”Good morning,” Onas grunts as he sees Hug’sh. ”Be careful.” He nods towards Keating. ”Things are already a little rough - the Narsai’i are...resisting the plan.”
And when Hug’sh looks General Keating’s way, he can already tell that it’s going to be a long day for him. “’You tell him to get his fucking officers on board with the plan, or I will have him court-martialed for disobeying a lawful order!’” Keating shouts into a phone. “’It is your fucking regiment, Mike, get it under control! My orders were perfectly clear: integrate those fucking aliens into your Goddamned units! This isn’t fucking Burger King, so tell them to pull their heads out of their asses before they find themselves in Lejune awaiting trial!’” He slams the phone down and turns his attention to Hug’sh.
“’About time you made it, Walks-the-Fire,’” Keating spits. “’If there is some Wherren word for ‘grow a thicker skin and get over it’, now would be a perfect time to use it. I’ve got nothing but complaints up and down the line about integration problems - the Bashakra’i don’t like my men pushing them around, the Wherren don’t like being pushed around, the Sheen don’t like being pushed around, and my men are ready to just leave the whole lot of you behind at the FOB.’”
“Putting my Turai at the back of the convoy guarding the rear isn’t what we came here to do,” Onas points out.
“’And I have spent the last ten minutes going down the line with my regimental commanders reminding them of that fact - but I need some quid pro quo here,’” Keating replies. Onas gives him a confused look. “’You need to do your part and get your people to calm down. This isn’t kindergarten where we all learn to share and play nice, this is the United States Marine Corps, where you sit down and fucking color in the lines. It’s your job to make sure they do that - understood?’”
Onas narrows his eyes at that, but tilts his head towards the vox on his ear - he must be on the line with Bello, unbeknownst to Keating. He looks to Hug’sh after a moment, waiting for his reply.
Maybe some kindergarten would actually work better here, Hug'sh thinks. He projects some green into his brown in an effort to smooth things over. "Let's all calm down," Hug'sh says, in that tone of voice that he uses when the cubs have come in for dinner but haven't left recess outside. "We have all agreed that the Narsai'i are in overall command of this operation. Let's keep this professional and go over the problems we encountered after the operation concludes."
As he speaks, he scribbles out a quick message for Keating. I apologize for trouble. I will vox my officers to help.
“’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?’”
"I do better than think, I know. I've worked with the best computer experts were have, and we've taken apart their code to the chip level and reworked it. I wasn't going to put something in my head I didn't own the source to." Luis tries a grin. "And I'm not recording you, Captain. I'm more interested in seeing what we can do to the enemy out there together with your men."
Zaef's jaw clenches, but that's it. He knows what sort of clout he carries with this man, and it is only a little more than the clout the Captain carries with him.
He turns to Hunter. "I'll talk to the troops, see what's what. Good luck."Then Zaef heads for the combined Bashkrai'i/Wherren/Sheen forces, to hear their grievances. They will no doubt be more tolerable to him than staying here.
"Hmph." Nichols looks Angel in his technoshades for a moment, then smirks and gives him a nod. "All right - Mr. Kesh. Welcome to Crusher Company." "Excuse me," Swims grunts. "Why are the Wherren, Sheen and Bashakra'i all over there?"
After the translation through Angel, Nichols nods in the off-worlders' direction. "Just keeping them out of the way. Don't have time to teach them how we convoy, it's for their own safety. Playing in the desert for a few weeks isn't enough training." "We did a bit more than that," Swims says, his fur ruffling orange. "We were trained by your Marines to fight and operate the Narsai'i way. We did not come all this way to be treated like children. Put them in your squads." Swims coughs. "Please. Sir."
(Swims Talk: 2d8.hi = 8 vs. 1d8 = 2)
Nichols nods - even through the translation and language barrier, Swims-the-Black's command presence comes through. "Fair enough. Didn't mean to insult your people, just trying to keep everyone safe. If they can handle it, they can handle it." He grabs his radio mic. "Crusher 6 to squad leaders, report to command truck for instructions, we're putting the aliens in the squads now." "Thank you," Swims says, green replacing his orange.
Keating nods. "'Thank you, Walks-the-Fire. At least someone is capable of just getting the job done.'" Onas also gives Hug'sh an approving nod before turning his attention to a slow lap around the TOC, chatting briefly with each of the Bashakra'i and Sheen present.
Hug'sh waves a claw through his holodisplay's airspace and quickly opens a connection to all his subordinate commanders. "Everybody, this is Walks-The-Fire. I'd like your report on how things are progressing. How are the Narsai'i officers acting?" "We are guarding the trucks, Khodash says, and Hug'sh can just about hear her fur try to shed its blue. "They...we don't want to get in their way." "Get in their way my furry ass," Kararr jumps in. "They're herding us like a couple of spearchuckers. In the arena, we settled that by cracking a few skulls to let the idiocy leak out."
(Hug’sh Will vs. mood swing: 1d8 = 2 vs. 1d8 = 2)
Hug'sh's fur flashes blue and yellow in sympathy with Khodash - she just sounds so crushed, like she's been rehearsing for the big show for months only to get cancelled on opening night. "Thank you for your thoughts," Hug'sh manages to bark. He looks over to Onas, who's already gotten the gist, then to Keating, who seems to be bewildered by the raw intensity of Hug'sh's fur changes. Hug'sh takes a deep breath, sucking up about half the air in the command center, then takes his notebook and writes out (very carefully): "We are soldiers, not cubs. Let us fight." He underlines 'fight' a few times before sliding the note over to Keating.
“Thinking maybe you’d wanna clear a few things up,” Gunny says, its black shell still towering over everyone else. “Like telling your BCs to pull their heads out and get us into the fight.”
“Agreed,” Keating says, and picks up his radio again.
Onas walks over and puts a hand on Hug'sh's hump. "Are you all right?"
Hug'sh flashes a bit of yellow, then tries to force green, with limited success. "Am I? It's nothing I haven't dealt with before...but that was before...before I worried about…everything."
Onas rubs Hug'sh's hump. "Okay," he starts. "Everything is fine. You have this under control. Bello expected this; this is your pregnancy you are feeling. Take a deep breath."
Hug'sh chuckles. "I only take deep breaths." He pauses for a moment. "Bello's worried about my judgment, isn't he? The change was one thing, but now Rhea is with cubs and I'm not in my happy place here. Do you worry, too?"
"Yes," Onas replies. "But Bello worries about everything, and I am not exactly in a good place either, so we are all watching each other's sanity, yes?” "Sanity is a group effort," Hug'sh quips, a little genuine green back in his fur. "And this war is crazy, so why shouldn't we be."
"That's right," Onas says. "And soon, I will be with Paul, and you will be with Rhea. Focus on that." "I'd rather focus on the mission," Hug'sh says. "Let this go well. That is what I hope for."
"Then I would tell Khodash and Kararr what they need to do," Onas replies, and steps back to his little space. "We have a long way to go yet." "Indeed," Hug'sh comments.
Garrett walks a slow circle around the old man that threatened his wife and daughter, carefully studying every bit of detail and motion on his face. He gets right up close to him, and looks him in the eyes. “I don’t like the look on his face.”
Ngawai leans back in her chair, Naloni asleep in her arms. “Not much to like.”
“I saw a lot of old men in my time in Afghanistan, and they all were worn and weathered,” Garrett says, circling around to the old man’s back again. “But the old school Muj all had this different look about them. They had stood against one of the most powerful countries in the world, and beat them. They just stood their ground, kept on plugging away against the mighty Soviet Army, the one that had the United States shaking in their boots, and just outlasted them. Ground them into powder. And when they looked at you, their eyes said one thing - we can do it again. That’s the look that he has.”
“I read the history,” Ngawai says. “They're not so different from the big Sambasan’i gangs that way - you pull one of them in, they know the score. They’ve outlasted Kansatai before, and they’ll do it again.”
Garrett turns back to Ngawai, putting his back to the old man. “Just means we’ll have to turn the pressure up.”
Garrett steps back through the image of one of the other three men in the holo. “Play it again, please, lahna.”
Ngawai swiped her hand, and the image snapped back to the beginning of her approach. Another man with an AK-47 is frozen mid-step between her vox and the conversation, another woman in a blue burqa in tow behind him. Half a fruit stand protrudes into the image, the back half hovering unsupported in midair. With a tap through a projected button, the scene proceeds forward as the sound of the insurgent marketplace plays. Garrett's Pashto is still decent enough to make out most of what's being said.
"'- put up with these kuffar in our midst, father?" one of the two elder (but still much younger than the old man) men asks, presumably a son of his.
"'You want to strike quickly, Pelabo, and I understand this,'" the old man says. "'But this is what they expect from us - they flaunt their corruption in our faces, and in our anger at their godless ways, we strike without thought and exhaust ourselves against their defenses.'"
"'But we are so much stronger now,'" the other elder man - presumably another son - says. "'With our new weapons, we can cut through them with brilliant bolts of Allah's holy light. Mehtar and I tried one out at one of our camps last week - these weapons truly are miraculous, father.'"
"'There is no miracle so powerful as the blessing and guidance of Allah,'" the old man replies. "'You would do well to remember how the Prophet fought in His service - he did not charge ahead foolishly when outnumbered, but instead struck where his enemies were weak and took advantage of their hubris. He struck their caravans, attacked them at their weak points - and assassinated those that promoted their blasphemies.'"
"'You mean the American and his alien bride and child,'" the one that's not Pelabo or the youngest son, presumably Mehtar, says.
The old man spits at the dirt. "'They insult our people and our culture with their presence on this planet,'" he growls. "'They have come to wipe our ways and beliefs from history. We will prove them wrong. Tell the men to prepare -'"
And on the old man's cold, hateful snarl, the video freezes again.
"I really don't like the look on his face," Garrett echoes, then turns back to Ngawai. "So, first, I think it's safe to say that he's not just some old Muj."
"This whole market was his," Ngawai says. "There were probably thirty or forty armed men there, and it looked like they were all his. Probably two or three times more elsewhere."
"Both mean he doesn't shake, at all," Garrett says. "We're not gonna chase this guy off by roughing him up."
"Nope," Ngawai replies. She leans back a bit, adjusting their daughter in her arms. "So, what's the plan? We can't just put a bullet in him, his whole crew will come after us."
"First, we need to learn who these four are," Garrett says. "If you pull good faces off of the holo, I'll get them to some friends and scan them through the Narsai'i database of assholes and put some names to them. These four are big players, they're gonna be in there for sure."
"Then we need to cut them down to size," Ngawai says. She gives the old man's holo-likeness a sour look. "As nice as it would be to beam his face off, that would just kick the whole hive up at us." She sighs. "You sure know how to pick an enemy, lahna."
Garrett smirks. "Wouldn't be fun if it was easy. But I agree, we pick off the edges, cut his organization to pieces until it's small enough to swallow. And I think we already have a good first target. They seemed pretty pumped about those new weapons, we should find out where those are, strap a few pounds of C4 to them and take that advantage away."
Ngawai nods. "I'll arrange for Swims - er, well, someone to watch Naloni. We can head out tonight."
Zaef's jaw clenches, but that's it. He knows what sort of clout he carries with this man, and it is only a little more than the clout the Captain carries with him.
He turns to Hunter. "I'll talk to the troops, see what's what. Good luck."Then Zaef heads for the combined Bashkrai'i/Wherren/Sheen forces, to hear their grievances. They will no doubt be more tolerable to him than staying here.
The roughly twenty Bashakra'i in the group of about 50 off-worlders instantly jump to their feet and bow a salute to Zaef as he walks up, leading the Wherren to flash a nervous blue and yellow at his approach, and even the Sheen stand up a little straighter.
"Mr. Utari!" one of the Basharkra'i, Samal Akor, barks. "It's an honor to have you here. We could use your help knocking some sense into these Narsai'i."
A few of the Wherren nod, orange coming into their fur. "They have pushed us off to the side like we're cubs under foot," one of them grunts.
"It's fucking bullshit," one of the Sheen comments. "Fuck this noise, they don't know shit."
"In-fucking-deed," Samal Akor says with a nod.
threadbare wrote:
Hunter frowns. Well, it's not like I didn't predict this kind of bullshit. Let's see what's the latest with Uncle Sam's Misguided Children...
"Captain Martinez, what's the situation here? Is this a convoy call, or the intention for the entire operation?"
"'It's my call - and my company,'" Martinez replies. "'They came in acting like they run the show, and I can't have that attitude with my men. I'm holding to the order - but they can sit in the back until they're ready to be part of a team.'"
“’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?’”
"I do better than think, I know. I've worked with the best computer experts we have, and we've taken apart their code to the chip level and reworked it. I wasn't going to put something in my head I didn't own the source to." Luis tries a grin. "And I'm not recording you, I'm more interested in seeing what we can do to the enemy out there with your men."
"Still got alien shit in your brain," the captain says, keeping the map hiding his face from Luis. "You want to talk to the aliens, they're towards the back."
With the captain still hiding behind his map, Luis rolls his eyes. "Got it. What're your plans for working with them when we move?"
"They stay out of my way so we can do our job," he says.
Arketta sticks her tongue out at the captain and already starts walking off. Luis shakes his head and follows.
Arketta's mood brightens as you both walk up to the off-worlders. "Well, you all look relaxed."
The group's Samal stands up and bows to you both. "Narsai'i want to walk up front and catch all the beams for us, I'm not gonna complain."
"It's kinda bullshit," one of the Sheen says - its voice processors having settled on a high soprano sound. "Was looking forward to shooting some assholes. But with limited shells, maybe this isn't that bad. We'll get a few kills, I'm sure."
"There's plenty of assholes to go around," Arketta says with a nod.
Luis nods. "You'll get a chance to show them what you can do."
Arketta takes a seat on the back of a Sheen shell with its six legs splayed out in all directions. "Come here, Samal," she says, patting a spot next to her with a smile.
Luis walks over and sits down. "Is it odd I'm sort of waiting for the shooting to start so we can show that guy he's wrong?"
Arketta leans against Luis. "No," she says and gives him a peck. "But I'm waiting for the shooting to start because I want to shoot a few bad guys."
Luis sighs and stretches. "I'm sure there'll be plenty of that soon enough, dear."
"'It's my call - and my company,'" Martinez replies. "'They came in acting like they run the show, and I can't have that attitude with my men. I'm holding to the order - but they can sit in the back until they're ready to be part of a team.'"
Hunter is about to cuss a blue streak about interstellar incidents when something in the wording makes him pause: until they're ready to be part of a team... Recalling the discussion with Hale a few days prior, he wonders if, maybe there's something operational going on here beyond just xenophobia. If it is just that, well, at least he'll pull it out into the open with a bit more questioning.
Pursing his lips, he starts in: "They were trained to operate as a joint unit, and this operation is in trouble if that training isn't being followed. If it's a cultural thing, we can figure that out. If it's about how they understand the doctrine and interpret orders, that's something different. I need to know what happened, what your objections are, and what you'd need to be satisfied."
Pursing his lips, he starts in: "They were trained to operate as a joint unit, and this operation is in trouble if that training isn't being followed. If it's a cultural thing, we can figure that out. If it's about how they understand the doctrine and interpret orders, that's something different. I need to know what happened, what your objections are, and what you'd need to be satisfied."
Martinez grunts. "'Easy, they came in thinking they're gonna run the show. One of the Bashakrans came over and started to order my men around. I don't know what rank he is, but until he's got oak leaves on his chest, no one orders my men around.'" He rolls his gaze over to Hunter in a lazy arc. "Copy, Sir?'"
Zaef's scowl deepens and he nods in assent. "It's a load of shit, all right. What excuse have they used to shut you out?"
"The usual territorial scrofa shit," the Samal says. "This is their world, their men, we just need to stand where they tell us and not get in the way."
"Fucking..." Zaef shakes his head and triggers his vox. "Hunter, sounds like we're being shut out for all these usual reasons over here. I hope you've got a plan to tackle that tarentek that doesn't involve my usual brand of persuasion."
Hunter makes a quick gesture of "call coming through," and takes a few steps to relative privacy, at least enough for a sublingual conversation. He pushes the vox to ear (though not entirely necessary, gestures die hard), and listens to Zaef's transmission.
"I'm hearing a lot of chain-of-command stuff. Said a Bashakran of unknown rank came in and started ordering Marines around. Tarentek or not, we're gonna have issues with command structure. I think I can get them to play ball, but we need to be clear on who can give orders to whom, and how."
Zaef cups his hands over his face and takes a deep breath. Then another - it's shaping up to be a pretty long day.
"Alright, Hunter, let's give it a shot," Zaef says after let his hands fall to his sides. "I'll bring some representatives over, so everyone gets the bad news at once." And makes feel like we're all trying to play together here. "Our...friend," the emphasis making it clear that Zaef is referring to the Officer in Charge, "over there is aware that there's good odds that Naranai'i will be in the command structure somewhere, giving orders to his men, even if he's still the one in charge?"
"I don't think he's objecting to it in principle," Hunter yields. "His words were, 'until he's got oak leaves on his chest, no one orders my men around.' Chances are, nobody in the squad is a Rav-Samal. The structure we all agreed on, in exchange for a seat at the table in the big strategic discussions, is that Naranai'i units are grouped into the existing Marine companies. Our Friend The Captain is running the company, these units, not more than a few quads' worth, let's remind ourselves, are folded into it. Integrated operations, combined arms. He's probably going to let you handle your units as you see fit, but the samal over there was crossing the streams."
So, Hunter's leaning towards 'not a bigot.' That's a start.
"Probably was him, but let's not assume. Gimme a minute, I'll try to talk to the troops here." Zaef turns back towards the Samal. "Did you - or any of your troops, for that matter - try giving the Narsai'i troops any orders?"
Yeah, their shit was all fucked up, Mr. Utari," the Samal says. "No trins, formation all wrong. I was trying to sort them out when their Samal got a bug up his ass."
Zaef takes a deep breath through his nose, and lets it out. "Because if some asshole came up to you and yours and tried telling them how to do their jobs, you'd clap him on the back and say 'thanks.'"
The Samal blinks - well, Zaef assumes he does as the chrome helm freezes for a moment. "I would if I didn't know scrofa shit from spin-fusors." He starts to get animated. "I've seen the Narsai'i holos - they don't know war, not like we do. If they knew what they were doing, Botane wouldn't have happened - and I am not letting that happen to my Turai - or the Wherren or Sheen under my command. If that means we sit at the back while they get slaughtered...that's their fuckin' choice."
"War is not the same here on Narsai'i, Samal," Zaef replies. "No gates here, no Mantas, and we're carrying the only Kaukas on the planet. The troops you were dressing down have chemical throwers for weapons and heavy ceramic plates for armor - and the enemy we're fighting against here don't even have those. When we go through the Gate, Samal, we will be playing by the rules we know...mostly. But here, we're playing things their way." Zaef's voice flattens, his face impassive. "Because you don't know the difference between a civilian and a walking IED. And I have no intention of letting any of you - ANY of you - find out the hard way."
The Samal's helm stares at Zaef for a few seconds. "So you're telling me that we need to listen to the Narsai'i."
"Yes."
He sighs, and a few of the Bashakra'i and Sheen shake their heads. "Masters save us all. Fine. But we're staying at the back."
"That's your choice, Samal," Zaef says, and turns to walk back to Narsai'i Command, pulling up Hunter on the vox as he does so.
"Talked to the Samal - he doesn't really trust the Narsai'i strategy, and was trying to drill the men in the 'proper' forms. I talked him on-board, but not into liking it. And you're going to need to explain that 'crossing the streams' phrase to me, too. The more I think about it out of the context, the less sense it makes."
punkey
