result has her speechless for a moment. “I...yes, I can see that,” she says, and Hug’sh doesn’t need to see her wipe at an eye to read the emotions on her human face.
”I’ve just been too busy to keep up with my speech training,” Hug’sh quickly adds. ”You wouldn’t believe the paperwork stacks on my desk. It’s a skill and it needs practice - a lot of practice - but it is possible.” As Hug’sh speaks, his barks have the opposite intended effect, and Cora’s sadness is easier and easier to read on her face. ”There are plenty of Wherren who’ve learned how to speak Imperial. And we’ve always been good at languages, right? That’s a Verrill thing. Okay? I’m still -” Hug’sh sucks in another breath, then barks a reasonable facsimile of “Bert”.
Cora had been looking more and more depressed as Hug’sh kept talking, but turned right around when he barked out her nickname for him. She laughed for a good ten seconds, joined by Hug’sh chuffing his greening fur. “Okay, okay. You’re still a goof, you know that?” Cora says, wiping her eyes for a different reason.
”So people keep telling me,” Hug’sh says, permitting himself a laugh. ”Give Torega a hug from me when you see her.”
“I don’t think she’ll give me a choice,” Cora replies, and clears her throat for another attempt at Whirr-sign. ”I love you, brother.”
”I love you, big sister,” Hug’sh replies. ”Talk to you soon.”
”Yes, soon,” Cora grunts, and then waves the connection closed.

Hug’sh sighs as he puts the vox away, then trundles over to the apartment’s in-suite bathroom. The light is mounted to the top of the mirror above the sink, and that’s what Hug’sh steps up to, regarding his face and the colors of his fur. Finally, he takes another breath.

“Kor! Ah!” he yelps.

Angel sighs, shaking his head despite the fact that Garrett cannot see the gesture. "It sounds like a plan Garrett. 'Good' isn't a word I'd use to describe this particular turn of events. Let me know if you find anything, or if there's anything I can do."

Once he and Garrett were finished, he resumed dictating - at least mentally - dictating an email to Erika that he had been wrestling with all day. The tension overlaying the entire operation over here had forced it to the forefront of his mind, and it would need...fairly high level attention, sooner rather than later.

The subject line read: Hearts and Minds - Next steps?

Shenloma gives Leaj’s faulds a solid tug, then yanks on her groin plate. “Green for connectivity?” he asks.
Leaj smirks. “Any time, Shen,” she says.
“Keep your heads in the game, guys,” Danielsson calls out as he taps the forward assist on his M4.
“Oh, shut it,” Boyd Kravitz adds. “This is all your fault anyway.”
“I know!” Danielsson answers. “And that doesn’t make it any better.”
“Told you,” Boyd says.
“I know,” Danielsson repeats.
“So, you see,” Boyd adds, “you’re an idiot.”
“I know,” Danielsson whines. “Can we just focus on the workup, guys? Please?”
“Green on fluids and waste?” Shenloma asks Leaj with a smirk, ignoring his Narsai’i squadmates.
“Feeling adventurous, Shen?” Leaj asks. “Green down the line.”
“I’m not hearing this,” Danielsson says. “I am so not hearing this.”
“How can you have such a dirty mind and be such a prude about it?” Boyd says.
“I wanted romance!” Danielsson protests. “Not...whatever that is.”
“You’re very easy to tease,” Leaj says. “Not that this makes it less fun.”
“Yeah, well, can we go back to our guns now?” Danielsson says, shoving an outstretched index finger in the direction of Boyd’s smirk. “Yeah, I heard myself, shut up.”
“Heads up, guys,” Shenloma says, breaking the mood with a nod towards the barracks. “The 815 are here.”

Leading the way are Luis Stanhill and Arketta, looking every part the battle couple - Luis in the hooded getup of the Bashakra’i rebels worn with carapace armor, the golden orbs of his eye implants flickering like he’s working a dozen different angles on his projects at the same time, while Arketta proudly wears a matching carapace suit that’s come by its minor dings and scratches over several years of heavy-duty fighting; what might look bulky on anyone else just seems to enhance her stature, making her look like a warrior legend from the days of yore busted out of its grand statue and picked up a tenner. The only reason the two of them avoid totally overloading the senses of the onlookers is that they’re followed by even larger figures; Swims-the-Black in full battle rattle, going over some last-minute briefing elements with Walks-the-Fire, whose badge of office seems to be the clipboard he carries around with him everywhere. It isn’t difficult to hide behind those two, but Angel does it in style, even though he’s got nothing that needs hiding; in fact, his custom Kesh desert combat suit seems tailor-made for the cover of the Sharp-Dressed Sharpshooters Desert Special Issue, combining a slimming tight cut - all the way up to his mandarin collar - with built-in thermoregulation and an adaptive camouflage pattern that subtly but surely says “I am equally rich and dangerous - and the answer to both is ‘extremely’”. Then it’s Hunter, whose MCCUU struggles to remain wide and airy against his “I’ve got thirty years on you, what the fuck is your excuse?” physique, while Saxton Hale follows him around in his nicely worn Imperial Turai carapace, still looking a bit lost looking at all the Narsai’i activity going on around him. And lastly, there’s Zaef, whose face seems to be trying to remember how to wear a proper afterglow smile, and by the time he’s walked past them, Danielsson’s still counting his knives. The whole parade is rather like being backstage at an AC/DC concert as a roadie, bringing in a pallet of mineral water only to catch the band in the hallway as they walk towards the stage ready to rock.

“What’s AC/DC?” Shenloma asks.
“Oh,” Boyd says. “They’re a band. You know, musicians.”
“Rock stars,” Danielsson adds.
“Rock?” Leaj asks.
Danielsson gets a huge, stupid grin at that, and even Boyd’s “Remember what happened the last time” look doesn’t wipe it off his face.
“What?” Leaj says.
“Oh, nothing,” Danielsson says. “It’s just that I’ve been preparing for this situation my entire life.” He digs around in his battle gear, finally producing a banged up iPod Nano and, after a few more seconds, the matching earbuds. “As it was passed down from generation unto generation, I present to you...the power of rock and roll.”
Boyd just rolls his eyes. Really, what can he say to that?
Leaj seems a bit puzzled, but accepts the gift with a gracious nod. “We will listen to this after the mission,” she says as she helps Shenloma back to his feet with her other hand.

”Hello!” Hulor barks, waving his hand as he and Tarl walk towards them. Even with their broad shoulders, both young Wherren warriors are having a hard time keeping all the gear they’re carrying on their humps on their shoulders.
“Hold on a second,” Boyd says, and hustles over to help stabilize Hulor’s bags of gear, while Leaj does the same for Tarl.
“Vidas Lam, did you bring everything you own?” Leaj asks as she shoulder-presses the shifting duffel bag over her head, her short-for-Imperial height putting her at a distinct disadvantage.
”Yes!” Hulor says. ”We go into battle, not on a hunt. We must be ready for everything!”
”We just went by the packing list,” Tarl explains, trying not to look too yellow.
“Oh, babies,” Danielsson says. “Never bring the full packing list.” He slaps Hulor on the shoulder - and recoils a bit at the mass of muscle there. “Even if you could probably carry it.”
”What if you need something and don’t have it?” Tarl asks, already knowing the answer will not make him feel better.
Danielsson looks over at Hulor’s bag and grabs a familiar-looking green bag. “You see this CBRN gear? It’s pretty much useless against nuclear and radiological, and you’ll never get it on in time to deal with biological or chemical, so it’s pretty much useless - not to mention it’ll never fit over your face.” He pulls it off and tosses it into a bin. “Leave it.”
”Why give it to us if it is useless?” Hulor asks, but doesn’t wait for an answer. ”Narsai’i have a strange way of fighting.”
”We should just take more ammunition,” Tarl comments, then turns to Danielsson. ”Right?”
Danielsson smirks. “I like the way you think,” he says.
“We’ve got a bunch of rods, but at a thousand shots a rod?” Leaj says.
“And they’re easy to damage,” Shenloma adds.
”What should we take, then?” Hulor asks.
“Spearbombs,” Shenloma and Leaj say simultaneously.
Tarl and Hulor look at each other, then back to the humans. ”We’ll be back,” Hulor says.
As the two Wherren walk away, Danielsson looks to his Bashakra’i compatriots. “...did we just tell the newbies to run off and grab as many explosives as they can carry?”
“That seems to be how they took it,” Boyd weighs in.
Leaj runs off after them. ”Wait!” she barks.

Two sets of clanking announce the arrival of the Sheen members of the squad - and the squad leader. “Everything all good over here?” Gray Goo Scenario asks.
“Uh, yeah,” Danielsson answers. “Just...trying to correct their impression of some advice we gave them. Otherwise there’s gonna be some gruesome shit on Insta. Hashtag #boombears.”
“You really are an asshole,” Boyd comments. “You don’t joke about that shit, man.”
“Yeah, sorry,” Danielsson says. “So, uh, you guys? All good?”
“Yeah, did the PCCs 0.023 seconds ago,” Ten Tons of Fun replied. “We’re good.”
“Do you even have to clean your guns?” Danielsson asks.
“Electromagnetic railguns self-clean every time they’re blank-fired,” Ten Tons replies. Three accelerators protrude out of its back and fire off a flash of light and a snap. “Bam. Done.”
“Man, this is some bullshit,” Danielsson says, turning to Boyd. “We should have fucking electromagnetic railguns. I’ve spent weeks of my life on cleaning guns. Imagine how many fucking Halo matches that is.”
“They’d just find some other stupid thing to keep us busy,” Boyd counters expertly, then turns to Ten Tons. “Good to know you guys are there. It’s been a while since we had organic fire support out here. Uh, for a certain value of ‘organic’.”
“We’re carbon-based!” Ten Tons replies. “Graphene superconductors with diamond optical circuitry. There’s carbon all up in this beautiful chassis.”
“Diamonds are a grunt’s best friend?” Danielsson says. “Sorry, sorry, let me rethink that. Uh…”
“You’ve got nothing?” Boyd asks.
“I got nothing,” Danielsson admits. He crams a few more items into his rucksack before looking back up to Gray. “It’s fucking bullshit, by the way. Your demotion.”
“What demotion?” Gray asked.
“You were totally in charge during the exercise,” Danielsson says. “Did an awesome job. And the thanks you get is a pat on the back and getting busted straight back down to hanging with us squaddies. I’m pretty sure that’s a demotion no matter where you’re from.”
“It is what it is,” Gray replies. “I’m still in a leadership position - I’ll work my way back up.”
“It’s still bullshit,” Danielsson says.
“You’re just angry because the killbot’s a bigger man than you,” Boyd says.
“It is bigger than me!” Danielsson says.
“My grandma’s bigger than you,” Boyd says.
Danielsson’s eyes narrow. “I totally have a good comeback for that, but in the interest of decency I will let this one go,” he says.
“Decency?” Boyd says. “You sure you’re feeling okay, man?”
“Don’t push it,” Danielsson says.

At this moment, Leaj strolls up to the group again, looking relieved but still a little pale.

“Crisis averted?” Boyd asks.
“I convinced them that we had enough heavy firepower already,” Leaj says. “They’ll be taking big water bladders instead.”
“Awesome,” Boyd says. “Looks like we’re just about ready to dust off, then.”
“Still need a carbon pun,” Danielsson mutters.
“Oh, let it go already,” Boyd says. “You can’t possibly have a dumb comment for everything.”
“Don’t judge my hobbies,” Danielsson says.
“Guys,” Leaj says. “Keep your heads in the game.”
“That’s good advice,” Boyd says. “Where’d you hear that?”
“I don’t remember,” Leaj says. “Probably someone I’m used to blocking out.”
“Hey, fuck you, too,” Danielsson says.
“I thought you wanted that topic dropped?” Boyd says.
“Argh!” Danielsson says. “Fuck...fuck all of you. Fuck this. Let’s go.” He slides the magazine on his M4 home and chambers a round. “Let’s go drop some motherfuckers.” He reaches up for a help up, and Ten Tons extends a manipulator arm to pull him to his feet. “Thanks, man.” Danielsson says.

(Luis and Arketta: 1d8 = 1; 1d8 = 7)

Bravo Company, 2nd Battalion, 5th Marines, Luis’ heads-up display reads out in the corner of his vision, and that matches up with the printed sheet of paper taped to the front of an up-armored HMMWV. He and Arketta walk up to the vehicle, sand crunching under their carapace boots, and spot the commanding officer of the unit going over a map in the front passenger seat.
“’Excuse me, Sir,’” Arketta starts. “’I am Arketta Quis, and this is Luis Stanhill, and we are your Task Force 815 members for the mission?’”
“’I know who you both are,’” the captain - Corriea, according to Luis’ vox-held file - says, turning his head away from you both. “’Mr. Stanhill, I’d appreciate it if you could not point those things in your head at me.’”
Arketta’s eyes narrow - already off to a running start. “’There is nothing that he is doing,’” she replies. “’Luis is not recording anything.’”
“’All the same, Ma’am, I’d appreciate not ending up on any Imperium databases,’ the captain says, raising the map to block his face from Luis. “’We scrape social media for all kinds of ID on our bad guys, you think the Imperium doesn’t have a look through everyone that had their eyes scooped out for that robot shit?’”

(Angel: 2d8.hi = 7; 1d8 = 6)

Charlie Company, 3rd Battalion, 5th Marines is what Angel’s mirrorshades tell him he and Swims-the-Black are attached to. Swims walks at Angel’s right side, and it’s either Angel’s new notoriety as both a Delta sniper and inteplanetary businessman worth more than the US military’s entire budget, or Swims-the-Black’s armor/knives/beamer setup and demeanor that implies the line about letting wookies win was really written about him, but the crowd parts before them as they make their way towards their supposed rally point.
”I think that is our unit,” Swims grunts as he nods towards a semi-circle of up-armored HMMWVs with about one-hundred and fifty men inside of it, conducting final checks and waiting for orders. Towards the back of the group, thirty-odd Bashakra’i, twenty-something Wherren and just as many Sheen take care of their own equipment and each others’, the division between the two groups painfully obvious.
As the two males approach the group, a Marine with the requisite bars on his uniform steps in front of them. “’Hold up there,’” the man - Captain Nichols - says. “’You’re not gonna just slide up up to my men without me getting a chance to check you out first.’” He looks Swims over first. “’Read about you - those tusks mean you used to fight at the Emperor’s side.’”
Swims grunts. ”And I saw him order a world burned. Made sticking a sword in his Avatar’s head much more satisfying.”
Nichols waits for the translation from Angel - with even more sarcasm on top than Swims added himself - then turns to Angel. “’And heard you don’t even live on Earth anymore, Riviera. I don’t need you counting your bank account out here - I need your head in the game so you don’t get my men killed. Understood?’”

Angel's arched eyebrow is conveniently hidden by his glasses, though he does manage a salute, still holding at least some trappings of still being in the military. He also manages to hold back the first retort that comes to mind, which is that he has people to count his bank account for him. He figures that wouldn't go over well.

"I understand Captain."

He smiles just slightly.

"Which is why I know the density altitude is 6320 feet, which will not only make us all feel like gods when we go to sea level again, but also means a round will go nice and straight, relatively speaking. That'll be less true after the first big rain, but I checked the weather report before I left and..." he paused for a moment, "Just now, and that's probably not going to be for a bit. I'm wearing better protective equipment than anyone here except some poor EOD bastard, or that Imperial woman who looks like the cross between a Greek goddess and someone's HALO character. My sunglasses, in addition to being marvelously glare reducing are essentially my very own built-in spotter and gunsight."

He sighs softly. "Beyond that Sir, before I joined 815 I was with Delta. My career, my whole career, has been going through dusty towns and bombed out villages fighting exactly the men we're fighting today. Doing things that don't get written down on paper in case there's ever a congressional hearing. Sir, I'm good at this. Damned good at it. Also turns out I'm good at running a business empire, but that's a little bit like making it to the big leagues and finding out you're a swell oil painter. Doesn't stop you from swinging a bat."

"As for Earth...still have an apartment here. Really nice one. But more importantly than all that, my grandma's still got a place in Boca, and my dad just paid off his car. So why don't we both stop worrying about my bank account, and you let me worry about putting a round through the head of anyone who so much as looks at your boys funny?"

Angel pauses for a moment. "And Sir? It's Kesh. Not Riviera. Things'll go better if you keep that straight."

(Hunter, Zaef and Hale: 1d8 = 6; 1d8 = 6)

Bravo Company, 2nd Battalion, 1st Marines is what Hunter’s got scribbled down on the little green notebook crammed into one of the pockets on his uniform pants. As the only one of the little group actually familiar with Narsai’i military organization, Hunter leads the way, and it’s not long before their particular group of young Narsai’i men are found prepping their HMMWVs to move - but the Bashakra’i, Wherren and Sheen aren’t anywhere to be found. A few quick inquiries directs them towards the commanding officer of the company, Captain Martinez, a Marine in the “short but built like a fire hydrant” mold.
He spots Hunter, Hale and Zaef quickly, and snaps off a quick salute to Hunter. “’Sir.’” He looks Zaef and Hale over. Their gear, with all its metal and nanoweave, is very different from the light tan ripstop of the Captain’s uniform. “’Put them with the other aliens in the rear. Don’t got time for more insubordination from them.’”