In between Narsai’i training, Zaef isn’t exactly sitting still - there’s studying of all sorts to be done between the Narsai’i military stuff (boring, but necessary), the manuals on the car (less necessary, but much more interesting), and the updates from Garrett and Bello on what’s going on out there (boring and depressing, but necessary), spending time with Kitty, working on the car (which also counts as spending time with Kitty), and keeping himself at his usual physical state (with a bit extra on top for Kitty’s sake).

Speaking of the car, the work has now changed from disassembly to the slow process of repair. The engine - a solid block of iron that weighs even more than Zaef thought it would - is on a stand in the corner and covered with a cloth, and all the other parts are in boxes and leaned or stacked against the the wall, to make room for the current problem: the metal chassis of the car itself. Cleaning and disassembly had revealed the dreaded red menace - rust. Just a bit on a few spots underneath the car, but when Zaef saw it and gave it a knock, it gave the characteristic thud of through-and-through damage, not the clang of good metal. Zaef may still be somewhat ignorant when it comes to Narsai’i vehicle maintenance and care, but where he comes from, damage to the chassis is pretty much the death sentence of any vehicle, small or large. Fortunately, the rust is growing on the floor of the cabin, so he doesn’t need to try to replace the whole chassis, just the panels the rust is on. He might even be able to re-work the panels so they can still be used, but it’ll take a lot of work to make that rust disappear for good.

Which is the work of today’s garage session - bent over the bare floor panels with a plasma torch, cutting out the rusted sections for replacement with some nice and shiny new steel over in the corner. Over the humming of the air compressor and the hiss of the plasma torch, Zaef can hear the door open and close mid-cut outside the car.

“Just a second!” Zaef shouts. It takes him some time to shut off the torch safely and remove some of his protective gear, but soon he’s crawled out of the frame and walking over to the workbench, where Kitty is waiting for him. “Hey, how are you?” he says with a smile.
“Processed in a bunch of mold and bryophyte-like samples from Shenest today,” Kitty says with a smile as she leans in to give him a peck on the cheek. “So, pretty great.” She nods to the car. “Cutting out the floor panels?”
Zaef frowns. “Gotta get rid of that rust before it spreads. Got some sheets over there,” he points to the far wall, where the new metal gleams. “They’re the right thickness, and I’ve already marked where to cut so it’ll fit in the frame.”
“Good,” Kitty replies. She looks back up at Zaef. “Need any help?”
“Not yet, but I’d appreciate it if you help me move the new panels into the frame after they’ve been cut. Too big for me alone.”
Kitty nods, and looks over at the metal, then back to Zaef. “Can we...talk, first?”
“Oh, uh, of course!” Zaef sits down next to her and holds her hand. “What do you want to talk about?”
Kitty sits down next to Zaef and looks at him nervously. “Do...do you think I’m...I don’t know, tough or strong enough to fly with you? When you get a ship again? I just, I heard about the training and I’ve seen you teach the soldiers, and I look at them, and you, and the others on Task Force 815, and then I look at me, and even the one time I went out on a real mission I spent the whole time running away from everything, and I just...I’m afraid that I can’t hack it for real, when it’s time.” She squeezes Zaef’s hand. “What do you think?”
“Kitty,” Zaef says tenderly, “if flying was all about being strong and tough I certainly wouldn’t have lasted long. When you fly, you gotta be able to bring something to the table. For some, it’s being strong or tough. For others, it’s about being able to fit in tight spaces. Some can pilot, some can keep it fixed, some can keep the crew fixed...There’s lots to do on a ship, and fighting...fighting’s just a small part of it.” Zaef rubs her hand with his, and he grins a little. “So stop comparing yourself to men and women who’ve spent half their lives learning to fight. You’ve got your own strengths, you don’t need to copy others to get a place on a ship.”
“But it would be better if I started trying,” Kitty says.
“What makes you say that?”
“Because things can get dangerous out there, right?” Kitty says. “And things happen. We both know that things can happen out there.”
Zaef looks away from Kitty for the first time. “...Yeah.”
Kitty wraps her arms around Zaef. “And I don’t want you to worry - and I don’t want to worry. I want to pull my weight - both metaphorically and literally. I think that I have to do this.”
Zaef pulls her closer. “I can help you - but not because you have to. You have to want it.”
Kitty nods, and buries her face into his deltoid. “I want it, Zaef. I want to be ready to go out there.”
Zaef is silent for a minute. “Okay,” he whispers, setting his head down next to hers. “But I’m gonna worry anyway.”
Kitty smiles and plants a kiss on Zaef’s cheek. “And...there’s one more thing. I...might have told my parents about you.”
“How did they react?”
“They were happy!” Kitty says, her arms tightening around Zaef a hair. “They were really happy to find out that...that...we’re committed to be married.”
Zaef seems puzzled for a second, then his eyes widen and his mouth hangs ajar. He sits up straight, dragging Kitty up with him as he does so. “Kitty, are you...proposing?”
Kitty lets Zaef go, her own mouth agape. “Oh! No! Not if you - I mean, I just - I mean, they figured out that...that we’re sleeping together, and my parents, they’re very traditional, and when they guessed that you and I have had sex, they just assumed, and I - I didn’t want to disappoint them, so I…” Kitty cringes. “I might have lied to them. About us.”
Zaef stares at Kitty for...well, it feels longer than a minute. Then he lets out a booming laugh, and he squeezes Kitty’s hand. “Not if you say ‘yes,’” Zaef says, smirking, eyes glinting.
Kitty’s eyes go even wider, and even though Zaef can tell she knows what he means, she still looks confused. “Uh...it wasn’t...I mean, I didn’t mean to put you on the spot, Zaef…” she mumbles as she stares into his eyes.
“Not because I have to, Kitty,” Zaef says, smirk growing. “I want it. Will you marry me, Kitty Cavanaugh?”
Kitty’s jaw hangs open as Zaef’s question slowly works its way through to her brain. Zaef can tell when it finally lands - she blinks a few times, and then her mouth slowly closes. “Yes,” she whispers, so quietly Zaef can barely hear she said anything at all.
“Sorry, what was that?”
Kitty nods slowly. “Yes, Zaef,” she says, still stunned, but at least audible this time. Tears are rolling down her cheeks; they’re just about the only things in motion on her body. “I…I will marry you.”
Zaef’s smile dies a little, slowly shifts into something more vulnerable. His hand caresses her cheek, his thumb wipes her tears away. “Are...are you okay? Please don’t cry.”
Kitty slowly brings a hand up to caress Zaef’s, her thumb rubbing against the back of his hand. “I...I just...I can’t...I…” Words fail her, and she just launches herself at Zaef, her embrace knocking him backwards into the car, where she simply holds onto him as tightly as she can, her cheek resting against his as she cries, overcome with emotion.
Zaef just wraps his arms around her, stroking her. As her sobs start to die down, he leans up, cranes his head towards hers, and kisses her.
Kitty returns the kiss, and with one final sniffle, relaxes and simply lies on top of him. As he continues to stroke her back, Kitty finally speaks up again. “We’ll have to get a ring. I told them we had one.”

Another busy day at Mesas Negras has turned into a lazy evening on Whiirr, and Hug’sh has retreated to his little corner beside the village school. Although the advanced hour makes the shade of the trees somewhat unnecessary, it’s still a quiet little corner for Hug’sh to relax in, and the trees do provide very convenient anchor points for his newest possession: a very large hammock. This is where Hug’sh lies, a blanket underneath him, a leather flask of cold water dangling over his head, and his daughter Torega snuggled on top of his belly. Perfection. Hug’sh squints up at the falling sun, then gently raises his right hand and strokes it across Torega’s back. Torega purrs contently and rolls over; Hug’sh gently scritches her belly with his claws.

”What did you learn at school today?” Hug’sh asks - hopefully quietly enough not to wake Torega if she’s actually asleep.
”Numbers, and we read a book,” Torega replies, stretching her arms out to the side as she rolls over again and buries her muzzle in Hug’sh’s fur. ”It was about building a hab.”
”Hm!” Hug’sh rumbles, stroking Torega’s head. ”So how do you build a hab? Can you tell me?”
Torega sits up and gives Hug’sh a nod. ”First, you make the frame, then you...you put on the outside, and then you put in the inside, and then you move in!”
Hug’sh chuckles at that. ”That doesn’t sound so hard,” Hug’sh says.
Torega thinks for a second, yellow and green fading in and out on her fur. ”How did they build you?” she asks.
Hug’sh thinks about that, a little blue bleeding into his sea of green. ”I don’t understand all the details,” he says. ”Basically, they grew this body really fast in a few days, and then they put my mind into it. I slept through the whole thing. When I woke up, I was like this.”
”What’s your mind?” Torega asks, a finger wrapped around one of her tusks.
”You know, my thoughts, my memories, my feelings,” Hug’sh says. ”I look different, but I’m still me, yes? That part is my mind.”
”But you aren’t you, you’re like me now,” Torega says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. ”You were small and pink and didn’t have colors and smelled funny and didn’t have tusks and now you have all of those things.”
”But that’s just how I look,” Hug’sh says. ”I still love you and Rhea, I still remember all the things I did when I was a human. There’s a part of me that has changed and a part that is still the same, yes?”
Torega nods, finger still wrapped around her tusk.
Hug’sh pats her on the head. ”And that’s how it is,” he says.
Torega shuffles about a little, rubbing her legs through Hug’sh’s fur. ”Then what is not the same?”
”I’m big and strong now,” Hug’sh says, ”so I can protect you better. And I have colors now...so you can see how much I love you, Torega.” His entire fur lights up in vivid shades of green and yellow.
Torega’s eyes light up as she copies Hug’sh’s pattern as best she can. She bends over and licks Hug’sh’s chest in excitement and lets out a bark of glee. Hug’sh answers it with a deep bellow, letting Torega feel the vibrations in his chest, then puts a hand on her back and gently rubs it while he stretches his muzzle forward to groom the top of her head. Torega just leans into it as Hug’sh scratches her little hump, her tongue lolling out as she closes her eyes and purrs. This would be a little weird, Hug’sh thinks, just before a big smile spreads over his face. If I was human. With a deep, soft purr, he runs his tongue along the side of Torega’s face, flicking the tip over her little nubby tusk.

When Hug’sh lets up, Torega sits back up wipes the side of her muzzle that her tongue was hanging out on with the back of her hand. ”When are we moving into a hab?” she asks.
Hug’sh thinks about that. ”Well, first we need to find a good place for it. Then we need to ask Hiigra and the others if it’s okay to build there. Then we need to plan how big it will be, where the rooms are, how it’s going to look. Then we need to find people who will helps us build it. Then we’ll have to build it, and then...then we can move in. But that’s still some time away, Torega.”
”Why?” she whines, bringing her knees in to sit entirely on Hug’sh’s broad chest.
”Oof!” Hug’sh says. ”Because these things take time to do right, Torega. We want to live in that hab for a long time, yes? Then it should be as good as we can make it.”
”But I want to live with you and mother now,” Torega whines. ”I liked it better when you were here all the time.”
”So do I,” Hug’sh says, stroking her back again. ”And I’m here as often as I can. But my friends need me, too.” He gently grabs Torega by her armpits and lifts her up to sit a little closer to his head, letting him rub his muzzle on her head. ”We’ll have our hab, Torega. You and Rhea and I.”
”But when?”
Hug’sh sighs. ”My friends and I, we’ll soon be going to a place on Narsai called Afghanistan. I’ll be away for two months, and I won’t be able to come home while I’m there. But when I’m back, we’ll start building our hab, Torega. I promise.
Torega turns a deep blue. ”No!” she cries. ”You have to stay here with me and mother and my friends and protect us.”
The blue bleeds into Hug’sh fur as he tries to comfort his daughter. ”I can’t let my friends go without me,” Hug’sh says. ”And I am doing this to protect you, and Rhea, and everyone else. You know I would love nothing more than to stay here, Torega. But I made a promise to my friends and I need to keep it.”
”Was it a big promise?” Torega asks.
Hug’sh nods. ”It was a very big promise,” he says. ”Do you understand?”
Torega nods, but the blue doesn’t fade.
”I’m so sorry, fuzzball, that’s how it has to be,” Hug’sh says. ”I’ll vox you any chance I get, and you’ll see, I’ll be back before you know it. Now, this is going to be very hard for Rhea, too, so I want you to be a good girl and help her any way you can. Okay?”
Torega nods. ”How?”
”Stay on top of your schoolwork,” Hug’sh says. ”Piugash says you work hard, so keep at it. There’s still so much you can learn about this world. Play nice with the other cubs - and look out for the younger ones, too. And do what your mother tells you. Rhea only wants what’s best for you, just like me. I know that sometimes it’s not fun to do what we say, but it is for the best.” He licks her again. ”You’re the best daughter we could wish for, Torega. I know you’ll do just fine.”
Torega nods again. ”Okay. Piugash and Sijet said that you and Rhea will have cubs soon. Is that true?”
Hug’sh temporarily goes full canary before settling down into mottled patches of blue and yellow, with just a hint of orange on his face. ”Oh, ah,” he begins, then sighs slowly. ”It is true, yes. We will try to have more cubs. It will take a while, though - maybe this year still, but it might be the next.” As he gets his colors back under control, he strokes Torega’s back again. ”Would you like that? Some little brothers or sisters?”
Torega’s eyes light up. ”Yes!” she barks.
Hug’sh chuckles at that. ”Yes, you’ll be their big sister,” he says softly. ”You’ll teach them all the things we grown-ups don’t know about anymore. But one step after another. Afghanistan, a hab of our own, then the cubs. We have a lot of exciting things to look forward to, yes?”
Torega nods, but then purple starts to shade into her fur. ”You’ll keep them safe?”
Hug’sh turns yellow again, but the brilliant red fringes show that this is determination, not surprise. ”I will,” he says. ”Don’t you worry, Torega. There’s not a thing in this world that can stand in my way when it comes to protecting this family. Anybody who tries...they’ll have a really, really bad day.”
”The worst,” Torega grunts, and leans forward to groom Hug’sh’s muzzle for a moment, before laying flat on his chest, rubbing her muzzle against his chest. Her violet fades back to her green and yellow pattern for her father, whose colors ripple out to mirror hers, like a stone cast into a lake. With a gentle push, he brings her up even higher on his chest, in easy reach of his tongue, and starts to groom her, his deep breaths, warmth and the soft touch of his tongue soon lulling her to sleep.

It’s been two months of training on the range, at the killhouses and in the classroom for the Narsai’i and Bashakra’i, and now it’s time for something momentous, at least for the Narsai’i - full immersion training. Over on Atea, temporary housing has been put together by the main Turai training blocks for the other side of the cross-training concept. Zero-G combat, fighting in spaceships, equipment and technique drills, and most importantly as far as Garrett is concerned, cultural immersion. Half the time allotted for “training” is slated to be dedicated to getting out and existing in a Naranai’i culture - with all of the Narsai’i at least basically conversant in Imperial, this is the time to do it before the final exam.

So, to that end, the Narsai’i and Bashakra’i are assembled underneath the concrete slab roof of the Gateport, waiting for their Gateway window. Somewhere close to but not quite in the middle of that crowd are Sergeants Boyd Kravitz and Alexander Danielsson, with their Bashakra’i buddies Shenloma and Leaj in close proximity. Danielsson in particular has parked his butt on his stuffed backpack and wears a slight grin as he flips the pages in a small calendar in his left hand, while his thumb plays with the cap of a red marker in his right hand.
“’And that makes an even 1,000,’” Danielsson mutters, crossing out the day in the calendar. Boyd just nods as he turns a page in the rare book he’s holding in his hands - a printed version of a Bashakra’i serial - while Shenloma and Leaj give him a curious look. “One-thousand?” Shenloma asks.
“Yeah,” Danielsson answers, flicking the calendar closed. “A thousand days left on my contract. I’ve been on the right side of my eight years for a while now, but even numbers lift my spirits. Feels like a proper milestone.” He looks to Boyd. “And how are we passing the time?”
“Qubo Vuket serial,” Boyd replies as he raises the book. “Bashakra’i spy novel.”
Leaj nods. “It’s a fun series.” She tilts her head. “Where did you get the physical copy?”
“Holoni had them print some of her favorites,” Boyd replies.
Leaj nods, while Shenloma keeps his attention on Danielsson. “What are you planning on doing once you are released from Narsai’i service?” he asks. Leaj shakes her head, but says nothing.
“I don’t know yet,” Danielsson admits. “I’ll call a strike mission on that bridge when I get to it. I don’t plan on remembering the first week after ETS, though. I’m gonna get fucking blitzed.”
Boyd gives another sage nod, while Shenloma just gives Leaj a look, which she replies to with a shrug. Then something grabs her attention, and she slaps Shenloma on the shoulder. “Samal Quis is up at the front.” The other three - and the rest of the human trainees - turn their attention just in time for Arkana to speak up.

“Platoon, line up!” Arketta barks, and waits patiently as the humans get themselves into ranks, then continues. “Today, some of you will be going home for the first time in two months. And some of you will be leaving Narsai behind for the first time in your lives! This little field trip to Atea is not just about training you Narsai’i in how fighting really works out there - it’s about seeing if any of you learned more than how to ask where the toilets are without getting your asses kicked!” A laugh goes around the group - the Bashakra’i a bit more than the Narsai’i. “But there will be ground rules! Expectations! And objectives! First, the fun part - what you’re going to be expected to do while you’re there. Samal Quis?” Arketta asks, turning towards her mother who is standing off to one side.

“Thank you, Samal,” Arlana replies, and takes her daughter’s place. Her helm is tucked under her arm, and her carapace’s freshly polished surface gleams in the hints of sunlight making their way into the bunker. “Trainees! This is first and foremost a training exercise - not a vacation! You will be quartered in barracks in Onna Ward, and the same curfew applies there as it does here! Back in quarters by 2200, lights out at 2300! You will conduct yourself with the utmost respect at all times - and that includes you Bashakra’i!” Another laugh - this one more from the Narsai’i. “Training will include, but not be limited to: zero-g combat, both ranged and hand-to-hand! Entering and clearing ships! An introduction to hard vacuum - that’s right, we’re sticking your asses in space! And more weapons and tactics familiarization! And then there is the other objective, acculturation! You will be given plenty of leave - but do not expect to sit around the barracks all day! Day trips to shopping arcades, academies and operations on Atea will be organized daily and excursions out into the worldship are mandatory! Bashakra’i, your job is to guide and show your Narsai’i buddies how life off of their rock works! Narsai’i, your job is to respectfully and completely absorb every possible fucking bit of experience and knowledge you can to bring back to said rock!” Arlana surveys the group. “Any questions?”
“No, Ma’am!” the trainees bark.
“Then I will let Mr. Utari, our representative for the Bashakra’i, take the stage, and explain to you the rules and laws that you need to know on Atea, as well as what tours he will specifically be providing,” Arlana says, and steps to the side.
Zaef nods, and steps up to take Arlana’s place. “Alright, some of you are probably wondering if I’m going to run you through the whole list of laws, completely untranslated from the original lawyer-language. Fortunately for everyone here, I don’t have to. Most things are the same. If it’s a crime on Narsai, it’s a crime on Atea. Don’t steal, don’t beat someone up, don’t provoke anyone into trying to beat you up; just don’t be an ass, and you won’t get in trouble.
“There are, however, some concessions you’re going to have to make, living on what is essentially a city-sized spaceship for a while. Some of you, I notice, like smoking tobacco. I’m sorry, but smoking anything on Atea isn’t allowed. We enforce that heavily, since it screws up the systems that recycles our oxygen. So, please don’t smoke, or everyone in the sector, yourself included, will suffocate to death.
“Speaking of which, well, everything is recycled there out of simple necessity, including the water. As a result, you might be punished for littering more that you’re used to here, though it’s nothing harsh, like if you tried to smoke. Just play nice and throw everything into the marked bins, and don’t complain about the way the tap water tastes. Any questions?”
There’s no questions from anyone, so Zaef continues. “Well, then, last of all I’ll be the one handling the trips where you look at our internal operations, see how we do things, even meet with some of the higher-ups. During these excursions, it goes without saying that you’ll be on your best fucking behavior or your next trip will be to ‘volunteer’ at the fertilizer recycling center, and your job will be to literally rummage through shit. Are we clear?”
That gets an enthusiastic response. “Yes, Sir!”
“I’m glad we understand each other. Now, I believe Davis has something to say to you all.” With that, Zaef steps down.

Garrett, Ngawai - and Naloni, awake and tugging at her mother’s top from inside her sling - step up onto the stage next. “Ngawai and I will be organizing the other cultural immersion events on Atea. And I do mean events - on top of getting out of the barracks, there’s two manditory events scheduled.” The Bashakra’i groan at that - not that the Narsai’i are thrilled, either. “Yes, yes, but it’s the price we all pay for getting to blow things up in the desert for two months. The first is the day after we arrive, a simple meet-and-greet with Bashakra’i and Bashakra’i Turai leadership. But the other one is open to the public, a ‘get to know your new allies’ event. There’s a lot of misinformation and fear on the other side of the Gateway, even amongst our allies - they get Fox News, too.” A few chuckles come up from the Narsai’i at that. “This is our chance to show them that most of the Narsai’i are good, decent and tolerant people, not the screaming maniacs on television, understood?”
“Yes, Sir!” the ranks bark.
“Good,” Garrett says, and stands aside for his wife.
“And here are the rules for the unstructured visits,” Ngawai says. “They’re very simple: You are the responsibility of three people while on Atea: Garrett, Zaef and myself. When you want to go out, you have to check in with one of us. If you do not, you will be considered AWOL, and we’ll let the Bashakra’i Turai deal with you. Trust me, that is not fun. Other than that, if the Kansatai let you go somewhere, you can go there.” She looks over the group with a harsh glare. “And, I’ll say this again: hiding in your barracks is not what this trip is for. I know it’s going to be strange for you Narsai’i - that’s the point. Bashakra’i, I know the Narsai’i are going to be awkward and maybe embarrassing at times - but look at it from their perspective. They are going into a culture that none of them have any reference for besides the Bashakra’i here today. They are going to need your help going with the flow and understanding what’s going on - help your buddies, don’t abandon them. Understood?”
“Yes, Ma’am!” the ranks reply.

“Good,” Ngawai says, and yields the spot to Garrett.
“And that’s all there is to it,” Garrett says. “Our Gateway window is in five minutes - take your seasickness pills if you want, keep your barf bags handy, and Bashakra’i, try to help your buddies through the Gateway - I’m sure you all remember your first time, too.”

Behind the scenes of any large production, be it a movie, theme park or military exercise - and there are elements of all three at play with the Sheen village - is an equally large group of people working to maintain that illusion. Most of the Bashakra’i and Narsai’i playing parts at the village are there for the whole month, which means food, water, power and communications all have to be coordinated, many of the Bashakra’i are still working their real jobs back on Atea, so that has to be taken care of, and, of course, there’s the operation itself. Resupply convoys, secret “insurgent” smuggling routes, fake traffic moving through the village, the actions of the locals and insurgents, it all has to be run and coordinated step by step according to The Script, a massive binder filled with well over two-hundred pages of laminated sheets that only two people have direct access to - Angel himself, and his assistant Erika, who more or less runs the show whenever Angel is busy with Kesh Holdings or Faxom-Io business, which is relatively often.

Not today, however. Today is a day that Angel had color-coded as a Big Day, one to definitely not miss: the day of the first major assault by the insurgency. There’s a lot to do, and not a lot of time to do it in, and so it’s all hands on deck in the command tent - a large encampment tent, filled with folding tables covered with charts, procedures, communications gear and computers, and even a half-dozen whiteboards with notes, maps and tables stuck to them for good measure. Two dozen people all more-or-less fit inside, and at the center of it all is the command table, with chairs for two.
Erika stands next to Angel in said table, her Eddie Bauer Collection attire looking considerably less off-the-shelf after a few weeks of desert living. “Mau’s unit has the pyro for the bombs wired up, and Hamai reports her group’s ready for the big light show at the village square.”
Angel nods to Erika, a slight grin on his face. “Still no regrets about leaving Wall St. to put on your very own production of ‘Hails of gunfire’?” He flips over the script, reading the typeset version of musings on the operation laid out over weeks, in the seats of comfortable private planes, the back of skimmers, and the occasional flat rock in the middle of the desert.
“We get the refugee route ironed out?”
“Hamai left a nice big gap for the villagers scheduled to leave to run out through, and the trucks are standing by in the motor pool,” Erika replies.

“Perfect. Have you grabbed lunch yet?”
Erika raises a plastic-wrapped sandwich. “Smoked turkey with Edam, courtesy of the Kesh Holdings skimmer.”
Angel smirks, shaking his head. “I suppose the open-ended expense account does have to have some benefits. I think we’re all set then.”
Erika nods, and takes a seat. The two lead officers for the charade - Rav-Samal Oama for the Bashakra’i, and Captain Goin for the Narsai’i - stand at a table nearby, looking Angel’s way for orders.
Angel closes the binder for a moment, turning to the two officers - and their assembled, and fairly extensive staff. “Gentlemen...I believe you have a village to take?”
“I fucking hope not,” Oama jokes with a smirk. “I’d hate to have to explain to my wife that I spent two weeks on Narsai for nothing.”
“Because we all know how well Bashakra’i women respond to things done half-heartedly.”
Oama laughs back, while poor Captain Goin simply smiles and tries to pretend he knows what is going on. “Indeed we do.” Oama taps the vox on his ear. “Mau, Hamai, we’re on the clock.”
Goin turns to the radio setup on his desk. “Attention all units, countdown starts now,” he says into the microphone.

Angel nods, sitting down and putting his feet up on the desk, turning to look at Erika. “And did we bring enough to share with the class?”
Erika raises an eyebrow at Angel, and then pulls a second sandwich out of the cooler and tosses it to Angel.
“Corned Beef. Probably worth the several hundred dollars it cost to get it out here. Well done.”

Luis is grabbing his own lunch in a working meeting with Grey Goo Scenario and Hallelujah It's Raining Blood, reviewing the village’s security arrangements in response to the latest round of minor attacks. Nothing has happened to the level of the major assault on the charging stations five days ago, but a combination of minor street attacks with beamers and hand explosives have kept the Sheen on their toes. He slurps at a bowl of spicy Bashakra’i noodles from the market as he studies the hologram picture of the village.
“All right,” he says. “I think those suggestions on new patrol routes look good. Still nothing we can trace on these raids?”
“Nope, fuckers keep disappearing by the time we get a shell overhead,” Hal replies. “We’ve been running some algorithms looking for commonalities in attack areas to try to find the people we need to shoot in the -” Hal stops itself and sighs. “That we need to bust and arrest, but nothing’s popped up yet. It sucks a big hairy nut, but we need them to attack us more before that method pans out.”
“And Grinder and the other aerial shells are seeing too many shots fired at them to put more than a few more up before we start getting our aerial shells shot down too often for our repair suites to keep up,” Grey adds.
“So they’re stopping us from seeing them coming,” Luis says. “How’s everyone feeling about that? I feel like I’ve been hearing more grumbling on my inspections.”
“There is some...dissatisfaction,” Grey says diplomatically.
“That’s putting it fucking lightly,” Hal continues. “Look, we get what you’re doing - we gotta learn how to deal with fighting squishies when we’re not allowed to just kill everyone - but...this fucking sucks. I mean, what’s with the bullshit pretending this is real? And all the hide-and-seek bullshit? What was wrong with the killhouses?” Hal mimes another deep breath - for something that doesn’t need to breathe, the Sheen sure do feel the need for dramatic pauses for breath. “I am on your side, Stanhill. I get it, we all get it - well, almost all of us do. Nose is still being a whiny bitch about it. But...it still sucks. Don’t expect us to sit through this shit and enjoy it.”
Luis nods. “I’m not asking you to enjoy it, that’s not really the point. I’ll tell you, when I was doing this for real, I didn’t particularly enjoy having people trying to blow me up or shoot me for real. I just need everyone to hold together, stay focused, and do their best.”
The reminder that Luis did this for real, with people shooting real bullets, sobers up Hal a fair bit, and Grey’s sensor pods nod in agreement. “...right,” Hal says. “Yeah, you’re right.” He pauses. “It still sucks.”
“No kidding,” Luis says. “And it’s because it sucks that I was asking. It can do some pretty bad things to you, and even with this just being an exercise, we need to keep an eye out for them.” He looks from Goo’s sensors to Hal’s, then back. “I’d just like your help--all the Sheen’s help--in making sure that when things go down, or when we do this for real, everyone will be at their best. Understood?”
“Understood,” Grey says with a sensor bob.
“Got it,” Hal says.
“Good,” Luis says. He holds the gaze for a moment longer, then nods, and takes another bite of his noodles. “Okay, so where are we with supplies? Are we all right on spares for the shell repairs we’ve been doing?”
“We’re doing all right, but we need more actuators and plating -” Grey says, but stops dead mid-sentence.

Before Luis’ slow meat brain can process the pause, a loud blast rumbles the table his holodisplay is sitting on and shakes the walls of the command tent. “IED blast hit the east patrol, three shells are down!” Traumatic Brain Injury calls over the vox network - mostly for Luis’ benefit.
Grey is on it right away. “Get reinforcements over there to clear the area and -” More blasts sound from two other directions - north and west. “Two more IEDs, north and west, seven shells are down.”
“Shit,” Hal replies. “I’ll take the reserves from the charging stations and run the sweep.”
“Do it,” Grey says. “Everyone else, hunker down in position and wait for further orders - Nose, get Hana and the town leaders to the command tent, now.”
“Already on it,” Nose replies over the vox.
Grey looks Luis’ way. “Anything I’m missing?”
“South patrol, watch your backs,” Luis says. “Then let’s do a bomb sweep, and make sure we’re secure here at command.”
Grey nods, and a small forest of sensor antennae slide out of its back. “On that,” it says, and gallops out of the tent, followed by Hal, galloping off on its six legs to lead the sweep of the attacked areas, leaving Luis alone in the command tent for the moment.
What’re you throwing at us this time, Angel, Luis wonders, then calls up his vox to report the “attack.”
“Command, Village Alpha reporting an attack in progress.”

“Village Alpha, this is Command…” Angel’s voice is steady and faintly officious over the vox, the connection crystal clear thanks to improved digital signaling. He didn’t miss radios in the least. “What’s your situation?”
“Patrols have been ambushed, we have ten shells down,” Luis says. “We’re sweeping our locations and seeing if there’s another wave coming.”
“Confirmed. Vox in when you have a fix on the situation - fire support is standing by.”
“Roger, will do. Over.” Luis clicks off the vox line, and paces, needing to do something to work off the energy caused by the adrenaline pumping through his veins. Switching back to the Sheen tactical channel, he’s all business. “Status?”
“Sweep is running,” Hal replies. “Nothing yet.”
“Found one charge, neutralizing now,” Grey replies. Before Luis can respond, a loud BANG can be heard from outside - not an explosion, but something heavy slamming into something very quickly. “Neutralized.”
“All right. Grey, how’s the perimeter?”
“Clear for the -” A burst of beamer fire from nearby interrupts Grey. “Cancel that, returning fire.”
More beamer fire sounds out in the distance - from multiple directions - followed by the more sharp staccato of accelerator shots. “We’ve got bad guy contact!” Hal calls out. “All squads reporting contact!”
“How many, and where?” Luis says.
“We’ve got a dozen here at least!” Hal replies. “Squads 4 through 10 are reporting similar contact - they’re fucking everywhere!” Despite being under heavy fire, the Sheen doesn’t sound scared - more excited.
“Command can provide fire support if you need it. Can you hold in the meantime?”
“Shit yeah!” Hal replies.
“All right, Grey, what’s the story on the perimeter?”
“Some light resistance,” Grey replies. “But that could change fairly quickly. Grinder?”
“Yep?” Grinder replies.
“Patch a view tuned to beamer emissions to Command,” Grey orders. “Nose, status?”
“Shit is getting hairy, and the fleshbags are looking awfully squishy right now!” Nose shouts.
“All right, Hal, send two shells to reinforce Nose,” Grey replies. “This isn’t the time to piss them off anymore than we already have by getting them killed.”
“Grinder, run me the same feed you’re sending Command,” Luis says.
“Can do,” Grinder replies, and window blinks in the corner of Luis’ vision. A haptic later, and it slides into “full screen”, more or less, and fills Luis’ field of view. From its perspective far overhead, the village is rendered in rough black-and-white images, just enough to tell what’s a building, what’s a skimmer, and what’s a person. Blue streaks run all over the image from single points - that must be the beamer fire, the distinctive emissions highlighting the firing positions of anyone with a beamer.
“Can we identify friend or foe a bit better on here?” Luis asks.
“Sure thing,” Grinder says, and an instant later green wireframe outlines of all the Sheen appear on the image - and Luis for good measure.
“Anything we can tell about which of those beamers might be friendly, or just people defending themselves?” Luis asks, studying the locations of the shooters, then looking for the rest of the villagers.
“Sure, if they agreed to have some kind of tracker beacon - oh wait we tried that,” Grinder replies. “So, nope.”
“All right,” Luis says. “Grey, what’s your evaluation of this?”
“We use the overhead to target sweeps - but we don’t just level the buildings that fire is coming from, and we don’t just come in and shoot everyone,” Grey says over the wide tactical channel.
“Aww man, this fucking sucks,” Nose grouses.
“I knew you were a fucking sellout,” Grinder opines.
“You heard the bot,” Hal replies. “Squads of two, check out each map, stay in groups of four as long as you can.” Some more grousing over the tactical net, but they all break off into groups in Luis’ overhead view. Luis, meanwhile, scans the perimeter on the display, in case this is a plan to try and spread them out then hit them in detail. He’s trying to just advise, and let Grey and the other Sheen run the show themselves so they can learn, but it’s hard to see the people shooting on the display and not want to do everything he can. He can still tell where the people are in the overhead shot - and a stream of people are pouring into the hole left in the defenses by the attack, both in and out.
“Grinder, can you get me better imagery on the mass moving in the south?” Luis asks.
“Yeah, sure,” Grinder says, and flips the visual to show in real color, with highlights to show motion. “Lots of meatsacks running away - probably not a bad idea, let the big boys handle shit.”
“All right,” Luis says. “Looks like refugees, yeah.”
“Yeah, looks like,” Grinder replies, and flips the visuals back. “Boring!”
“Let’s hope it stays that way,” Luis says, and turns his focus to the Sheen clearing buildings.

Angel sits at the command table, a half-consumed mug of coffee by his side as he scribbles annotations in ‘The Binder’, and on the largeish map that represents the overall progress of the exercise. The page he turns to has a rather ominous scribble of “clusterfuck” with a red circle around it in one of the margins.

“Lt. Aiken!” Angel calls for the Narsai’i attache who has the unfortunate distinction of being the bearer of bad news. “Next incoming or outgoing communication to Command, turn off anything that doesn’t have a Sheen security algorithm running on it.” Next, he produces a sealed manila envelope, handing it over to Rav-Turai Areph, Aiken’s Bashakra’i opposite. “This was taken by a...sympathetic member of the local populous. It has the rough locations, and photos, of a number of the Sheen’s remaining shell staging areas and charging stations. See that it makes it to the insurgents.”
Both peons nod and get on with their assignments - Aiken relaying the game plan to the relevant communications officers, and Areph snapping a quick series of images with his vox and firing it off to the “insurgents” in the village.

Angel closed the binder again, updating the map with a few more annotations, notably about where the insurgents now knew, or believed they knew, the Sheen staging posts were located. The twin pressures of needing everything routed over the Sheen networks, and having their one major limiting resources under attack should prove enough of a challenge - for now.
“And Aiken? Make sure the fireworks are prepped. I’m pretty sure we’re going to be getting more urgent requests to Command soon.”

----

Luis’ vision flips back and forth across the overhead drone feed, following the return strikes against the various groups of “insurgents” attacking the village. All three fronts look to be going well - the insurgents are falling back, and the Sheen are organized and fighting on line. Then, all of a sudden, he’s kicked out of the overhead feed and back to the feed from his ocular implants. The audio buzz of the Sheen feeds vanishes from the inside of his head at the same moment. Luis grimaces, blinking for a moment as his brain catches up to the drastic optical switch--the comms disruption is almost certainly Angel’s doing. Figured it couldn’t just be this easy, he thinks.
“Grey, can you hear me?” Luis asks over his vox, leaving his office and heading for the last reported position of the Sheen. Scanning across the vox channels fails to yield anything--it looks like his vox connection with the Sheen is being “jammed” across the board. Of course it would be, Angel’s thorough, Luis thinks as he shoulders his rifle. “Guess we’ll just have to do this face to face,” he muses.
Luis steps outside to see Grey standing in the middle of the small tent-based square that forms the center of the “allied base” at the training village. Only one sensor pod is moving, moving in a quick circle around it, while the rest of the shell is stock still.
Not a good sign, Luis thinks. He hustles closer to the Sheen, keeping an eye around them. If the detachment is immobilized somehow…well, best to find out what’s actually going on. As he steps closer, the pod pauses momentarily in its sweep to face him, then continues scanning.
“Grey?” Luis says. “Can you hear me? Give me another pause for yes.”
“Or I could just say yes,” Grey replies, the lone mobile pod not pausing. “I know we’ve been knocked off vox, but they’ll have to try harder than that to take our data streams offline. Do you want an update?”
“Yeah,” Luis says. “Sorry, just was trying to cover my bases.”
“Attackers have fallen back and been contained to one area per side, well away from anything sensitive or valuable,” Grey replies. “It’s all over but for the mopping up.”
“Hmmm,” Luis says. “If they can jam any of our comms, you’d think they’d have done it sooner. Anything feel wrong?”
There’s a momentary pause. “The trin escorting Hana and the rest of the council back here are having a bumpy time of it, they’re nowhere near the fight but picking up fire from the east,” Grey replies.
“Do we have eyes on the shooters?” Luis asks.
“They’re more towards the northeast,” Grey replies. “Moving away from -”

A giant geyser of dust shoots into the air - a special effect, thankfully, a blast that big wouldn’t have been safe no matter how you cut it. A few seconds later, a second one goes up. “Fuck!” Grey shouts, but remains completely still save its vigilant sensor pod. Luis, for his part, flinches--for just a moment, there’s a Humvee flying through a different dust cloud, but then he pulls himself back.
“Anybody down?” he shouts, his pulse pounding.
“Not yet,” Grey replies, its voice suddenly much more serious. “That was two of our charging bay areas and servers going offline. We’re down to one, I’m directing all available forces to protect it.”
“Make sure to bomb sweep,” Luis says.
“Already done,” Grey replies.
“Are we able to keep up pressure on the pockets while we reinforce that last station?” Luis asks.
“Maybe, but I’m putting a higher priority on keeping my people alive at the moment,” Grey replies tersely.
“Do what you can to at least keep them engaged,” Luis says. “If they can shake loose, they can get into us while we’re still regrouping.”
“Got it,” Grey replies.
“Anywhere that could use another gun on the line?” Luis asks Grey.
“Pick a place,” Grey says. A moment later, two accelerators slide out of its back. “Shit, if you’re gonna go, I have to go. So, let’s go.”
“Charging station,” Luis says. “We’ll help hold there. Let’s move.” Waiting just a moment for Grey to follow, he moves out.

The “green zone” for the village is in a smaller square just south of the main square, and so it’s just a half-dozen blocks away to the charging station. Luis can clearly hear the whap of beamers and the crack of accelerator fire already, but the Zen-like state of moving through the village streets is suddenly and rudely interrupted by two whaps of weapons fire splashing against the building between him and Grey, from his right. Luis fires a couple quick shots back that way to try and give the shooters something to think about, and tries to find some cover, while Grey fires a good deal more than a few shots.
“Serves you right!” Grey shouts. “Get behind me!”
Luis falls in, and sneaks a quick look at the direction the shots came from. “You see where they are?”
Several more beamer shots flash and spark off of Grey’s black metal carapace, and he can see five or six people in Imperial desert wear making their way down a side alley their way. “Where the shots are coming from, I think,” it replies, firing a long accelerator burst in response. “One down.”
Luis leans far enough out to fire a few shots of his own. They add to the suppressing fire that Grey is already hosing down the alley with, but it’s something else that makes it more fortuitous - it lets him see the dozen-plus others coming down the alley behind them, and the two beamer barrels sticking out of the next alley over, all of them coming from the same direction - south, from where the refugees were streaming out of.
“Shit, Grey, there’s another bunch coming,” he says. “Looks like a dozen plus coming up through the hole the refugees left.”
Before Grey can respond, the newcomers open fire, sending even more sparks and flashes bouncing off of his armor. “Shit!” Grey exclaims, swiveling one accelerator to fire back. “We need to move!”
“Right behind you!” Luis says. “Let’s go!”

Grey starts galloping towards the last remaining charging and server location, leaving Luis to hustle next to him as best he can. It’s only a quarter-mile to the station, and even in full battle gear, Luis is able to keep up well enough, especially with Grey firing its accelerators back over his head to keep the attackers at a safe distance. Once there, Luis finds seven other Sheen standing guard, four of them already set up on a defensive line waiting for the attackers that Grey must have signaled ahead about. Luis falls into the line, and waits for the enemy to catch up. It doesn’t take too long - five or six seconds later, the first fusillade of beamer fire splashes against the line. It’s no match for the Sheen return fire, though, an uninterrupted barrage of accelerator slugs that send up a cloud of dust and chips from the still-fresh spraycrete buildings and send the “survivors” diving for cover. Two more Sheen move out to circle around to the side, Luis’ ocular implants tracking them as they scrabble up onto roof level and carefully make their way across, their approach covered by a seemingly-impossible increase in the volume of fire from the front. A few seconds later, the trap is sprung, and the two flanking shells spray accelerator fire down onto the attacking “insurgents”, all of which lay down and play dead after a few short seconds.

The immediate area falls quiet, and while sporadic weapons fire is heard off in the distance, it seems like the attack is winding down.
“How’re we holding up elsewhere?” Luis asks Grey.
“Mopping up,” Grey replies. “Had to task a few Sheen to manage the server here to keep everyone in a shell, but we’re all right now.” It doesn’t sound pleased about this news, though, and neither do the others - there’s a lot of what Luis recognizes now as “frustrated Sheen” behavior: pacing back and forth, kicking at things on the ground, rocking back and forth on their legs.
“Finish the mop up, and let’s get an account of the losses and damage,” Luis says. “I’m going to call Command and find out when we can get some backup.”
“Might have a few problems with that,” Grey replies, tapping the side of one of its sensor pods with a leg.
Luis shakes his head, annoyed at the detail. “Can you patch me into a call on your network? And once we have the shells free, let’s find that ‘jammer’ and kill it.”
“It’ll take a few minutes to get the Sheen back at base ready to handle what you want,” Grey replies.
“All right,” Luis says, and leans against some of the wall they were using as cover. “I’ll tell you, right now? I’m about ready for that point.” Grey and the other Sheen audibly chuckle at that.

----

The conversation between Luis and ‘Command’ is awkward and slower than anyone particularly would like, including the Sheen relaying the messages back and forth.

“Alright, standby for resupply. Choppers are inbound to your location with ammunition and spare shells. Hang on…”

Angel cuts the connection, and turns the Binder to ‘Play Nice With Others’. Ten minutes or so later, the village picks up the familiar and reassuring sound of inbound helicopters. The first makes it down, the crew practically shoving the inert ammunition out of the craft before taking on a few passengers feigning wounds too serious to be treated in the village. The second one however - the one carrying spare servers and shells (or more accurately, empty reinforced boxes marked ‘servers’) - takes fire from a few beamer crews hidden in the hills. The shots miss by more than the length of a football field, but a shower of sparks still erupts from the craft, and it pulls up abruptly, the rest of the flight veering swiftly away.

Luis’s relay to Command crackles back to life. “Relief mission aborted, LZ is too hot. Repeat, LZ is too hot. Until you get things under control, you’re local assets only. We can’t risk losing birds to ground fire, not in those hills. Command out.”
Luis swears vehemently, then activates his transmitter. “Understood, Command.” Turning to Grey, he tries to suppress the anger in his voice. “Fuck. What can we do about that with what we’ve got left?”
“The assholes in the hills?” Grey asks. “We could assault, but it might not be too pretty.”
“Think we could the door open enough for them to bring something in by ground, instead?” Luis asks.
“We need some way of getting reinforcements in,” Grey replies. “Ask command when - or if we’re getting reinforced.”
“Command, Alpha here,” Luis says over the link.
“Go ahead Alpha.” Angel’s on the line again.
“Will you be sending reinforcements if we can clear the path?”
“Assuming you can clear a path so we can get to you, yes.”
“Copy. Is ground transport an option?”
“Affirmative. Comms is working on getting our systems back online, but if you can get us a good picture of what we’re driving into, we can send reinforcements in by ground.”
“Understood. We’ll get you a way in,” Luis says. “Alpha out.”
“So, what’s the word?” Grey asks.
“They can do road or air,” Luis says. “We need to figure out how to hold a path clear for them to do that with what we have on the ground here.”
“We have a few aerial shells still, as well,” Grey says. “But we’re not doing anything until we sew this village back up tight.” It pauses for a moment. “Hal and the town leaders are at the Green Zone. We need to coordinate with them and figure out what to do next. I figure having their town shot up and blown up might convince them we’re the good guys after all.”
“It just might,” Luis says. “Let’s go see what we can do to help them make that decision.”
“Don’t phrase it like that, you’ll give some of us ideas,” Grey replies. It pauses again. “That was a joke.”
Luis chuckles. “All right, keep that between you and me. Let’s move.”

The morning after the attack is a busy one for the village’s local fix-it man. Faux-damaged buildings still need actual repair: frames bent back into place, spraycrete applied, colors roughly matched. No better cover for someone assessing day-after status, he thinks, as he hefts a forty-pound sack of spraycrete base from his wheelbarrow.
“Doing alright?” He asks the home’s resident, a thirty-something man with Bashakra'i sigils down both arms.
The man nods. "Yep, the bad guys didn't follow us home," he replies. "All of my tools are in good order, and I've got a few more coming in for repair." "Tools", in this case, meaning something more than hammers and screwdrivers.
“Good to hear,” comes the reply as Fixit sets about his work. “You need anything else, or you find other holes that need patched, you know who to talk to.”
"Yes, Sir," the man replies with a slight bow.

A few more houses and an hour of sweaty labor later, Fixit comes to a particularly damaged wall of a local cafe. As strong as he feels for a man of his age, this isn’t a one-man job. He waves over the owner of the cafe, a gruff older man with calloused hands and more than a fair amount of kauka scarring, to shore up the frame as he fashions a makeshift brace.
“This is going to be a little loud, and pretty bright. You’re going to want to look that way,” he warns, as he powers up the plasma-welder.
With the two of them in close (and covered by a bright, loud reason for being there), they have an opportunity to converse in relative privacy. “How’s the north half of town?” Fixit asks.
"Our boys and girls did a good job," he grunts as he averts his eyes. "We took more than a few 'casualties', but most of our losses are made up for with the numbers your move from the south added in. The volunteers from the big day should be headed back to Atea by the end of the week. It was a good plan you came up with."
“It worked on me, once. That’s how Red Team does, though,” Fixit nods as he pulses the welder. “How long you think we’ll be able to keep out resupply?”
"How long does Command want us to?" the chef asks with a smirk. "We've got them at pretty low strength being down to one server. I've had my teams back off down to one attack a week just to give them a chance to catch their - well, not their breath, but let them get their feet under them."
“Command doesn’t want to see them go down screaming, just get ‘em close enough they know it can happen if they’re not careful. Push ‘em into learning how to work with the civilians. If they don’t figure it out, we can turn up the pressure. If we have to put one out of the game, make it one of the more abrasive ones.”
The chef nods. "Already got a few in mind if it comes to that, then. How's our resupply looking?"
“We’ve got another shipment night after next,” replies Fixit. “They haven’t found the tunnels yet, but with the level of their sensors I don’t know how long that’ll be true now that we’ve kicked ‘em in the teeth. We’ll get as much use out of it we can, but not put all our eggs in that basket. Expect a couple of buried caches and special deliveries.”
"We'll have to time attacks to create the openings in and out," the chef says. "Doable, but we'll lose a few people each time."

The sparks subside, and the chef takes a step back while Fixit hefts the spraycrete cannon again. "You're looking good, Hunter," the chef says with a smirk. "Getting out in the field instead of talking with your Narsai'i leaders has taken the softness off of that pale Homeworlder body."
“If I could get paid this well to look this good,” Hunter replies as he spraycretes the framework, “I’d rethink my life choices. Y'all take care now, maybe see if you can scare me up one of those spink-egg breakfast burritos.”
"I saved one just for you, Mr. Brand," another voice says as its owner walks out of the cafe - Maron, one of the four members of the "town council". He sets it down on top of Hunter's spraycrete machine and gives it a light pat, lifting a holodisc out of Hunter's gear as he does so. "Good seeing you," he says as he gives Hunter a nod and slides Hunter's instructions for him into his sash's pouch.
Frames of reference, Hunter thinks. We learned that all the sensor tech and big data in the world meant shit-all if you couldn’t sort out what was relevant, couldn’t understand the human subtleties rooted deep into cultural and local codes. He catches the eye of one of the market vendors, tries to think if she’s part of the insurgency, and realizes that no, she just likes what she’s seeing. Hunter finds himself reminded once more that thin imperial tunics don’t leave a lot to the imagination. Apparently, Aramni wasn’t just poking fun at Hunter as the off-white fabric sticks to what even Hunter has to admit are an impressive set of guns, mounted on a rack of pecs and shoulders to match. The last time he remembers being this bulked was two kids and a commission ago. Even the gray hair isn’t a detractor, it seems, as she smirks and nods his way. Hell, it might even be an inducement.
Speaking of subtleties, he smiles to himself as he wipes the sweat from his brow and loads the rest of his gear into the wheelbarrow. Might follow up on that later, but no time for that now. Blend in, fly casual, become inseparable from all the other rhythms of daily life...Fish in the swamp, Hunter. Fish in the swamp.

The three hour bus ride to Santa Fe National Forest was bad enough as a human, but it’s really not nice for Hug’sh and his new bulk. By the time they get there to unload, he’s itching to stretch his limbs and work out the several dozen kinks in his back, but there’s work to be done. Under his watchful eyes, the Wherren set up camp for the night, though not like the tent village from their first stay. Now it’s lean-tos and foxholes, carefully camouflaged with grass and branches from areas well away from the actual camp. It’s not a big surprise to see Rodirr as one of the first to get his shelter up - though it’s not as lovingly camouflaged as Hulor’s hidey-hole -, so Hug’sh takes the Wherren mercenary aside for a short chat.

”I’m sure you know that tonight will be a different kind of training,” Hug’sh says. ”I will expect the squad to put together much of what you’ve learned here and make decisions in the field without detailed orders. My concern is that what will challenge the others will be a first hunt to you, Rodirr, and that the others may expect you to come up with all the answers. Do you think you can participate in this exercise without taking the lead, or would you rather assist me directly?”
Rodirr nods. ”I will keep to the back of the group, Hug’sh. You don’t need to worry about me - I know how important this is.”
Hug’sh nods. ”Good,” he says, then smirks. ”I will try not to make it too boring for you, Rodirr. Can you oversee the camp and start up a guard rotation? I need to go set up the exercise; I’ll be back before dinner to give the briefing.”
Rodirr chuffs a laugh. ”Thank you, Hug’sh. I’ll keep your cubs in line.”
”I’ll see you all tonight,” Hug’sh replies, nods one last time, and then walks away.

A short hike later, he’s made it to the campsite parking lot, where Lt. Carter is waiting in an open-topped Humvee. Hug’sh nods to her and climbs into the back, then it’s off to the newly-minted Firebase Hotel, in the heart of OPFOR country.

---

By the time Hug’sh returns, the sun is well on the way to the other side of Narsai, hiding whatever little scraps of camp might be visible in broad daylight under the twilight of dusk. If Hug’sh didn’t know exactly where he left his company of Wherren, he’d have a hard time finding them now: you could almost walk straight into some of the shelters without seeing them, and the Wherren have even taken steps to clean up the sites around the camp where they removed materials from to make it even harder to detect that there’s a camp in the area at all. Though a smoke-light fire has been prepared in the biggest shelter, it hasn’t been lit yet - dinner’s all MRE, prepared in their self-heating pouches. Hug’sh freely gives appreciative nods to the Wherren he passes before calling them all into the main shelter for the briefing. The flashlight he clicks on casts the assembled Wherren and the bits of tarp around them in a ghostly reddish glow, but does a decent enough job of lighting up the map he unrolls on top of a tree stump slash table.

”Alright, everyone, listen up,” he begins. ”You’ve completed phase one of this operation by making camp in enemy territory. Now, we’ll get to phase two.” He stabs a finger at a point in the map about three klicks north of the campsite. ”We have located an enemy camp in this area. An enemy light infantry company has been cut off from its supply lines, and although they’ve done their best to dig in, they know they can’t hold this position for long. We expect that they will be evacuated in the morning. This makes them a ripe target of opportunity - and they know it. They raided a nearby village and took hostages - at least six, maybe more. These hostages are no good to them once they can evacuate, and we believe they will kill them when they’re ready to evac. The village elders have asked us to help, and that’s exactly what we’re going to do. You will conduct a rescue mission to free those hostages and bring them back to this camp in one piece, where we will arrange for them to get medical support and be returned to their village. If you can neutralize the enemy forces, do so, but the hostages are your primary objective. Any questions so far?”
”How many enemies?” Khodash asks. ”Where are they keeping the hostages?”
”We’ve observed a company-strength element, but we don’t have exact numbers,” Hug’sh says. ”As for the hostages, we believe they’re kept in a central location inside the enemy camp, but we don’t have any specifics. You will have to recon the enemy camp to find that out.”
”Are there any heavy weapons?” Tarl asks, scraping a bit of food off his tusk.
”How close are their reinforcements?” Kurr adds. ”And what are they?”
”As far as we know, they only have what they could carry with them,” Hug’sh says. ”We’re fairly certain they’re out of contact with their chain of command, so we’re not expecting air support or artillery coverage, but there might be other enemy units operating in the area. Tread carefully.”
”When is the first scouting party?” Hulor asks. ”I want to be on it.”
Hug’sh nods. ”That is up to you,” he says. ”Come up with a plan and execute it. The exercise will end when you’re back here with the hostages or when the sun rises, whichever’s sooner. Until then - I’m just an observer.” He looks around. ”You’ve all trained hard. You have all the tools you need to execute this mission. Do your best. Any other questions?”
”No, Hug’sh,” the group grunts in unison. Hug’sh sees a bit of red, a bit of green, and a good spread of blues, but mostly a determined mix of yellow and red.
”Then I’ll see you after the exercise,” Hug’sh says. ”Make me proud,” he adds with a smile. ”Dismissed.”

---

Hug’sh takes a seat outside the main shelter and just listens to the discussion for a few minutes. Unsurprisingly, Khodash takes the lead in the planning session, outlining an initial plan that then gets a bit of polish from everyone involved - except Rodirr, whose opinion is requested multiple times without producing a definitive answer from the elder mercenary. In the end, a three-pronged strategy is the winner. Khodash and her litter-siblings plus Hulor and a few more homeworlders will approach from a nearby hill overlooking the base location - they’re the stealthiest, and the high ground will hopefully let them get a good view of the enemy camp and figure out where the prisoners are. Once they’ve got the location, Kararr “Clawbreaker”’s team will begin their assault from the other side of the camp - drawing attention away from Rodirr’s team, who will take out the sentries guarding the prisoners with aimed fire, leaving Khodash’s team free to infiltrate and extract the prisoners. Once they’re clear, Kararr’s team will break off the assault, circle around and link up with Khodash’s team, while Rodirr’s element stays behind to discourage pursuit before disengaging, too. It’s not the simplest plan, and Kararr rightly points out that it relies on the enemy not executing the prisoners first thing when the shooting starts, but he has to concede that outright sneaking into a guarded camp is out of the question even for the best of their scouts. The fact that Kararr and his team will likely take the most return fire - and casualties - is universally understood, but left unsaid.

The hastily Wherren-ized MILES harnesses look slightly ridiculous, to say the least, but Hug’sh troops bear it without comment. It might just be a training exercise, but they’re 100% focused on doing a good job and taking their gear prep seriously. Months of drills are starting to pay off now as Hug’sh watches the Wherren function-check their faux XM10s with almost reflexive routine. Fight like you train - train like you fight, Hug’sh thinks, and grabs his own marching gear as the troops set off on their hike.

Two hours later, Hug’sh lies in the dirt next to Rodirr’s team, watching the enemy camp before them through his NODs. It’s five before Zero Dark Thirty when Khodash radios in.
”Prisoners spotted,” she grunts. ”Tarl is marking the tent with the beam.”
Hug’sh sees the little laser dot dance on the tent fabric through his optics and sighs softly - they’ve actually picked out the next tent over from the prisoners, probably simply because it was bigger. It won’t matter too much for Rodirr’s team taking out any hostiles in the rough area, but Hug’sh wonders how Khodash will deal with figuratively kicking in the wrong door.
”We see it, Scout,” Rodirr radios back. ”Hunter, are you in position?”
”Of course,” Kararr barks. ”Just waiting for you, Elder.”
”We’re ready, too,” Rodirr replies. ”Kick the Khie hive, Hunter.”
”With pleasure,” Kararr replies. He doesn’t quite click off his radio, so when he bellows out an earthshaking ”Attack!” to his troops, Rodirr actually winces from the feedback on his headset. Across the valley, the night goes loud as simulated gunfire whips across the camp and lights up the MILES harnesses of the perimeter guards with brutal efficiency. Rodirr’s guys aren’t far behind, dropping sentries with precision shots just as the camp’s alarm goes off - and Team Scout starts to move.

To be sure, an actual XM10 fired wildly while charging into an enemy position would probably be better than the sim makes it look - yes, it simulates the sound and has some muzzle flash to be visible in the night, and it “kills” just fine when it hits, but it lacks a certain “oh my jesus lasers everywhere FUCK!” factor for the people on the receiving end. But if the long hours of training in the killhouse have taught Khodash and her litter-brothers anything, it’s how to shoot on the move and hit. Two, three, four guards in their way are cut down by accurate-enough hipfire as the scouts cut through the mostly deserted supply dump side of the enemy camp in a mad dash for what they think is the right tent. Rodirr and his guys wouldn’t bring shame to the traditional sniper team callsign of “God”, though: whatever the scouts miss, Rodirr’s guys clean up, putting down enemy guards with deadly precision. Hug’sh’s OPFOR sure isn’t looking that great so far, but this battle’s not over yet.

The scouts enter the first tent - more shooting, cries of confusion, then Khodash cuts through the chatter. ”They’re not here!” she barks. ”We’re checking the other tents!”
”Copy, Scout,” Rodirr replies, heading off Kararr’s cussing.
It’s only a few seconds later that Tarl cries out in triumph. ”Found them!”
Khodash gives a few heavy breaths as she sprints over to the tent, joined by Kurr and Hulor. ”Prisoners located!” she yelps, then clears her throat and tries for English. “We are friends,” she says. “We help. Come with us.” A short discussion ensues, then she grabs her radio again. ”We have an injured prisoner!”
”Scout, can you carry him?” Rodirr radios - and that’s when a distant, low drone starts to overpower the simulated gunfire. Hug’sh grabs his own radio and gets on the open channel. ”Strike team, you have enemy air support inbound. You need to break contact now.”
”You said there was no air support!” Kararr radios.
”There is now,” Hug’sh replies. ”I suggest you move.”
”Keep firing!” Rodirr barks into the radio. ”Scout, we have you covered! Grab the hostages and go!”

A few seconds later, Hulor bursts out of the tent, one of the “prisoners” thrown over his broad shoulders while he one-hands his XM10 and squeezes off more rapid fire into the camp. The 815 litter forms a protective perimeter around the hostages who can still walk under their own power, but as enemy reinforcements pour on from the camp’s interior and take up cover instead of rushing out into the open, it becomes painfully clear that the mismatch between the running speed of trained Wherren warriors and that of scared human hostages (well, soldiers simulating those, anyway) is going to be a bit of a problem - Khodash can almost hear the simulated shots whizz past her as he takes a knee behind a water tank and tries to cover her team as best as she can.

”Smoke out!” Rodirr bellows, then lets go of his rifle and grabs a grenade launcher laid out next to him. With just a cursory windage check, he aims down the sights and lets loose - pop, pop, pop, pop - thumping four grenades right on top of where the Scout team was three seconds ago. The enemy pursuers seem to run right into a sudden wall of heavy smoke while the Scout team exits the cloud on the other side and legs it for the cover of the treeline. ”Scout is clear, get out of there, Hunter!”
”About time!” Kararr grunts back. Seconds later, there’s more popping from the team’s second grenade launcher - but this one’s throwing training grenades that are meant to substitute for HE, covering the north side of the enemy camp in fooming sounds and fine chalk. The nearby helicopter is now almost close enough to drown out what remains of the firefight, and seconds later, a bright spotlight comes on, shining down from the sky onto the scattered defenders before sweeping out to locate the attackers.
”We’re lit up!” Kararr radios.
Rodirr doesn’t hesitate. ”Focus fire on the aircraft!” he shouts to his team; the Wherren sharpshooters rise to their knees and bring up their rifles, pew-pewing at the noisy intruder.
”Whirlybird, you’re taking ground fire,” Hug’sh radios - and then he sees Rodirr unpack a training spearbomb and hurl that sucker skyward the way Zeus throws lightning. Hug’sh eyes go wide as the spearbomb ignites its engine and zooms upward, banging off the heli’s underside with a CLANG louder than even the heli’s downwash.
”Yeah, we noticed,” comes Garrett’s voice in reply. ”Tell Rodirr it was a nice throw. We’re going dark.”

The heli’s floodlight turns off, plunging the camp into darkness again. Hug’sh observes as the OPFOR soldiers run around and reorganize, trying to account for their wounded and reorganize their defenses.

”Hunter is clear,” Kararr radios. ”Thank you, Elder.”
”You fought well,” Rodirr radios back. ”See you at the rendezvous.”

Ten minutes later, the three Wherren teams converge at the prearranged rendezvous site, where Hug’sh waits to do a quick headcount. They got damn lucky: only one hit registered on the MILES gear, ironically on the Wherren standing right next to Kararr and not the big male himself - and even that’s a hit on the arm only. Hug’sh takes him aside and tells him to fall behind if the wound isn’t ‘treated’ within the next hour, but otherwise, he’s forced to conclude that everyone’s still on their feet. With a nod and a radio signal to OPFOR, the chase resumes.

Hug’sh can all but feel the wave of orange passing through the Wherren company when the whap-whap of helicopter blades fades back in. Rodirr digs out his second spearbomb, but this time, the helo’s not hovering so close to the ground and with a clear line of sight - instead, it keeps at a higher altitude, and the dense forest canopy makes it all but impossible to actually see. Rodirr knows that this doesn’t go the other way, though: the helo’s FLIR should be picking them up without too much trouble, and is probably radioing their location back to the enemy forces right now.

”Khodash!” Rodirr barks. ”You lead the others. I will go deal with the aircraft.”
”Need any help, Elder?” Kararr asks with a smirk.
”Worry about your own fur, Clawbreaker,” Rodirr says. ”They know where we are now. They will try to chase you.”
”Then we will set an ambush,” Kararr replies. ”Hunter team, form up on me!”

Hug’sh observation of the impromptu change of plans is interrupted when his own radio chirps. ”Hey, Hug’sh,” Garrett radios. ”Are your people going to spearbomb us again?”
”Looks like,” Hug’sh replies.
”The pilot isn’t very happy about that,” Garrett says. ”Can you run your sim without bouncing metal off a temperamental multi-million-dollar aircraft? The GRHDI isn’t paying to buff the dents out.”
”Got it,” Hug’sh replies, then jogs over to Rodirr while the rest of the Wherren split up - most making for the home base while Kararr’s guys quickly set up a fighting position. ”Rodirr, wait up,” Hug’sh calls. ”What are you going to do?”
”Find a place to launch the spearbomb from and take down their air support,” Rodirr replies, a slightly confused blue tinge to his fur - isn’t that perfectly obvious?
”Okay, great,” Hug’sh says. ”We’ll simulate that. You find a place to hide and stay there for five minutes, I’ll declare the helo down and then you can move on.”
”Understood,” Rodirr says. After a moment, he adds ”Did I scare them?”
Hug’sh can’t quite keep the smirk of his face. ”Oh, yeah.”

Half a mile away, Khodash presses on through the underbrush, throwing her head from side to side every few steps to keep an eye on everyone following her, while Hulor’s a few dozen steps ahead of the pack to scout. The sounds of more simulated gunfire echo through the forest as Kararr’s team fulfill’s the Ol’ Ranger Addendum and sucks their pursuers into a serious ambush, but there’s another distant sound that worries her - barks.

”What is that?” Tarl gasps between breaths, especially as the barks grow louder and more frequent. ”It’s...not Whiirrsign, but…”
”Dohcks,” Khodash replies, stumbling a little over the human word. ”I saw them at Mesas Negras. They are like...diwa, but four legs, and smaller. They are trying to track us by our smell.”
Khodash takes a moment to stop and take cover behind a tree; the others follow suit, and the hostages in particular seem to be very glad for the few seconds of rest. The ‘injured’ hostage currently slung over Kurr’s shoulders seems about ready to throw up from the rough ride. Khodash can feel the blue creep into her fur as she ponders her options - she’s in command now, but what can they do? Set up another ambush? Keep running and hope they’ll get to base camp before the enemy catches up?

”Khodash!” Hulor barks; Khodash turns to see him come crashing back to meet up with them. ”Why do we stop?”
”The prisoners can’t keep running with us,” Khodash says. ”And the enemy has tracking animals.” She bows her head. ”I don’t know what to do now.”
Hulor chuckles. ”We lose them,” he says. ”There is a stream two minutes ahead. We go in, swim downstream and go from there. They will not know where we got out of the stream.”
”Are you sure that will work?” Khodash asks.
”Many grahwl chase me, none catch me,” Hulor replies with a wave of confident green in his fur.
”Good,” Khodash says, and with a wave of her hand to the others, they’re off.

Kararr didn’t hear the spearbomb fly, but the helicopter soon leaves and Rodirr returns with Hug’sh in tow. Leaving the grumbling OPFOR and their beeping MILES gear behind, Team Hunter presses forward to catch up with the others - and ends up in the rear of another OPFOR detachment, this one skimming the forest with a team of working dogs, hot on the heels of Khodash. Not one to leave a good kill on the table, Kararr’s fur flashes another red/yellow pattern, and Team Hunter attacks again from the dark, cutting down half the search party with the opening shots. Twenty seconds later, the OPFOR leader has barely had time to call in his location by radio before he gets nailed by a simulated shot to the chest - he doesn’t take it well, to say the least, darting up from his cover behind a tree stump and greatly enhancing the Wherren’s vocabulary of human curses. Kararr’s onto other things, though: he approaches the search team’s dog handlers, and to put it mildly, the dogs go ape-shit with their barking, but aren’t exactly straining at their leashes to sic him. Their fur might not change color, but Kararr knows fear when he sees it, and a single bark from him sends the dogs whimpering.

”Well done, Clawbreaker,” Rodirr comments. ”Your men are out of ammo, though.”
”I’m sure there’s plenty to go around here,” Kararr says, then turns to Team Hunter. ”Loot their weapons!”
“Aw, man!” goes a lone OPFOR soldier as the Wherren walk up and snatch the MILES’d M4 from their hands - then demand the extra magazines with the universal gesture of “Gimme!”. Thusly rearmed, Team Hunter presses on, while Rodirr and Hug’sh share a smirk.

Khodash doesn’t much like swimming, but she has to admit that Hulor’s plan is pretty good - floating down the stream, they seem to have lost both the gunfire and the barking behind them. The ‘injured’ hostage has abandoned all pretense of being a limp body, and is now clinging to Kurr’s chest with his head on top of Kurr’s hump, keeping him well above the water. Khodash’s treading feet occasionally bump against stones or roots on the bed of the stream, but Hulor urges them further and further, until a bend in the stream makes for shallower waters with a much slower flow - ideal for getting off this wet, wild and cold ride. With another headcount complete, the team sets off again, though at a slower pace. It’s now that another hostage reveals his ‘twisted’ ankle, and he only has the five seconds it takes Hulor to sling him over his shoulder to regret that before he’s bouncing along with the scout’s quick steps.

Although they stay cautious, that seems to have been it in terms of surprises - an hour later, when she sees the darkness-shrouded base camp ahead, Khodash is filled with a strange mixture of happiness and exhaustion - they really gave it their all, she thinks, and they made it, too. The mood spreads throughout the team, and ten minutes after that, they’re all seated and start stripping off their gear. Fifteen minutes after that, with the first inklings of twilight piercing the darkness, Hug’sh arrives with the others. He looks around, waits for everyone to pay attention to him, then smirks.

”Congratulations, everyone,” he says. ”The exercise is over. Go and rest up a little. Debriefing in ten minutes.”

Nine and a half minutes later, everyone’s pressed into the main shelter, with Hug’sh in the middle; the “hostages” sit next to him, kind of awkwardly squeezed in between all the furry bodies.
”I know you’re all tired and want to sleep, so we’ll just hit the main points,” Hug’sh says. ”The mission was a success. You assaulted the enemy camp, freed the hostages and brought them back here, while taking minimal casualties. Well done.”
”Minimal?” Kararr barks. ”We lost no one! Your Narsai’i friends didn’t know how to fight back.”
”You used surprise and ambush tactics well, Kararr,” Hug’sh says, ”but you did lose someone. Morg, you were hit in the arm, yes?”
”Yes,” the Wherren warrior at Kararr’s side answers.
”Did you stop to treat this wound, or even go slowly?” Hug’sh asks.
Morg shakes his head.
”A real wound would have debilitated you,” Hug’sh says. ”Yes, you were able to keep up, but without first aid, pushing yourself this hard, you would now urgently need medical help - surgery, and a stay in the hospital.”
”That doesn’t count,” Kararr says.
”What about the hostage that died on the way?” Hug’sh asks.
”What do you mean?” Khodash asks, blue creeping into her fur. ”We carried him the whole way.”
”Not in a safe manner,” Hug’sh says. ”Your high tempo and the trip through the river also contributed. When you found him, he was already ill. He wouldn’t have survived the trip in his condition.”
”What were we supposed to do?” Khodash whines. ”We didn’t have time for…anything.”
”Exactly,” Hug’sh says, and a quiet settles throughout the Wherren. ”What I want you all to understand is that there is no perfect success in a real fight. Every time you fight, you lose something. You could have avoided losing Morg, or this hostage, but only with a different plan, with different choices - and you would have taken different risks, with different losses. Would the hostage have survived if you had built a stretcher and carried him gently all the way back, stopping every half hour to treat his injuries? Maybe he would have. But he would have slowed you down so much that you would never have escaped the enemy search teams. You made the choice to press on. I think it was the right one. But it was a choice, and you will have to make more of these choices going forward. Many will have no right answer. Do you understand?”
Khodash nods quietly. Kararr huffs and sneers, but finally nods, too.
Hug’sh turns to the “hostages”. ”Anything you want to add?”
One of them - a filipino woman - stands up and answers in halting Whiirrsign. ”We went fast, but they did not forget us. They did everything to keep us away from the fighting. I think they did well.”
”Thank you,” Hug’sh says, then turns to the Wherren again. ”We will speak more of this tomorrow. For now, know that I am proud of you. You have earned your rest. Sleep well. Dismissed.”

It has been twelve hours since the Atea field trip for the Narsai’i and Bashakra’i troops began, and so far, nobody’s called the Kansat on them yet - which surely must tick a checkbox next to “excellent results” on some page. However, the crowds of bewildered Narsai’i and their slightly exasperated Bashakra’i battle buddies/babysitters have definitely made a splash on the station. The hardest hit are the food vendors - between the “Local Recommendations” of the Call-Out vox app and the Bashakra’i having their own suggestions, enormous lines quickly formed at a few of the most highly regarded eateries within hours of the Narsai’i arrival, marinated spink is quickly hunted to temporary local extinction, and sales of “traditional” alcoholic beverages jump by 500% for a brief, glorious hour. Then, heavy with food and drink, the Bashakra’i and Narsai’i helped each other limp back to their barracks in one of the Turai-designated areas of Atea and then passed out on their bunks.

Mercifully (seemingly, at least), Zaef, Garrett, Arketta and Arlana are all agreed on not blasting them out of bed on this first morning. They were told to go out there, experience Atea and have fun - which they did. It’d be unusually cruel to crank up Bashakra’i cultural standards first-thing, today at least. So, after an hour of grumbling, showering, and consumption of painkillers, a clean-but-shaggy-looking training cohort reports in the muster hall outside their barracks. Even Lt. Decker and Sgt. Lee are looking worse for wear up at the front of the formation.
Arlana and Arketta both pace back and forth up on the platform. “Good morning, Turai!” Arketta calls.
“Good morning, Samal!” the trainees shout. This is a group far too experienced to not know how to soldier while hungover.
“I hope you all had a lot of fun last night - it certainly seems to me that you did!” Arketta continues. “I had a lovely night, getting to sleep in my own bed. So, today, we’re starting off with learning how to assault a spaceship! Mr. Utari is all ready at the training simulators for us - it’s just a brisk two-kilometer jog from here, just the thing to warm up!” Discipline breaks down a bit as a groan creaks its way out of the group. “After all the wasteful liquid calories you lot took in last night, a run is exactly what you need! Fall in!”

----

A mile later, Danielsson and Leaj rattle to a halt just ahead of Boyd and Shenloma as the rest of the group congregates in the lowest level of the skimmer parking adjacent to the Turai training sim complex. “Leaj, can you die if a skimmer runs you over?” Danielsson gasps, his pale Midwestern complexion replaced with an even paler pink-and-green.
Leaj just shakes her head and bends over, her hands on the back of her head as she tries to keep her stomach under control.
“Shit, now how am I supposed to cure this hangover?” Danielsson gasps, then takes a deep draw from his Camelbak. Boyd, feeling equally sick, has gone from taciturn to completely silent.
“Here, take this,” Shenloma says, passing out a few dissolving tabs as he remains annoying upright. “Vitamins and enzymes, they’ll help.”
Danielsson drops the tab in his mouth as he gives Shenloma the side-eye. “Didn’t you drink with the rest of us, Shen?”
Shenloma nods. “Never had a problem with hangovers,” he says. “I just -”
“No one gives a shit, Shen,” Danielsson says, and bends back over again to stare at his boots. “No one gives a shit.”
Zaef emerges before any more can be said. He looks...clean. He’s wearing some pressed black pants and a tight seamless white tunic with long sleeves, and his hair, while still some what wild, looks shinier than usual. More shocking is his impeccable posture and the smirk on his face, usually just visitors on Zaef. His eyes glint with energy despite the rings underneath. Even Garrett and Arketta seem a bit surprised to see their teammate this way. He takes in the crowd as they return the favor, and his smirk grows. “Stand up straight, kids.” Groaning all the way, the training cohort stands up straight and gets into formation.

“Now, first item of business. You’ve probably been told you’re going to kick in the door of a starship sometime today, and I hope that happens. But first, you’re going to learn where the fuck the door is, and whether or not you should kick it in in the first place. Ships are not just another killhouse for you to shoot up; as you are already starting to learn, living on Atea, ships are full of delicate mechanisms just waiting to be fucked up. And it is everyone’s responsibility to keep them all intact, whether it’s being able to jury-rig failing connections to the fusion core or just knowing what not to shoot. We’ll cover the basics of ship safety, and then we’ll turn you loose. Any questions?”
“No, Sir!”
“Which brings me to one last detail. I’ve asked you, politely, several times, in fact, not to call me ‘sir,’ or ‘Mister.’ Now that you bozos are here, running amok on ships that I helped rebuld with my own two hands, I’m taking up an old title of mine, and you will use it to refer to me and nothing else during our stay here on Atea, or so help me I will discipline you.” Zaef pierces the group with his glare, his smirk disappearing for the first time so far today. “I am Shipmaster Utari. Say it.”
“Yes, Shipmaster Utari!” the group echoes.
“Now we’re talking,” Zaef says as his smirk blooms again. “It’s often shortened to ‘Master’ among the Thousand Worlds. I will accept either. Now, get your asses inside.”
“Yes, Master!” the group barks. There’s a twinge of uncomfortableness amongst the Narsai’i with that word, but that’s not Zaef’s problem - he’s not forcing them to call him that, but he will be referred to by his proper title again.
Finally.

“Let’s start with the good stuff,” Zaef says, his enthusiasm leaking out into his smirk. He opens the door into a mostly empty room, with a extra large set of double doors on the other end, and only one thing in it - and it’s big, cubical, and white, with some extra-large black Imperial script written on it.
“This,” Zaef proclaims, “is a mock casing for a [insert designation number here] fusion core. I’m not trusting you spink-herders near the real thing just yet, and here’s why: it’s the single most important piece of equipment on a ship. It gives you water, air, propulsion, and vision. It is also a very volatile power source, and the systems that connect it to the rest of the ship are delicate, at least in comparison. You will NOT be going anywhere near the real thing until I know you can protect it, and treat it right. Because, if you don’t, chances are you, along with anything and everything within a 400 yard radius, will be lucky to still have two atoms locked together.” Zaef gives the crowd a somber look. “Sometimes, desperate spacers have been known to trap or otherwise rig this to explode as a sort of deterrent...or a last laugh. It’s not often-even the most black-hearted pirates I’ve heard of didn’t so much as touch the core, even with Imperial Needles inbound-but it happens.

“Now, the casing itself is quite important, because it’s preventing you from being horribly irradiated just like it’s preventing anything from fucking up the inner workings. Here-” Zaef steps forward and pries a panel off of the side with little effort and flips it so the mob can view it from the side. “Don’t worry, it’s just the maintenance hatch, it’s supposed to come off. You’ll notice, however, that it’s not terribly thick.” The inside lining is about half an inch wide, and the outside plastics about two inches. “The lining is an uranium alloy, designed for maximum gamma absorption with minimal mass. The plastic is there to stop the neutrons. Neither stands up to gunfire very well - hell, having so much as a crack in the top layer is pretty bad, means some of the radiation won’t get absorbed. Even if you manage to miss every vital thing inside by some miracle, you’ll have turned the entire engine room, and probably a good chunk of the ship too, into a radiation zone-a lethal one.” Zaef hands the panel over to the group to inspect. “A bit long-winded for “don’t shoot it you’ll all die,” but I figure if I put the fear of an ugly, drawn-out, painful death into you now, you won’t even think of getting in a firefight in the engine room, and that’s all I ask.”

Zaef leads the group through the double doors into a much more crowded room; still big, but full of clutter. A cogitator, and three long tables covered in mechanical equipment and even some weapons branch out behind it. An oddly framed and shaped door is off in the far corner, opposite from where the group comes in.

“Next up on the “for-the-love-of-the-Masters-don’t-shoot-that” list is the second-most important object on a ship. The fusion core powers all of the ship’s systems, but the cogitator runs them all. Air, power, cruise engines, impellers, gravity...everything. And like most cogitators you use, it doesn’t take much to fuck it up, before we even touch upon bullets and the like. If anything happens to this thing, you’re marooned in the middle of space with a very limited oxygen supply. Another slow death. Fortunately, it’s also usually run from the engine room, so you already shouldn’t be getting into a scrap in there. This one isn’t running anything right now, but once you learn to navigate Imperial cogitator systems, I’d take the time to look at this one. It’s not hard, but someone has to do it.”

Zaef takes the group over to a giant tank with big black Imperial runes on it at the end of one table, various mechanical innards and hoses spread out for examination on the table like a dissected frog. “Now, some of you might be wondering what we use as fuel. The answer is hydrogen,” Zaef says, smirk widening as some of the group reacts to that. “Yes, you know what’s coming next, don’t you? Now, these cryostat tanks are a little more durable than most ship equipment, and self-powered with some small security features to prevent accidents and spillage, so maintenance is easy and sabotage a little harder than some stuff we’ve already looked at this morning. They’re also usually stored deep in the ship and separate from the engine room, so getting to ‘em isn’t exactly easy. So all you need to do is learn what they look like - and their hoses as well- and don’t fucking shoot them. The resulting explosion won’t be as spectacular as the fusion core’s, at least at first, but it’ll hurt a lot more, and still destroy the ship and everyone on it. Not so much with the hoses, but, well, leaking fuel is a bad thing, especially once it starts warming up. See, hydrogen is most condensed in a liquid state, at ridiculously low temperatures. Once it starts warming up, it turns into a gas again. So you’re not only leaking fuel, but it’s pushing out the air so you’ll suffocate, on top of being incredibly explosive. The hoses will be labeled with distinct warning signs, of course, but try not to shoot at all if you can help it when they’re nearby.

“Speaking of which,” Zaef segues as he walks the group over to the table on the left, with what looks like a fish tank on steroids and some CS gas grenades on it. “While you’re already somewhat familiar with the idea of recycled air, now that you’re on Atea and no longer smoking, let’s reiterate what burning things does to your filtering systems real fast, tied in as it is with what you should and shouldn’t use on a ship.”

Zaef picks up a gas grenade. “Quick reminder: for those of you who don’t know, your gas grenades contain two volatile chemicals that, mixed with oxygen, burn and make what amounts to acrid smoke.” He steps up onto the table and sets the grenade’s pin on a hook inside the tank, dangling precariously as he places the lid on top of it and seals it shut with a small hiss. He picks up a long cylinder - identical to one hooked up to the tank - and flips a power switch on the tank’s side. An audible fan noise follows as he steps off of the table.

“The tank is a faithful, if scaled down, model of a ship’s air recycling. Here’s the filter here.” Zaef holds up and shakes the cylinder, which makes shifting noises like an hourglass in response. “Soda lime inside catches the CO2 we exhale and lets the remaining oxygen back out; turns out we use a lot less than you think.” There’s a click and a thunk behind him as the grenade falls from the hook and leaves the pin behind, and the bright flame coming from the grenade is quickly eclipsed by smoke. The billowing smoke is quickly run through the fans into the soda lime filter, and everyone can see discolored fumes emerge the other end. “As you can see, the filtering system is good enough to keep the tank from filling up with the smoke, making the grenade terribly useless for clearing out even small rooms, but also not good enough to turn smoke into oxygen...making the filter useless afterward as a result.”

Zaef walks the group over to the last table, which bears a giant pipe with dozens of cables and wires poking out and a line-up of junction boxes, some of which have holes and some don’t. “Lastly, anything connected to the ship’s power system is also off-limits for shooting or generally messing around with, obviously. Good news is it’s fairly obvious when something is hooked up, whether it’s blinking lights or connected to ceiling mounted cables, and some ships, especially military vessels, have hardened their systems against weapons fire just in case there’s a messy situation, though there’s still occasional reports of beamer shorts. Bad news is,” Zaef glances over at some of the fucked-up boxes and waves a hand towards them, “‘weapons hardening’ mostly just covers Imperial weapons. These conduits have all been shot at with Narsai’i rounds of various calibers; some of the larger rounds went right through them. I’d recommend smaller calibers to be safe, but you can use bigger stuff if you’re paying attention to where you shoot.” Zaef smirks. “And, in case you’re dying to know, the boxes have been labelled with what round they were shot with.”

“So!” Zaef says boisterously, “Those are the vulnerable points you need to watch for on board. Any questions before we run sims, about what we’ve just gone over or ship environments in general?”
One of the Narsai'i towards the back speaks up. "Is there anywhere we can shoot in these things?"
“Any place that isn’t the engine room or the bridge. The engine room we’ve covered, but the bridge is a bad place for that because it’s usually small and always full of delicate electronics that control the ship and its movement. Depending on the circumstances, crippling the ship’s movement can be just as lethal as cutting off the air, so, yeah, just don’t."
"What about things we can use to get a tactical advantage?" another Narsai'i asks.
“Cut the grav,” Zaef says almost immediately. “It’s a devastating way to screw with most boarders. Most aren’t used to the physical disorientation of being weightless, much less how to move around and shoot or swing a blade. It won’t work on experienced spacers or Turai for long, but you can catch them off-guard for a moment when you make the switch. Beyond that, there may be some stuff unique to the ship you’re on, but it’s mostly business as usual. Turning off the lights, rearranging fixtures, setting traps - as long as they aren’t explosive! Feel free to use the ship to your advantage. Most freighters have machinery to move cargo around, and they can be remote-controlled. Use them to help set up chokepoints, and turn them into weapons or beamer fodder in combat. Some parts of the ship can also be vented into space itself, usually just the cargo bay, though Needles can vent more compartments than that. Be careful for when your enemies do that, and be prepared in case you need to do that too - keep the suits sealed and stay near the braces. And, this is the sole exception for grenades: you can drop a flashbang to disorient your opponents, as long as you shut the hatch behind you. The pressure change will do far more damage than the light will, and you’ll feel it if you don’t isolate them from you. Fire can work kind of the same way, but...well, it’ll fuck you up much worse if you can’t seal the hatch in time, so I can’t recommend it. Anyway, even if you don’t fry anything in there, cleaning it up later is a bitch.”
The idea of burning alive in a small metal box draws the color from some of the Narsai'i faces. "So, uh...when we're on a ship, how does shit work? What do we do?"
"Yeah, some of us aren't blessed enough to grow up to be Marines," another says with a big smile on his face.
Zaef smiles a little. “The Shipmaster runs things, and he has a first mate that helps. There’s usually no more to the hierarchy than that, except an engineer running like mad, which outranks everyone. Everyone on board just does their part to keep the ship running, however they can. As for what you can do...try asking the Shipmaster or the First what you can do to help. Sometimes, as long as you do something to help, whether it’s hauling cargo containers, cleaning decks, or just making good autochef food, they’ll be the happier for it. Sometimes they’ll just want you to stay out of their fucking way. That’s fine, that’s you doing your part. The only things I expressly forbid you to do, and most anyone in the known systems will as well, is to not touch anything in either the bridge or engine room, for reasons of catastrophic death as we’ve already covered. If they let you, you may look, but do not touch. Other than that, it’s less different than you think. Day and night lighting cycles will help you keep rested, and honestly, MREs have prepared you pretty well for autochef fare.” Zaef’s smile turns into a smirk. “I recommend you bring hot sauce.”
A laugh goes around the group of Narsai'i, but no more questions.
“If there’s no more questions, let’s get to the good part. The simulation is ready and waiting. Good luck, and try to keep the puke inside the bags. Cleaning that up is a bitch.”

There's another laugh from the Narsai'i, and then they start to file out of the cargo hold.
Zaef is last out as always, mischievous smile on his face as he contemplates the group’s first go in the killhouse. He wasn’t going to miss this, oh no. Not for anything.

A day after the first invasion of Narsai’i and Bashakra’i soldiers - and just after Atea’s food courts breathed a sigh of relief - a new wave of visitors arrives from Earth’s gateway. The sight of a Wherren or two on Atea is commonplace, but a few dozen of them spilling into the arcade beyond the gateport - and kitted out like warriors on top of that - draws more than a few stares. As far as most people see it, there’s regular-big Wherren, a few extra-broad Wherren, and then there’s the fuck-off big ones. Up front is a regular big-one with subtle color effects rippling through his fur and gleaming white tusks, and it is by his barks that the group seems to move, though the fuck-off big one with the scarred muzzle behind him seems to play a considerable part in keeping the rest in line, too.

And then it gets a lot louder and wilder, as they are joined by a baker’s dozen of excited Wherren cubs, ably herded by a few grown-ups - a male and two females, not that the casual observer could tell the difference besides the male looking slightly older. The warriors stand to the side while the male teacher yelps at the cubs, who turn to him and answer with their barks in near-unison. That exchange lasts about a minute, then the cubs scatter - and seek out some of the waiting warriors. Within the next minute, every cub is riding on the broad shoulders of a grown-up. One very excited cub, green and yellow all over, does an end run around the assembled warriors, squealing all the while, only to end up in the leader’s arms. He runs his tongue over her head a few times, eliciting purrs, then he helps her up onto his own hump. With a few more barks from the leader, the big group splits down into smaller teams and then slowly disperses.

This is the weirdest shit Sergeant Alexander Danielsson has ever seen. He turns to his partners-in-crime - Boyd’s staring right along with him, while Shenloma and Leaj try their best not to.
“Did that really just happen?” Danielsson asks in halting Imperial.
“Huh?” Leaj asks, tearing herself away from her kebab/sandwich-like food item, a bit of green leaf sticking to her chin.
“Nice,” Shenloma says, and wipes the sauce and greenage from his partner’s face before turning to Boyd and Danielsson. “Did you not get a chance to see Wherren before?”
“Of course!” Danielsson answers quickly, then reconsiders that for a second. “Well, from a distance. And not...all of them at once.”
“The cubs are cute,” Boyd throws in.
“Yeah, but…” Danielsson says. “It’s just so...weird.” He turns to Leaj. “I mean, you guys, you’re from outer space sci-fi world, but you’re human. Wherren are so...different. Just kinda trying to wrap my head around this, you know?”
Leaj shrugs as she takes another bite. “Have you seen a spink?”
“No,” Danielsson says, then looks down on his own plate. “And now I’m not sure I want to.”
“It won’t stop being weird from sitting here,” Boyd says. “Come on, Sgt. First Contact. Let’s say hello.”
Danielsson glares at Boyd for a moment, then looks back to Leaj and Shenloma. “Well, it turned out all right last time,” he says with a smirk. “Anyone here speak Wherren?”
“No,” Shenloma says. Leaj shakes her head as she actually bothers to chew.
“That just leaves us with my DMX impression,” Danielsson says, then smiles. “Fuck it. Let’s extend a hand for humankind. We’ll play it by ear. You guys coming?”
“Sure thing,” Leaj says, cramming her sandwich back into its bag and sticking the bag in her sling, as it’s Shenloma’s turn to shrug.

Together, the foursome follows Danielsson’s lead, heading on a collision course with the small gaggle of Wherren around the leader. Danielsson seems two steps ahead of the others, and he’s the first one to talk, too.
“Excuse me?” he says to the assembled Wherren - they turn to look at him, taking on a tiny hint of blue. Undeterred, he looks up to the leader and extends his hand. “I’ve seen you at Mesas Negras, on Narsai. I’m Alexander Danielsson.” He points to himself with his free hand. “So, um, do you speak Imperial?”
The leader takes on a greenish hue as he smiles and takes Danielsson’s hand to shake. Danielsson smiles back at him - and then the leader turns to the side and barks and yelps a bit at the large scarred Wherren. Danielsson glances up at the cub riding on the leader’s shoulders, who looks at him with big brown eyes before burying her head in the leader’s fur.
“I speak Imperial, human,” the large Wherren answers, and shakes Danielsson’s hand, too. “Are honored to meet, ‘lexandurr Danison.” He goes around the group to introduce them. “Leader is Walks-The-Fire. Kurr, Tarl and Khodash.” He taps his own chest. “I am Rodirr. Your friends are?”
Danielsson takes a moment to realize that he’s now expected to introduce his little team, a surprised “oh!” escaping his lips before he turns around. “Yes, these are Boyd, Shenloma and Leaj.” He looks back to the leader, spotting the cub again as she sneaks a peek at him only to hide again when she notices him looking back.
“Have questions for us?” Rodirr asks, and if Danielsson was looking at a human - he’s not, but if he was - he’d think there was some bemusement to that. It’s now that Danielsson spots the cub riding on him - unlike the one on the leader, this one’s sitting high on Rodirr’s shoulders, trying to somehow look at everything at once. It briefly looks at Danielsson - the soldier smiles and waves his hand, and the little cub mirrors the gesture before looking for more interesting things to see.
“Uh, no questions,” Danielsson stammers. “We just wanted to greet you and say it’s good that you’re on our side. So, uh, please tell your leader that.”
Both Rodirr and the leader - the hell kinda name is Walks-The-Fire, Danielsson thinks - smirk at that. “He knows Imperial,” Rodirr says, “not speak Imperial.”
“Oh,” Danielsson says.
“Why did you bring your young here?” Boyd asks, safely in half-cover behind Danielsson.
Walks-The-Fire turns to Rodirr and gives him a series of barks, yelps and howls, combined with hand gestures and shifts in the pattern of colors on his fur - either Wherren eloquence or wordiness. Rodirr finally nods and turns to look back down at the humans.
“We are here to see Atea,” Rodirr says. “Walks-The-Fire thinks cubs should see, too. They are safe with us.” That said, Rodirr reaches up to pat the cub on his shoulders over the head; the little one ducks his head playfully and has a green ripple run down his body as he closes his eyes and purrs, clearly enjoying the attention. “Why are you here?” Rodirr asks.
“Same reason,” Leaj says.
“The Narsai’i have never been off-world before, so we are introducing our buddies to how things work out here, what things are like, and doing some cross-training as well,” Shenloma elaborates. “Assaults in zero-g, entering and clearing ships.”
Rodirr nods to that. “I heard you train very hard. I hope we can fight together.” Walks-The-Fire barks something, and Rodirr nods to that. “Walks-The-Fire wishes you luck.”
Shenloma and Leaj both fold their hands and bow. “May fortune be at your side,” they both say in chorus.
Rodirr mirrors the gesture. “And at your back,” he barks.
“Uh, good luck,” Boyd says.
“Yeah, don’t catch a bullet,” Danielsson adds. “Or a laser beam, or whatever else passes for weapons fire out here.”
Walks-The-Fire nods while Rodirr chuckles, which sounds a little like an oversize pair of bellows squeezed by a half ton of meat. “Goodbye, Danison, Boyd, Shenloma, Leaj,” he says. With a few more barks, the troupe of Wherren gets going again, walking past the humans on their way deeper into the arcades.

They’re well out of earshot by the time Danielsson’s thought process gets back onto what one might consider a track. “Did anybody get a picture?” he says. “Because I’m not going to believe this happened when I wake up tomorrow.”
“Believe what?” Leaj asks, digging through her sling for her drink.
“I just shook hands with Chewbecca,” Danielsson replies.
“That is a little weird,” Boyd agrees. “Maybe next time you can try for a fistbump.”
“Not the point,” Danielsson says. “It’s just...I live in a far weirder universe than I thought. It’s not a bad thing, it’s just” - he turns to Shenloma - “how far away from Earth are we right now?”
“About 52,000 light years,” Boyd cuts in. “I read the briefing file.”
“We’re 52,000 light years from home,” Danielsson says, “and we’re having a conversation with real-life Wookiees, except they can’t do human so well so the best we get is them imitating the sounds of the language of an interstellar empire that just happens to be populated chiefly by humans who left Earth thousands of years ago, and they’re the bad guys who are trying to kill all of us. But fine, I can deal with that, but that Wherren, how he looked at me…”
“What, Rodirr?” Boyd asks.
“No, leader guy, Walks-Through-Fire or what his name was. He understood everything. It’s like...I don’t know.” Danielsson shakes his head. “I’m not drunk enough, is what I’m saying.”
Leaj slaps an arm onto Danielsson’s shoulder. “Is that a request?” she asks with a smile.
Shenloma nods and smiles. “I think it is.”
Leaj smiles a big, goofy grin. “Then we need to hit the transit, because the Tarantek Hole is two wards from here.”

---

A few shops further down the line, Torega’s having a bit of fun with the holo signs of the various shops, pawing right through the light constructs as Hug’sh walks past them.
”Who were they, father?” she asks.
”Just some soldiers from Narsai,” Hug’sh answers. ”Most of the human soldiers there don’t mingle with us.” There’s a slight pause after that, and a ripple through Hug’sh’s fur, as he rethinks his use of the word ‘us’.
”I think that they were nice,” Tarl barks from the back. ”The other Narsai’i have avoided us, but they actually came up and talked with us. That was nice.”
Khodash nods. ”It was nice for them to be close to us.”
”What do you think, Hug’sh?” Rodirr asks, having spent the time since the humans left eyeing Hug’sh closely.
”I think...I think I would like to walk up to all of them and shake their hands and show them that they can talk to us - that felt good,” Hug’sh says, taking on a blue tinge. ”Except I can’t talk to them.”
”Rodirr can!” Dush pipes up. ”You can, too!”
Hug’sh nods reluctantly. ”In time, perhaps,” he says. ”I was just like them, not so long ago. I remember...serving with men like them, shedding the same blood in the same battles. Now we are worlds apart.” He pats Torega’s head. ”There is not a day that I am not glad to be with you - but there is also not a day when I don’t think about who I was.”
”You miss it, then?” Rodirr asks.
”Parts of it,” Hug’sh replies, an an intense wave of blue and yellow washes over him only to fade into dimness the next seconds. ”Other parts...I wish I could leave behind forever.”
Torega can’t help but mirror some of Hug’sh's colors, and leans forward to envelope the top of his head. She starts to purr and groom his head. ”Don’t be sad, father.”
Rodirr brings Hug’sh close and rubs his muzzle against his. ”Take it from someone who knows - you will, eventually. If you change who you are for the better, people will look at you for who you are now, not who you were then.”
Hug’sh claps a hand on Rodirr’s shoulder, then reaches up to stroke Torega’s back. ”You’re right, of course,” he sighs. ”Well, this was supposed to be a fun day. Let’s go have some fun.”
Khodash and her litter-brothers give the expansive shopping arcade around them a skeptical look. Shiny and exciting though it may be, it’s still a big metal box to them; no trees, no animals. ”...what kind of fun do you think we can have?” she asks.
”Buy things in the shops, try some food, visit a holoarcade, or just see the sights,” Hug’sh rattles off, trying to keep in mind that this is their first contact with the concept of a shopping mall. ”Time well wasted, in my opinion. Come on, I’ll show you around.”
Tarl’s finger goes to his tusk. ”Food sounds good,” he grunts.
”Then let’s eat,” Hug’sh says. He doesn’t need to see Torega to know she’s in favor of that, too. ”I know a place.”

The arrival of Luis and Hal back at the Green Zone looks like the collision of two warring tribes of Sheen - both groups have their accelerators out and humming, scanning the rooftops around the secured cordon for any signs of hostiles that might have snuck through even these defenses and alarms, and in the center of each group are humans - Hana, Maron and the rest of the council huddled in the middle with Hal standing over them (literally), and Luis being escorted in the middle of the other group by Grey.

“So, are you interested in talking about maybe helping us out now?” Grey asks as it lumbers up.
“You have picked a particularly opportune time for yourself to discuss this,” Hana shoots back. “Our village is still smouldering, and you want to talk about what you want. It is our homes being blown up by these maniacs!”
“All the more reason to help us drive them out,” Grey replies evenly. “Let’s get out of the firefight, shall we? Hal, Luis, join us.”
Luis nods, and follows, but stays quiet at least for the moment--he wants to give the Sheen a chance to handle this on their own.

Grey leads the group into the largest tent - more out of necessity than anything else; he and Hal are currently too tall to fit in anywhere else. Hana and the other three leaders file in, followed by Luis.
“So, let’s talk about what we can do for each other,” Grey starts.
“I think you mean what you can do for us,” Maron starts. “I heard some of you robots talking - you’re almost out of places to charge up, and those resupply skimmers were turned back. You need us, or the others will overrun you.”
“And, lest we forget, overrun you as well,” Grey adds.
“Yeah, they weren’t exactly kind and gentle to your people, either,” Hal adds.
“The point stands,” Hana replies. “What are you proposing?”
“I know supplies have been tight around here, with the attacks and everything,” Hal says. “And now, they’re completely stopped. But we can’t open a way through without leaving our positions here vulnerable, which is where you come in. Your militia guards our charging station while we send a strike force to blow a hole in this blockade and get the supplies we all need. After that, we’ll prioritize a quarter of our resupply to whatever it is that you need.”
The four humans turn inwards to discuss the proposal for a few seconds. The idea of hiding what’s being discussed from robots is somewhat laughable, but they still make an effort before turning back to Grey as a group. “One half,” Hana says.
“A third,” Grey counters. “Final offer.”
Hana narrows her eyes, but nods. “You will have your guards by tomorrow night.” She looks around. “Now, since my house was blown up, I presume you’ll be making space for me here?”
Hal actually makes a scoffing sound, but Grey nods. “We’ll find a safe spot for you, out of the way.”
“Where she can be watched,” one of the humans cracks.
“That too,” Hal replies.

The desert nights around Mesas Negras still somehow manage to be chilly, even in the latter half of the summer. His light coat on his shoulders, Luis sits in the dark on the outskirts of the training village with a dozen Sheen, waiting on the word from above.

“Boring,” Orphan Grinder says, the aforementioned word from above. “Night time is boring - hey, a coyote!”
“Settle down, spaz,” Hal says. “We’re not looking for kangaroo rats, we’re looking for humans. Asshole ones.”
“Setting search filter for ‘include(humans)’,” Grinder replies, and somewhere in the dark sky above, the shell hums on through the night.
For Luis, after spending a few weeks getting used to moving around in concert with larger-than-human heavy weapons shells, the patrol seems small in the enhanced night vision of his implants low-light mode--with the losses of so many heavy shells, the patrols are biased towards human-scale shells.
“I think I’d take coyotes over waiting around for another shoe to drop,” Luis says. “Let’s root these guys out and drop a couple things of our own.”
"Fuck yeah," Ten Tons of Fun says, and holds up an accelerator for a high five. Luis (carefully) high-fives the accelerator arm.
"Whoop, hold on a sec," Grinder says. "Got us an anomalous heat signature. Looks like a patrol path. Following it now."
“Copy,” Luis says. “All right, let’s focus, everyone.”

The Sheen, naturally, were already completely silent, but they somehow turn that silence up another notch as the strike team waits for Grinder's report.
"Seeing what looks like two sets of footprints, no more than a few minutes old," Grinder's voice says in Luis' ear. "They're leading northeast in grid Golf-42 Hotel-21. Looks like walking pace - WHOA!" All of a sudden, a bright flash and a streak come from Grinder's indicated direction. "Got hostile fire, incoming spearbomb, making evasive maneuvers!"
"Shit," Hal says. "Guess we know where the bad guys are. Let's move!"
“Grinder, we’re moving in. Get us what you can, but get out of there safe,” Luis says.
"Fire's coming from Golf-44 India-21!" Grinder calls over the vox as a second spearbomb arcs up into the air. "Keep a spot on the server warm for me, I don't think I'm gonna -" The second spearbomb suddenly stops in midair, and the clang of the training round impacting the shell can be heard even from the village. It's not as climactic as the explosion that would have followed if it was real, but it certainly means that Grinder has been knocked out of action. "- make it," Grinder finishes. "Well, fuck. Go get 'em, guys."
“All right, let’s move out,” Luis says. He grimaces for a moment about losing their eyes in the sky, then focuses on taking a quick look at the topology around the reported site, a bumpy area with three big hills in a rough triangle - pretty much a perfect defensive hideout. “How do you want to play this, Grey?”
Grey hits the adaptive camouflage on its shell. "We wait for an opening in the patrol path, go over the top of the south hill on camo with one trin, hit hard and fast. Other three trins wait on other side for cleanup, also in camo. They get chased into the trap, we mop them up. Hallelujah It's Raining Blood, you lead the strike team."
"Got it," Hal replies.
"Your trin stays glued to your ass, and remember, your job is to chase them towards us, not gun them all down. Don't penetrate their group, force them to retreat towards us," Grey says.
"Copy that," Hal and his trin echo as they pop their own camo on.
"Any comments?" Grey asks Luis as the faint blur of its sensor pod turns his way.
“Should work as long as we make sure they’re not expecting us on the ground this fast or this hard,” Luis says. “Let’s do it.” He straightens his beam rifle on its sling, checks that his own Turai carapace camouflage is working, and gets ready.

Grey puts Luis on the right flank, underneath Ten Tons as trin leader, and the group heads out. Hal and its trin split off early, giving Grey time to lead the bulk of the forces in a long route around the back of the hill formation. Luis hears a few voices in the middle of the formation, but no guards, even though they must be there. Grey, on the other hand, must have noticed something, because a couple times he orders the group to come to a halt with a burst over vox for a minute before continuing. Ten minutes later, he sends Ten Tons' trin off a bit further, and Luis follows Tons, trying to minimize noise that might give them away as he keeps up with the bots making up the rest of the trin. Despite the edge on Luis nerves (or perhaps because of it), he and the trin get into position with little issue. Luis lies down prone, steadies his rifle downrange, and waits for the enemy, or the first sign of something going wrong.
His ears buzz again with the sound of Sheen transmissions, and then Ten Tons comes on his vox. "Here they come, get ready."

The first shots come sooner than Luis would have thought - either the Sheen got a bead on the patrol, or the other way around. Either way, there's a brief burst of accelerator and beamer fire, and shouts of alarm come up from the distance. A moment later, the virtual outlines of Hal's trin lope into his vision over the furthest hill, firing both arm accelerators in sweeping arcs to suppress and drive back the insurgents.
"They're setting up a defensive line!" Hal calls. "But we got it!"
"Down!" Grevious Bodily Harm calls out.
"One down, but the line is broken!" Hal says over vox. "Guards are dead, the rest are coming your way!"
"Copy that," Grey replies. "Line, stay ready, hold fire until they're within 50 meters."

Luis takes a breath, his senses humming with adrenaline as he waits for the enemy to reach the ambush point. A moment, then another, and suddenly the enemy is there, several dozen armored men and women, carrying beamers and spear bombs and running at full tilt away from Hal’s driving force, who trail them by 118 meters. Starting to track them at their 77m distance, he lets the distance tick down, and opens fire just as they cross 50 meters, nearly simultaneous with the fire from the Sheen. His first blast drops the target he was tracking with a “kill shot,” and Luis takes just a moment to evaluate the field as he switches to the next target on the hillside. In the brief moments since the fire began, he can catch glimpses of the enemy starting to try to skid to a stop on the hard-packed dirt in the face of the new threat. Before they have a chance to react, he picks another target, and fires again. Another enemy drops from his shot, as the enemy start to drop of their own volition--some dropping prone to return fire, others just dropping their weapons and surrendering. Still others scatter, trying to break out the ends of the lines of Sheen or simply to get anyplace that’s not where they are. All told, there’s still just under two dozen enemies still fighting. Luis just focuses on making sure that none of them get out of the trap, switching fire from one target to the next, but making a point of hitting any who try for the end of the lines. So far, though, Grey’s plan seems to be working as designed. It takes another few shots--one hit, one miss, and a final shot that hits an enemy returning fire from prone right in the face before he runs out of targets--everyone that’s left “alive” is surrendering.

"All right, everyone push through and police," Grey says. Some of the larger shells pop out their immobilizer cannons and start gooing surrendered "insurgents", while others pick up weapons and adhere them to their shells magnetically. More than a few of the faces are familiar from the times Luis has eaten at the noodle place at the adit nearest the Bashakra’i Turai barracks, or from earlier excercises.
As Luis finishes his sweep with the rest of Ten Tons’ trin, Grey comes on his ear. "Hey, Luis, get over here." Luis nods to Ten Tons, then breaks off to Grey. As he approaches, the Sheen decloaks and looks Luis' way. As it shifts back and forth on its two legs, it actually looks, for lack of a better term, nervous. "So, Luis. How did we do?"
Luis looks around. “No casualties on our side except Grinder, and a clean sweep so far. Well set-up, and solid teamwork on the execution, and we’ve got a lot of prisoners to find out what we can from. If we can secure this, make sure we’ve gotten the whole group who were at this site at least, then I think this is about the optimal outcome so far.”
Grey nods a sensor pod as the other two scan the area. "So, what next?"
“Did anyone see their camp? This is a lot of dudes for just sitting around in the desert. We need to find that, and render it unusable to them. Or find out if there’s more of them around here someplace,” Luis says.
"Hal and its trin pushed right through it," Grey replies.
"It's empty now," Hal says. "Think we got them all."
“All right,” Luis says. “Let’s sweep it quickly, see if there’s any sign of where they might have any other camps, take what we can use, and then get rid of the rest.”
"Right! That makes sense," Grey says. "Hal, take Grevious' trin with your trin and sweep the camp. We'll finish up here." Hal nods, and the five Sheen hustle off back over the hill as Grey looks back to Luis. "Anything else?"
“Just to keep an eye on everything,” Luis says. “We’ve just made a lot of noise, and we want to make sure nobody tries on us what we just did to these guys. Once we’re done, we grab the prisoners and whatever cogitators, intel, or gear we’ve salvaged and get back to base.”
"Right," Grey says. "Interrogations. Gotta do those." The Sheen doesn't sound pleased about that.
“Yeah, we do,” Luis says. “And we’ve got to keep an eye on all of them.”
"Yeah, but...talking to humans isn't really something I'm good at," Grey says. It pauses. "Sure you can't do it?"
“I can help with it, but you and the others should learn,” Luis says. “You can watch a few, and then help with a few, and then I’ll watch you do a few. That work?”
"Yes. That should be all right. I think." Grey does the nervous shuffle a bit more. "Humans, though."
“You’ll learn to do it,” Luis says. “You’ve learned a lot here already, you all showed that tonight.”
Grey nods. "Yes. Thank you, Luis. I'm sure it'll be fine. Even if the humans are crazy and irrational."
“If we weren’t, we wouldn’t be humans,” Luis says with a grin.

Commuting to Mesas Negras every weekday for the Sheen training doesn’t leave much time for Luis at home on Atea. At least one of the remaining precious days is spent plugged into his ship, flying double-shift sorties with the other Interceptors. Normally, the other is spent with Arketta, mostly curled up watching holos on the bed or couch, or walking around the city.

However, tonight, Luis is catering to a different hobby: his newfound passion for dodge-ball. Tonight, the stands integrated into the walls of the main primary academy’s athletic field are extended as two two-story mock houses have been erected on the plastic turf, and Luis has front-row center seats for the face-off between the Iamnasa’i Quint’i and Mannand’i Nahka’i - a primary academy match, sure, but there’s a couple promising squad leaders on his ward’s team with a serious chance to go on to the semi-pro ward league.

Right now, though, his Quint’i are in a tough spot. One whole half of their quad got ambushed on an aggressive gambit early on and “killed”, so now they’re playing with one hand tied behind their back. The last ten minutes have been a tense and conservative match between a probing Nahka’i offense and a dug-in Quint’i defense. The tension has the crowd quieter than usual, and Luis is too, studying the Quint’i reaction to the Nahka’i forays. If it was his call, and given how the Nahka’i are playing, he’d be trying to get them overconfident and draw them into an ambush of their own, but it’s up in the air if they’ll have a chance, or in the Nahka’i will keep playing smarter and try to just trade off and attrit the Quint’i into a victory. “Come on, take the bait,” he mutters, caught up in the tactical problem and the teamwork--it feels a lot like rooting for the team from the bench in a tight final quarter back in high school mixed with the rush of wargames and killhouse drills. Arketta’s remarked upon that more than once, amused that one of his main recreations is a version of his day job, just lower stakes, but that’s at least half the appeal.

Luis, from his outside vantage point, spots one of the Quint’i through the windows moving towards an open window facing the Nahka’i offense, a blatantly suicidal move at best, if it wasn’t for what he also saw hooked to his waist opposite the window - a “healing ring”. Distraction? Luis thinks, and looks to see where the rest of the team is heading. As far as he can tell, they’re all staying put on the opposite side of the building from where he is - oops, and there he goes across the open ground.
“Target up!” one of the Nahka’i shouts, and a hail of fist-sized rubber balls flings out from the Nahka’i positions in the yard and opposite building. Three of them ricochet off of the Quint’i, but none of them score the kill shot before he slides to a stop behind cover again. He fishes the healing ring off of his belt and activates it - the lights along the edge start their ten-second countdown while two Nahka’i scouts move in for the kill. Luis grimaces, leaning forward in his seat. “Tell me that wasn’t your whole plan, guys. ‘Bring them to me, then take a couple down with me once I heal’? That’s not a good trade.” He rubs the hard plastic armrest his his fingers as he watches.
Two more Quint’i slide cautiously underneath the windows to a better vantage point, as the remaining trin slides towards the back. The instant the two Nahka’i scouts come within easy range of the windows the two Quint’i pop up and quickly nail both of them in the head - two down, bringing the game to two trins a piece. “Yeah!” Luis shouts, cheering with the rest of the home crowd.
“Fill those gaps!” the Nahka’i leader shouts, and the away team displaces a trin to compensate - which is just what the Quint’i must have been waiting for, as the other trin rolls out of the windows and sneaks up and around the other side of the arena - a risky gambit that has the Quint’i supporters gasping and the Nahka’i supporters shouting and screaming for their team to look the other way. They vanish behind the Nahka’i building for a moment before reappearing at the back. They climb in through the back windows as their other trin keeps the Nahka’i attention directed the other way, and moments after infiltration shouts of “I’m out! I’m out!” and “Nahka’i down!” come from inside the building, and the small crowd erupts as three of the Nahka’i markers go from green to red - and then the whole arena goes nuts as the Quint’i rush the windows on both sides and light up all three remaining Nahka’i, taking the last trin out. Luis suddenly finds himself on his feet, cheering, as the ambush comes together. It was a risky move, but they got the enemy looking where they wanted them to look, and it came together perfectly. Grinning, he lets out another whoop. “Go Quint’i!” The Quint’i still on the field rush out of the buildings and embrace as the defeated Nahka’i pick themselves up off the ground and walk somewhat dejectedly towards their bench. Some of the others wearing the Iamnasa Ward colors around him embrace and clap Luis on the back, and Luis returns some while exchanging grins and waves with a couple more distant faces he recognizes from other matches. The parents of the players on the field are jumping up and down in their little section, and it certainly seems like celebration is the thing to do tonight - which means a visit to the Quint’i Pool, the booster restaurant and bar a quarter mile away. A win means one free mild cider for the players; the parents usually buy a few celebratory shots of brandy for themselves - and maybe one for the kids.

Luis activates his vox and calls Arketta--he’d like to pass on some congratulations to the team, and the bar has pretty good stuff.
Arketta picks up on the first beep, and Luis can hear the holodisplay in the background. “Hey, lahnai. How’d the game go?”
“Tight to start, but they pulled out a pretty stunning turnaround at the end,” Luis says. “You want to join me for a drink or two to celebrate? I promise I’m not just trying to liquor you up and get you to come home with me.”
“Well, as long as that’s still part of the plan,” Arketta replies playfully. “I’ll meet you at the restaurant. Get me a double of firefruit liquor, please.”
“Will do,” Luis says. “See you soon, dear.”
“Love you, lahnai,” Arketta replies, and disconnects. By the time Luis is off the call, the stands have already emptied, and except for a couple of field managers wrangling loose balls, the teams have mostly retired to the locker rooms. Luis makes his way down the bleachers and to the nearest exit.

Once Luis clears the double-doors and the open airlock, he’s left standing in the open pedestrian corridor surrounding the arena and primary academy. He turns to follow the crowd he hears cheering and chanting the Iamnasa Ward fight song, but then he hears a squeal of pain from the corridor leading into the primary academy ten meters behind him. Luis’ head snaps around, and he starts walking that way. Might just be nothing, but...that doesn’t sound right.
“Please! Leave me alone!” a teenaged boy squeals.
“Gimmie your vox, Tona!” another boy shouts.
“And that bag!” another adds. Luis breaks into a jog as the voices continue, sparing just a moment’s attention to flip his hand through the haptic to start recording.
“And your wrist holo!”
“No, please!” the first boy cries.
“Don’t make me cut it off you!” the first bully shouts.
Luis’ jog turns into a sprint. The last few meters seem to take forever to cover before he finally rounds the corner of the corridor. He sees four skinny teenagers - one scared out of his wits as he’s being dragged around by his sash and shoulder bag, and four others, three boys and one girl, two with knives, threatening him. The four aggressors all are wearing scarves around their mouths and noses, all burnt orange - obviously some kind of gang color.
“Get away from him,” Luis shouts in his best NCO voice.
All four bullies turn around, but the leader keeps his grip on the poor boy’s sash. “Fuck off, old man, this is our school,” the leader growls.
“If you want to try scaring me,” Luis says, taking a measured step forward. “You’ll have to do a lot better than that schoolyard crap. I said back off.”
The other boy with a knife steps forward and points it at Luis. “How about this, tough guy?”
Luis takes a look at the knife, taking a quick moment to open a vox connection to the ward Kansat, before doing the best dismissive snort he can without totally letting the blade out of his sight. “Sure, I’ve fought Turai and Jade Caretakers, but that’s going to worry me. You might as well put that away and get out of here before the Kansat show up.”
“You’ll be bleeding on the ground before they get here,” the leader snarls. “Dusam, cut this fool.”

(Initiative roll! Dusam: 2; Luis: 4)
(Luis waits one round, Dusam moves to melee range!)
(Luis attacks! Attack roll: Luis: 2,5,7; Dusam: 1 / Damage roll: Luis: 6; Dusam: 1)

Luis takes a breath and lets the kid come at him. His first mistake was trying to take on a member of the 815. His second was telegraphing his clumsy swing of the knife. Luis evades its arc easily, then steps in, grabs a handful of shirt, and puts an elbow solidly into the kid’s face. He feels something give, and the kids drops, the knife clattering off the corridor floor. His medic experience tells his gut that’s one down, so he turns his attention to the rest. He scans them, meeting eyes. “All right, second warn -”
“Get this asshole!” the leader shouts, and all three kids charge in.

(Initiative roll! Luis: 1; Leader: 4; Idiot 2: 3; Idiot 3: 3, Luis spends 2 WD for 5)
(Luis moves to attack Idiot 3 at 1 penalty: Luis: 1d6,1d8 = 1,4; Idiot 3: 1d6 = 4, Damage: Luis: 1d6 = 3; Idiot 3: 1d4 = 3, No damage)
(Gang attacks: Leader: 2d6 = 1,5 + 3v1 1d6: 1; Luis: 2d8 = 5,6 / Idiot 2: 1d6 = 2 + 3v1 1d6: 5; Luis: 2d8 = 4,7 / Idiot 3: 1d6 = 1 + 3v1 1d6: 1; Luis: 2d8 = 6,7, Idiot 3 is at disadvantage for 1 round)

Luis doesn’t wait for them to come to him; one quick burst forward brings him to the other unarmed teenage boy, but this one sees him coming and isn’t as stupid as the last one. He moves with Luis’ punch, and as a result Luis barely grazes his shoulder. And then the gang descends upon Luis; the leader of the group is there first with a slash of his knife that Luis knocks out of the way with a knife-hand blow to the forearm. The lone girl in the group tries to take advantage of the distraction and go for Luis’ groin, but he deftly side-steps out of the way. The boy Luis just attacked tries for a wild haymaker, but it’s a bit too wild - by the time the kid throws the blow, Luis isn’t anywhere near where his fist goes, and he ends up with his back to Luis.

(Luis attacks Idiot 3: Luis: 3d8 = 7,8,6; Idiot 3: 1d4 = 1)

Luis takes advantage of the position to put a kick into the exposed back of the kid’s right knee. It collapses, and the kids falls to the floor, his right leg bending in a distinctly different direction to the left.

(Gang attacks: Luis: 2d8 = 5,7; Leader: 2d6+1d4 = 1,2,3 / Luis: 2d8 = 6,1; Idiot 2: 1d6+1d4 = 2,3)

The leader of this little gang certainly doesn’t have seem to have gotten there by his ability to fight people who actually know how to fight back, and Luis easily dodges another wild swing of his knife. The girl kicks at his side, but Luis easily counters with a kick to her rising shin.

(Luis attacks the Leader: Luis: 2d8 = 6,1; Leader: 2d6 = 2,3 / Damage roll: Luis: 1d6 = 1; Leader: 1d4 = 1, Luis spends 2 WD to boost to 7)

Luis takes advantage of the girl’s recovery to put another kick into the leader’s groin. Luis can see the punk’s eyes cross as he instinctively curls from the pain. He grabs ahold of the punk’s head and smashes it against his rising knee with a crunch Luis can feel echo up his leg, and the leader is out cold.

(Idiot 2 Will roll: Situation:1d8 = 7; Idiot 2 1d6 = 3)

The sole standing member of the gang sees her leader go down with blood gushing from his shattered nose, stops, takes one look at Luis, and then bolts. Luis surveys the scene as he keeps his guard up: two gang members are out cold, while a third is screaming in pain as he grabs at his leg just above his destroyed knee. The kid they were trying to rob - Tona - is curled up against the wall and whimpering.

“Did they hurt you?” Luis asks Tona.
Tona peeks over the top of his bag he’s holding up as a shield, and his jaw drops at what he sees. “...wow.”
“Yeah.” Luis says. “Are you all right?”
“...yeah,” Tona replies, and pulls himself to his feet. “Who...how…”
“Luis Stanhill, 815,” Luis says, as an answer to both. “They picked a bad fight.” He pauses, and then remembers the Kansat call. He checks if the line is still active.
It is. “Hello? Samal?” the Kansat asks on the other end. “I can see that the situation has de-escalated, Kansatai are seconds away.”
Luis nods at the voices in his head, and smiles at Tona, extending a hand to help him up. “Help will be here in a moment.” He turns his attention to the call for just a moment. “Might need some medical help, too.”
“I see that, Samal,” the Kansat dispatcher says. “Wait there.” The connection ends.
Tona takes Luis’ hand, and gets to his feet, still clutching his bag to his chest. “...how did you learn to do this?”
“Determination, training, and a lot of practice,” Luis says. “They give you trouble before?”
“Uh-huh,” Tona says, still looking at the three downed gang members with a stunned expression.
“Hopefully, they won’t be anymore,” Luis says. He’s not the best at small talk ever, and he’s about as unsure what to say as Tona seems to be.

Thankfully, the two Kansat dispatched to the incident choose that moment to show up. “Samal Stanhill! Is everything under control?” one of them shouts as they hustle over.
“Situation secure,” Luis says. “One of them ran for it, and all three here could use medical attention.” He belatedly shuts off the video recording as the flashing icon reminds him of it. “We’re fine here.”
Tona gives Luis a curious look as the Kansat start talking into their voxes back to the ward dispatch. “I thought you were one of the 815?”
“I am,” Luis says.
“...but they called you Samal,” Tona says.
“I’m with the Interceptors here,” Luis says.
“Oh,” Tona simply says.
One of the Kansat comes over to Luis as the other puts restraints on the downed gang members. “Thanks for your help, Samal,” he says with a nod.
“Not a problem,” Luis says. “Do you need a statement now, or will my video be enough? My wife’s going to be waiting for me, and if you need me long I should give her a call.”
“No, we recorded your end of the vox connection, that should be more than enough,” he replies. He offers his hand to shake. “Seriously, Samal. Thanks. You didn’t have to jump in, this wasn’t your problem, but you did, and you might have saved that kid’s life.”
Luis shakes the Kansat’s hand. “I live around here, I might be sending kids to academy here when I have them, I’d want them to be safe. Of course I jumped in, this is my ward.” He nods. “When those punks wake up, tell them if they keep that up, they’re no better than the Emperor’s bully boys. Acting like that, they’re a disgrace to every Bashakra’i.”
The Kansat nods. “Will do, Samal. Have a good night.”
Luis nods. “I will.” He turns to Tona. “If you need help, there’s people who can give it to you. Don’t be afraid to get it. Stay safe, all right?”
“Uh-huh,” Tona says. He finally looks Luis in the eyes. “Thanks, Samal.”
“You’re welcome,” Luis says, and extends a hand for Tona to shake.
Tona takes his hand - for all of what’s gone down tonight, the kid has a pretty firm handshake. “Have a good night,” he says, then makes his departure.

Like in so many things, while the grunts go off to their barracks to settle down for what is the Atea night, the brass are taken off towards the highest class restaurant on the worldship - Mtahta, located on the starward side of Horos Ward. One of the newest wards on Atea, Horos used to be a construction drydock that the Bashakra’i picked up for a song a decade ago. They filled in the docks as best they could, but rerouting all of the gravitational control systems would have been far beyond their budget, so the outermost two decks of the wide and relatively thin ward have a gravitational orientation perpendicular to the rest of the station. It’s rather out of the way, with most of the cockeyed decks being taken up with berths, but the main shopping arcade with its beautiful roof open out to the stars beyond the star and its desolate planets is a draw from all over the worldship, and Mtahta is its star attraction.

However, the Bashakra’i aren’t the kind of people that go in for pure opulence, both out of a culture preference for simpler and more grounded experiences honed in the temperate forests of their homeworld, and the simple realities of living on a renegade worldship. And so Mtahta is somewhat smaller than the vast and decadent banquet halls on other worlds, and the decor in Mtahta could seem somewhat understated by Narsai’i standards, and downright pedestrian by the ridiculous heights of the Imperium. But the Bashakra’i immediately appreciate the immaculate craftsmanship and detail of the carvings in every table - each carved from solid tadhar wood (some even harvested from Bashakra itself before the glassing) - and how the stone echoes the mountains of their homeworld. Most impressive of all is the water feature: a simple river running in a circle half the radius of the restaurant, but not only is the upkeep required to have running water on a worldship alone impressive enough, it also runs in a continuous circuit thanks to a slight tweak in the gravity for the restaurant floor.

The food served and attendance policy for Mtahta are both intertwined with the restrictions unique to Atea as well. Reservations in advance are required - not just for space considerations, but because there is no fixed menu. Since regular supplies of fine ingredients are not exactly a specialty of shadowport smugglers, Mtahta’s kitchen staff are quite possibly the best in the galaxy at making do with what they have - whole spink one day, scrofa flanks the next, a whole school of little harza fish the day after, they all are cooked and prepared to the highest standards. This makes Mtahta a rather apropos place for the Narsai’i military dignitaries to dine at - they simply brought the food.

Luis, for his part, can’t help marvelling at the sheer depth and variety of brass on display. While he finds himself somewhat less impressed by the presence of multi-star generals and admirals of all stripes than he would have been even a year ago (something about moving off Earth and dealing more as an ally with the Army than a grunt seems to do that to you), their recent issues with the Pentagon can’t let him entirely settle down and enjoy the relaxed atmosphere and novel layout of the restaurant. Unlike the Imperium’s best opulent temples to luxury, the Mtahta seems more content to show its class in its quality of experience, showing restraint where most Imperium restaurants would have gone for more glowing indications of excess. It’s perhaps owed to the somewhat ragged general existence on Atea, but Luis would say it’s also that Bashakra’i just tend to value the simple things more than most of the Naranai’i they’ve run into in the Imperium. Regardless, it’s a nicer place to eat, or it would be if at least part of him didn’t keep trying to convince him he should be looking for Russell, or see if Simmons somehow snuck aboard instead of focusing on the excellent food. However, eventually he manages to simply settle into a level of butterflies appropriate for preceding a highly important demonstration instead of the prelude to a shootout.

And so, it’s over a distinctly herbal steak course with cooked Aikoro greens and mashed potatoes mixed with smoked spink that Brinai stands before the Narsai’i military leaders the GRHDI had assembled from all over the planet. “Narsai’i military leaders, welcome to Atea,” she says in Imperial, letting the Narsai’i translators handle the rest. “This is what we call a ‘worldship’, our home away from home in space. Five-hundred thousand Bashakra’i live and work aboard this station, and hundreds of millions live elsewhere in the Imperium - a far cry from the more than a billion that lived on Bashakra before the Imperium burned our world. We entered this alliance because I believe that we share common goals - halting the extermination of worlds, and bringing freedoms and liberties to the citizens of the Imperium. Recent events have tested that alliance - the cowardly attacks on the 815, for example - but I still believe that we are each other’s best chance at success. So, in that spirit, we open our Gateway to your soldiers and yourselves for training and demonstration, so the Narsai’i might get a more complete understanding of what we all face.” She nods to the group. “Now, if you’ll excuse an old woman, I will take a seat and let Bello, my intelligence chief, say a few words.”
Bello stands up, the tall man clearly not entirely comfortable with this many people knowing who he is at once - or possibly just these specific people. “Thank you all for coming,” he says, and briefly raises his drink. “I look forward to working with you all in Aaf-gahn-istan.” Bello then sits back down again and looks to Onas, the third person seated at the table.
Onas quickly stands up, the short length of Bello’s speech catching even him by surprise. “’Hello,’” he says in very accented but passable English. “’Excuse me, I have been learning your language just a short time. I have seen and heard how your soldiers fight - and I am impressed. My Turai have learned much from your soldiers already, and they say your soldiers have learned much too. If this is how it will be in the future, then the Imperium will not stand a chance against us. I, too, look forward to fighting with you all in Afghanistan.’” He takes a seat again, and looks over behind the assembled Narsai’i brass to something or someone at the back wall.
Brinai stands up again. “Thank you all again for coming. Now, once your meal is concluded, Samal Stanhill will take you for your demonstration of Interceptors and our captured Needleship. Thank you.”

With that, Brinai, Onas and Bello all stand up and go their separate ways - Bello following Brinai out of the restaurant, while Onas steps towards the back and out of a side door, leaving the room in the hands of Luis. Fortunately, the room is more concerned with the meal than interrogating Luis at the moment, and he gets a half-hour to steady himself for when he actually has to take charge.

Onas steps through the swinging door into the wait staff corridor, the heat and scent of the kitchen a few steps further down permeating the air. He closes his eyes and takes a deep, slow breath - and then a pair of strong arms grab his shoulders from the front. Far from reacting with a push-elbow to the chin combo like his training taught him, Onas smiles.
“You did fine, relax,” Paul says, and pulls his husband close. If someone from Paul Sturgis’ days on Narsai were to walk in, they’d barely recognize the man standing before them now. With the help of Onas’ tireless workout schedule and a diet and stim regimen from a physical performance medicae on Boranai, Paul has gone from the fit-but-thin physique of the habitual runner he was before to a bodybuilder bulk that approaches Onas’. His wardrobe has changed to match - today, he’s wearing a sleeveless tunic with a deeply plunging neckline that not only shows off his physique, but his marriage and Viiam’i sigils.
Onas returns the embrace for a moment, then the two men separate. “How was my Narsai’i?” he asks. “I tried to practice it this morning, but force deployment schedules took longer than I -”
It might not sound like it to others, but Paul can tell that his husband is freaking out. “Onas, calm down,” Paul interrupts with a smile. “You were great. I understood you just fine from all the way back here. I’m sure they appreciated the effort.”
Onas smiles back. “Thanks, lahna.” This time, Onas goes in for the hug, and gives Paul a peck on the cheek to boot. “How do you feel?”
Onas doesn’t have to elaborate beyond that for Paul to know what he’s talking about. “Nervous,” Paul replies with a sigh as he rests his head against Onas’. “I feel like I might bolt for the kitchen if any of them start walking this way.”
“Still not ready to show them who you really are?” Onas asks.
Paul sighs again. “No, I don’t think I am,” he says. “I get this feeling in my gut when I think about it, and it’s just telling me ‘no, don’t do it’.”
“I don’t think that’ll ever go away, Paul,” Onas replies.
“No, probably not,” Paul says. “But...not today.” He pulls back from the embrace and looks Onas in the eyes. “Okay?”
Onas nods. “If that is how you feel, then I will support you in it. It is your decision to make. I love you either way.” He gives Paul another kiss. “Understood?”
Paul nods, and smirks despite a bit of moisture building up in his eyes. “I love you too, Onas.” He moves back in and doubles down on an even more intense hug.

And a half-hour later, as the brass have their drinks, that time arrives. Standing up, Luis turns and takes in the room. Luckily, he snagged a seat near a wall, so he can face pretty much everyone at once. “Hello, everyone,” Luis says in English. “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Luis Stanhill, and as Brinai said today I’m going to be giving you an up-close view of the main Imperial warships and fightercraft, as well as some demonstrations of their capabilities.” He pauses for a moment, scanning the crowd to make sure he’s got people’s attention. “So if everyone could please follow me, we’ll be taking a tram to the hangars we base one of the the Interceptor squadrons out of here on Atea.” The conversation between the old Narsai’i military men picks up a notch as they climb to their feet, hats tucked under their arms, and follow Luis to the transit center.

On the private transit ride to the hangars, Luis holds forth, laying out the basic roles of Imperial fighters, mantas, and Needleships both in space combat and for ground support. He can tell from the aside glances at the windows by some and the fixed focus of others on the floors that the shifting gravity of the Atea transit network is giving many of the bigwigs distinct stomach trouble. It’s a good thing that most of the material will be covered at least once more today, and is heavily highlighted in the briefing materials each will be taking home, he thinks as he wraps up explaining the space-superiority and patrol duties of the Interceptors, and the tram pulls into the adit for the hangar.

A couple of skimmers are waiting at the hangar, with Yisai standing at attention in front of them waiting for them. Luis snaps her a salute as he approaches, mostly for the benefit of the crowd following him. Yisai nods to Luis, then turns her attention back to the assembled military leaders. “Hello, Narsai’i military leaders,” she says with a deep bow, and she returns to standing bolt upright. “My name is Yisai Akruis, I am the leader of the Interceptors on Atea. It is my pleasure to show you what an elite-level Interceptor flight can do.” Her eyes flick towards Luis, the outward expression of what he can tell is pure nerves. Luis translates for her, but the Narsai’i there are far more interested (Fascinated? Bewildered?) with Yisai’s appearance. She’s taken Luis’ advice and eschewed her full formal Imperial Turai dress uniform, instead opting for a simple loose-fitting blue tunic and black tights, one of the two or three sets of clothes she owns that aren’t covered in grease or a skinsuit, but she’s still taller than most of the men there and has a skin tone that’s a close match to the ranks pinned to their uniforms.
One of the officers from the US Navy turns to Luis and asks the question that seems to be on their minds. “’Is this a robot?’”
“No,” Luis says. “She’s just very good at her job.”
“’What happened to her skin, then?’” another officer asked.
“Think tats,” Luis says, and lets his eyes flash to draw some attention to them.
Some of the officers scoff at that, but none of them ask any more questions.
Yisai looks back to Luis, and he notices the nervous tick in her right hand acting up. “Is...everything all right, Luis?”
“It’s fine,” Luis says. “They just had some questions about your mods.”
“I can answer any questions they want about them,” Yisai replies quickly, and looks back to them. “If any of you want to learn about my body modifications instead of going to the hangar right away, that can be accommodated - although it might be difficult for you to all fit into the studio.”
Luis catches her eyes, and shakes his head subtly. “Let’s just go ahead and show them the ship? That’s what they’re here to see.”
“Oh, okay,” Yisai replies, and gives a quick nod before climbing into the driver’s seat of her skimmer.
“All right,” Luis says, “Let’s load up and head to see the ships.”

It’s just over two minutes drive to the hangar (2.23 minutes, according to Luis’ internal vox), and it takes nearly as long to get all of the brass in through the airlock and ready room into the hangar, where the rest of Yisai’s squadron is waiting, already in their skinsuits. Yisai takes her position next to the men and women under her command, and lets Luis handle the floor. Luis walks over to his Interceptor, which has been brought down to the floor level, and sits floating on its impellers, station-keeping on automatic systems a few feet above the deck. Turning back to the crowd of Narsai’i millitary, he waves at it. “This is a V1887 Interceptor, the top-of-the-line Imperial fighter craft. It’s capable of both atmospheric and spaceflight, with enough life support to sustain the pilot for several days, and enough reactant mass onboard to sustain a low-energy cruise for that period, or for up to 24 hours of intense maneuvering--basically to the edge of unrested pilot performance. In atmosphere, the endurance figures are reduced slightly, due to the requirements for constantly maintaining impellers like it is right now, but the non-combat loiter is still well over 24 hours.” He walks around to the weapons array. “In terms of armament, it carries four main particle beamers, two per side here…” he waves at their sleek housings and deadly snouts. “...and it can carry a variety of onboard munitions from jamming drones, smart missiles, and sunballs.” Luis grins to Yisai. “Yisai’s probably going to give me hell later, but I’m trying to translate the jargon as well as the words. Anyway, later, Yisai and the rest of the squadron will be showing you what that performance those specifications can translate to, but for the moment, you have the chance to take a closer look at this example of the type and ask questions of myself and Yisai.” He grins to the crowd. “While you can touch, I’d like to request that you don’t scratch the paint--while there are many like it, this one is mine. You might need an industrial laser to manage any real damage to the skin, though.”
That gets a bit of a chuckle out of some of the officers, and they all huddle around it in their little groups by branch. It's the Air Force officers that ask the obvious question. "Mr. Stanhill, I assume you sit in here somewhere," one of the colonels asks. "But where are the windows? How do you see out? I presume this -" he knocks on the top of the pilot's pod, "- is just a retractable blast shield."
“No, you see out through these,” Luis says, tapping the cover over one of the ship’s quarter-sized sensor sconces near where he’s standing. “The ship is flown by neural link--sort of like Pacific Rim, except that the ship’s sensors are also fed back to the same link--the pilot sees and feels everything the ship does, filtered to be comprehensible to the human nervous system. It yields a fantastically responsive ship, and better situational awareness than a mere window could give the Mark 1 Eyeball.”
That sets the brass muttering to themselves in appreciation. “And how long does it take to train a pilot to handle flying one of these?” one of the Air Force generals asks, a smile on his face. “How fast can we get our boys into one of these?” He turns to the other men in blue. “Imagine the look on Tehran’s face when we fly over a wing of these bad boys.”
Luis turns to Yisai and bows. “They’re curious about the training time. I think I might be a little biased to answer. How long would you say it takes to train a pilot to combat standards?”
“’One year from not having flown a ship before,’” Yisai replies. “If they have previous piloting experience, six months or less - but they might need to have their internal voxes upgraded. Some of the older series do not have compatible jacks with the new Interceptor generations, not to mention lacking enough processing power to augment cerebrum activity.” She nods towards the Air Force officers. “Ask them when we can inspect their pilots for compatibility.”
“The Narsai’i don’t have internal voxes,” Luis says. “They’d all need that.”
Yisai cocks her head. “How do they pilot their Interceptors, then?”
“Eyes, instruments, and feeling,” Luis says, then turns to the waiting Air Force officer, who seems slightly perturbed by the extended exchange. “It’d take as much as a year to train from a fresh start to combat ready, perhaps less depending on past experience. The main question is the internal neural implants required,” Luis says, tapping the rim of his skulljack. “They’re very hard to get without approval from the Imperium Turai, so it’s a challenge to get them through the Bashakra’i backchannels.”
“Whoa, hold on, son,” the general says. “Neural implants? They don’t just have some hairnet thing?”
“No,” Luis says. “Getting the kind of connections to the brain the link requires...well, this actually is both rocket science and brain surgery. Lower-performance craft like Mantas or civilian transports can be flown without a neural link, but for combat craft the Imperium rely on the speed and power of a link between an implanted vox and the ship.”
The mood of the Air Force officers - and the other officers in general - has taken a bit of a nosedive. “What are these implants you’re talking about, son?”
“An onboard vox computer system,” Luis says, “That includes links into visual processing and close ties to a lot of the lower brain stem for tapping into motor control and general perception. It’s fairly complex surgery, even for the Imperium, but it has a long history of success.”
“Cramming a computer in your brain.” The Air Force general frowns. “And where does these things come from? Imperium sources, I bet.” He turns back to the other Air Force officers. “I don’t think we’ll be scooping out our boys’ brains and replacing them with an Imperium-made model.” There’s more than a few nods of assent.
“Considering it’ll be years before Earth’s tech base is capable of supporting production of anything like this, then it’s that or nothing,” Luis says, and shrugs. “Even once we would be capable of supporting the design and construction of alternate fighters, doing so without neural links concedes a serious performance and reaction advantage to the Imperium pilots flying craft like this one against Earth in any future engagement. It’s not one to be made lightly, but that’s the implications of it.”
“We’ll see about that,” the Air Force general remarks. “Were the Bakashra-ans able to replicate the F-22 performance envelopes for the test?”
Luis turns. “Yisai, they’re curious what we’re flying against today, and if we managed to meet the envelope figures they sent over.”
Yisai nods. “I had to recode the flight computers to maneuver so slowly, but yes. Are they sure this is the demonstration that they want? I understood this was supposed to be an hour-long demonstration. In my estimation, we would destroy all twelve targets on the first pass.”
Luis nods. “Not surprised, but I think they had a hard time believing our performance numbers without proof, so they need to see it in action. Once that’s done, maybe we can fill out the time with some real fun?”
Yisai nods again. “I agree.”
Luis turns back to the general. “Yes, we were able to match them for the test. It took some work, but I think you’ll find the results interesting.”

While a Bashakra’i guide leads the Narsai’i brass out of the hangar and to a nearby observation deck, where they’ll be able to see the events through a combination of panoramic windows and large magnified holodisplays, Luis and Yisai suit up to join the rest of the squadron. The ribbing of the pilots assigned to fly the limited by the Narsai’i “performance” profiles is balanced only by their clear discomfort in being stuck with the limits, but the promise of being able to show off under full power after seems to cheer things up a bit. Boarding his cockpit from the floor and clambering over the hull isn’t particularly comfortable, and makes Luis very glad he had the ship brought down for the display by hangar override. Finally, about fifteen minutes later, the squadron roars from the hangar into the utter silence of vacuum, and begin to set up for their first demonstrations. After getting a few dozen kilometers distant from Atea, the squadron splits in two, breaking off at right angles to put several hundred kilometers between the two groups. The performance of the “detuned” group is visible even in this--the standard group is already braking to rest by the time they reach turnover. However, finally, the two groups are in position and lined up, and on a signal from Yisai, they bore in towards one another. Head-to-head Interceptor duals tend to have two key elements--dodging to avoid a lock during the close, a successful firing run during the cross, and how fast and where to break after the cross. The maneuvering limits and weapons ranges from the provided data cripple the F-22 imitators ability to perform in either of the first two, and the third only becomes a criteria if you survive the first pass. For three straight runs, that isn’t a concern--the unburdened Interceptors simply sweep in, acquire lock while jinking enough to throw off the imitators’ targeting, and splash the entire imitator group with particle beams from outside their engagement range. Long before the cross, the imitators’ systems, locked into training mode, have killed maneuvering power and left them drifting on ballistic trajectories, with the squadron channels filling with complaints almost as bad as the ones from the Narsai’i observers.

“Stanhill, show us the damn parameters you’re using,” the Air Force general shouts into the vox link set up between the observation deck and the squadron connection.
To spread the load, Yisai had ordered the squadron to switch off the group stuck with the imitator role, so Luis floats ballistically, and has to fight a sense of paralysis to trigger its comms. “The parameters we’re using are as sent,” it says, forwarding a copy from its databanks. As it sends it, its computers finally get the reset signal from Yisai, and it kicks over to brake to rest with the rest of the imitators.
There’s a long pause while the general gets the information put up on the holodisplay for him to read. “Well...you’re in space, so there’d be less drag and air resistance on the airframe. Increase the performance parameters by twenty percent to compensate for that.”
“Sure,” Luis says flippantly, the switches to Yisai on the squadron channel. “’How long to have updated firmware pushed?’”
“’If it is just an across the board increase, it can be done in thirty-eight seconds,’” Yisai replies flatly.
Luis waggles its winglets noncommittally. “’Might as well. Faster we get this over with, the faster we can show what we can actually do.’”

This time, the improved maneuver and range make a difference. One of the aggressors goes ballistic on the pass, and a trio of the original twelve imitators manage to escape their opponent’s fire. However, on the recovery, the difference in sheer power shows. With a flip followed by a hard engine burn, the eleven remaining aggressors simply halt their travel, diving back after the remaining trio, who don’t even have a chance to turn to bring their weapons to bear before the overwhelming effect of near 4-to-1 odds and superior range simply blow them out of space.

“Bullshit!” the Air Force general shouts over the vox connection. “Stanhill, what kind of Goddamn dog and pony show is this?”
“It’s the one you ordered, General,” Luis replies, flipping into a victory roll and ducking between two of its disabled opposition. "Your people were sent the parameters for Interceptor performance in the briefing materials, correct?” He forwards a side-by-side comparison of the two packages.
“And those numbers are impossible, Stanhill,” the general bellows. “250 G would turn the human body into strawberry jam, and the power requirements are simply not possible.”
Luis flips, and turns towards Atea. “Inertial compensation, General,” it says, and a second and a half of full cruise burn sends itself rocketing towards Atea at over three kilometers per second. It knows on the data overlay, the point that marks itself as barely visible dot will be rapidly growing. A second and a half of no-thrust cruise are spent in a lazy flip, trading end-for-end, before pulling out with its engines pointed right at Atea. Another second and a half of cruise engine brings him to rest just outside Atea’s final keep-out zone in front of the windows of the observation deck, the fighter that was moments ago a comfortable ten kilometers away now suddenly seemingly close enough to touch, having gone from a point to a blurred shape approaching terrifyingly fast, to just appearing out of nowhere as utterly stationary object merely fifty meters away.

Inside the observation deck, Luis can hear a confused rumble turn to panic and shouting, and then the din comes to a sudden stop just as he does. “The performance figures are correct,” it says. “If you’re unsatisfied by this, we can demonstrate most of the others, excluding the endurance.”
“I don’t mind,” Yisai adds over the open connection. “It’s been a while since I’ve got to spend a day as my better self.”
“What the fuck do you think you are doing, Stanhill?” the Air Force general bellows. “You could have killed us all!”
“It seemed you were having some trouble believing the demonstration, given the remoteness. I was making it less remote,” Luis says. “I was in total control, and I knew exactly where I was, there wasn’t a risk.”
There’s a pause as ruffled feathers are no doubt smoothed. “How many G was that?” the general asks.
“That was 230 G, on the nose,” Luis says. “I decelerated from a velocity of 3,358 m/s in 1.49 seconds, covering exactly 2.5 kilometers. Thanks to onboard inertial compensation, that was stepped down so that only about 2G was experienced in the pilot chamber.”
“Well, Goddamn,” the general said. There’s more background tittering that Luis can only half make out what’s being said. “You’ve made your point, Stanhill. What else do you have?”
“With your permission,” Luis says, rolling over to face the hangar. “We’d like to proceed with a demonstration of some of the other full-performance capabilities of this model, and then we were planning a full-fire demonstration by the crew of the Atea Needleship. We realize that some of these figures may be hard to grasp without demonstration--I had an issue grasping them myself at the start. Turning unbelievable numbers into an understanding you can work with is our objective today. Do you have an objection to us doing so?”
“Go ahead, Stanhill,” the Air Force general replies.

The dogfights that follow are much like the squadron’s regular training flights, but with the added knowledge of an audience to show off for, the ships put on a deadly performance. Another half-dozen head-to-head engagements with the razor-edge lethality of full-power Interceptor combat come up with near-even records, and very few survivors. Afterwards, the squadron forms up for coordinated flight drills--from the outside, the whirling tangle of fighters splitting space and weaving across each other’s paths with mere meters separating craft with kilometers per second of relative velocity. It’s a display calculated for visual impressiveness, but given the perfect picture of the velocity of itself and every Interceptor in the surrounding space, for Luis and the other Interceptors it’s a simple exercise no more difficult than walking down a hallway--in fact, the unplanned path of each fighter through the chaos is part of basic group training for navigating a close-quarters fighter combat. Compared to the astonished cries of the Narsai’i over the vox, it’s almost boring to the Interceptors flying it. Finally, Yisai calls an end, and takes the rest of the squadron to return to the hangar, while Luis returns in a less dramatic fashion to his position just off the observation deck and settles into lecture again.

“As you can see, the Interceptor is a formidable fighter, and it’s the main element for patrol and escort for the Imperium. However, in direct combat with a fighter that can match its performance, it can be vulnerable. The same is roughly true of the Imperium’s main warship, the Needleship.” As Luis narrates, it locks into stationkeeping, and takes control of the hangar’s screens, updating them to tag a new point. “This is the August Stalwart, one of three Needleships we’ve captured from the Imperium. It’s currently about 500 km out.” A moment later, a massive hulk of metal slowly cruises past the observation deck window from the left, blotting out all vision beyond it, sending a shout of surprise through the military observers as a small three-story building cruises past. As it lazily drifts off towards the target range, carried by three tugs, Luis continues. “This is AM 234, an ore hauler from Atea’s service and maintenance fleet. In its role in system domination, orbital control, and Gate defense, a Needleship like the Stalwart carries a squadron of Interceptors, but it also carries its own powerful armament.” In Luis’ own feed, it can see the 234’s position steady as it is drawn into position next to an office-tower-sized lump of rock, and a second smaller dot begins to draw away--the tug which pulled the broken-down hauler’s hulk to its final mission. “A Needleship normally carries a battery of beam weapons, similar to the ones carried by my Interceptor but far more powerful, capable of destroying ground targets through atmosphere, or crippling ships attempting to resist. However, its main weapon is an axial accelerator, which can fire a variety of munitions at significant fractions of the speed of light. Today, the AM 234 will be serving as a target for a killdrone shot from the August Stalwart’s main gun, with the asteroid here serving as a backstop. The asteroid is approximately four-hundred feet tall by fifty feet by forty feet.” Luis pauses for a moment, then continues. “I’ve just been informed that the range is clear. Stalwart, you are clear to fire on your own mark.”

The audience never see the shot coming--the massive freighter simply jumps towards the rock as the shot cuts through it. Debris and hull plates spall off a hole meters across in the exit side of the ship...and the drone continues right through the hauler and expends almost all its original energy into the surface of the rock. The effect of the impact is as instantaneous as it is immense. Two massive geysers of rock and debris, one grey and sparkling and the other glowing red with the impact heat, burst forth from the asteroid on impact. Luis hears the Needleship’s master call out to brace for impact, and seconds later the still-molten debris from the accelerator shot (as well as the remaining bits of the freighter, now shredded into confetti in the stone wind) bounces off of the Needleship’s hull. As the debris cloud clears, and the sound of rain is heard all over Atea as bits of asteroid pepper the worldship, it’s clear that the skyscraper-sized hunk of space rock is now split into a dozen smaller pieces hanging loosely together under the force of their own gravity, with an angry red eye split between them where the relativistic killdrone impacted.
Even Luis is a bit stunned, studying its scanners. A chunk pings off the port beamer casing, and Luis turns on its vox again. “Thank you Stalwart, dead on target. You may secure from firing.” It sounds a little shell-shocked, and the newly-created debris hurtles clear for another few moments while it gathers its focus, and lets its audience absorb the sight. “The effect of Needleship’s weapons is undeniable, and the Imperium relies on this power to command respect and obedience from its populace. They have on innumerable occasions turned this destructive potential on any of their own people they thought might be a threat--or simply on those unlucky enough to be between them and their true target. However, while it’s a formidable ship, like the Interceptor it is designed for a role, and vulnerable both to weapons of its own class as well as to the correct application of unsymmetric force. Another Needleship would have suffered much the same fate as the freighter if it had been in the same spot, and we’ve had some success with alternate methods of destroying Needleships.”
“I should fucking hope so,” the Air Force general says, sounding ten times as shocked as Luis feels. “Good Lord. How many times can it fire that thing? Two or three times before it’s empty?”
“A modern Needleship like the Stalwart carries around 400 shots in its magazine, but after ten shots it requires at least a half hour to allow the thermal systems to compensate for waste heat buildup,” Luis says. That one sentence gets the biggest reaction out of everything Luis has said so far. “Every Needleship carries enough destructive power to wipe out a rebellious planet, an implicit threat the Imperium isn’t shy about advertising to its own people about their local ‘defense’ forces.” Luis lets the frustration that this is what it takes for their warnings to be believed flow through its radiators, and continues to paint the picture. “As of yet, we cannot match warcraft like this ourselves. All of Atea’s squadrons and the three Needles have been captured or otherwise taken from the enemy, and Atea itself lacks the ability to support full-fledged ship construction. It will be some time before Earth’s industrial base can be retooled to the necessary technologies, either, which is why the work being done with friendly Imperial groups like Faxom-Io is so key. In the meantime, we can only find success in preparation, and bringing our strength against the enemy’s weaknesses--and that need for preparation is why the work we’re doing in joint operations training here and at Mesas Negras is so key.”
“What good are joint operations going to be against...against that?” the Air Force general asks. As pompous and confident that this was going to be a joke he sounded before, now he sounds like he wants to just crawl in a hole and wait for the end.
“Good God, imagine if just one of those got over Earth, it’d be game over,” another said.
“Something that powerful can’t have more than just one gun on it, that’s got to be all that ship can do,” another general asserted. “Come on, you bunch of girls - you just don’t stand in front of it.”
“Their secondary arsenal is just as impressive in its own way, but we captured the Stalwart mid-refit, and its secondary batteries aren’t yet back online. Normally, it’d have its main beamer arsenal, as well as a number of close-in weapons capable of launching secondary killdrones at lower energies, or firing beamers to deal with targets like Interceptors or Mantas. It’s possible to get through that and defeat a Needleship, but no existing ships from the Imperium can do that. Anyway, we can’t beat every Needleship they have, and we never will be able to,” Luis says. “The only way to stop them from using weapons like this us will be to fight the way we have--destabilize their stranglehold on their own populace, and bring down the government. We can’t rely on sheer numbers, we have to fight smarter with the goal of ending the war by defusing the threats that the Imperium poses to its own people as much as the threat they represent to us.”
“So, what your rag-tag bunch of troublemakers have been saying all along,” the second general grumbles.
“In short, yes,” Luis says.
“We’ll see about that,” he replies, and there’s a fair amount of agreement to that. “What’s next on this little propaganda show?”
“This is all the demonstrations we have,” Luis says. “The next thing on the schedule is for your guides to take you to check in on the joint training here on Atea.”
“Well then,” the second general replied. “How the hell do we turn this thing off?”
It takes a few seconds for that to happen, more than enough for Luis and the other Interceptors to hear what the assembled Narsai’i military leaders have to say. “How the fuck are we supposed to fight something like that?” someone asks.
“Throw a nuke at it,” another offers.
“Yeah, then how do we get the nuke to it?”
“Give it to the aliens to figure out, that’s not our problem.”
“Jesus Christ, I thought those 815 fuckers were making this shit up, but -” And with that, the holodisplay - and the vox connection to the observation deck - cuts out.

Yisai flies in a slow orbit around Luis. “How do you think this event was received, Luis?” it asks. “It sounded like your military leaders were impressed.”
“Impressed doesn’t quite cover it,” Luis says. “I think we scared the pants off of them. Mission accomplished, kind of.”
“Good, perhaps that will convince them to aid us, instead of trying to kill members of my squadron,” Yisai replies. “I do not mean to pry, Luis, but I must ask you a question.”
“Go ahead,” Luis says.
“In the Turai, even the Imperial Turai, the leaders trust the soldiers under them,” Yisai says. “They are the eyes and ears of the Turai. Is there a different custom with the Narsai’i?”
“Not usually,” Luis says.
“Then...why do they still deny what you have said?” Yisai asks. “I have read your reports and watched holos of your testimony to your government - everything you said is true and easily verified. It does not make any sense to deny what you have said, especially when it is the truth of your own destruction.”
“Because it’s something completely at odds with what they used to know, and something that means we’re maybe doomed unless we’re smart and lucky,” Luis says. “Changing one mind with experience, changing a few minds, that’s more doable, but...try getting a lot of people to change their minds at once, and sometimes they have trouble facing that the reality they know is wrong, and they’d rather hate the people who say it is until they absolutely can’t pretend.”
“That is stupid,” Yisai asserts.
“Humans can be stupid,” Luis says. “Especially in large groups.”
“That does not make it better,” Yisai replies. It peels out of its slow orbit around Luis with a barrel roll. “Come, let us return to the hangar.”
“On your wing,” Luis says, and suits word to action, following Yisai back to the hangar.

In contrast to the open and airy - well, as airy as can be done in a worldship - civilian areas of Atea, the sections given over to the Bashakra'i Turai are all business. Double-wide tunnels for two-way skimmer traffic break into single-wide corridors, with a maze of human-sized tunnels running throughout. Simple coordinates and arrows are all you get for navigation, and it's a stumbling, confusing path for the human quads, only made possible the voxes of the Bashakra'i members of the group. After five minutes of stumbling over bulkheads in the warren, the fifty members of the group arrive at the indicated coordinates. Leading the battle are, as ever, Alexander Danielson and Boyd Kravitz, with Leaj and Shenloma close behind them.

“Okay, I’ll give you first group, that was fifty-fifty,” Danielsson says, “but did we have to be first at the door?”
“I recall a certain amount of Army pride being involved,” Boyd answers with a smirk.
“You egged me on,” Danielsson says. “Damn it, all this stupid shit I do because you egg me on, Boyd.”
“You should stand by your own bad decisions more,” Boyd retorts. “Own this.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Danielsson says, then turns to Leaj. “Please tell me we’re actually in the right place now.”
"Yep," Leaj says, flicking her wrist holo closed. "Raro-33, Imu-12." She swipes the panel to slide the door open and smirks to Shenloma as she gives him a smack on the ass. "You first."
"Teasing will get you nowhere," Shenloma says as he steps through the threshold, followed by Leaj.
Boyd looks to Danielsson with a renewed smirk. “What was that about me egging you on?”
Danielsson’s expression darkens as he stabs his index finger in Boyd’s direction. “If you start smacking my ass -”
Boyd raises his hands in mock surrender. “Easy, tough guy.”
“And no oil checks either,” Danielsson adds, but then follows Leaj across the threshold, with Boyd bringing up the rear and the rest of the fifty humans following behind.

Inside, they find an array of folding tables and benches, and the two Samals Quis standing in their armor at the front of the room.
“Hurry up!” Arketta barks. “We’ve got a lot to go over today, and for you Narsai’i, not a lot of time to do it in!”
That gets the hop-to going for the rest of the group, and pretty soon all fifty of the trainees are seated at the tables. “How many of you have had zero-g training?” Arlana asks. “I’d better see every Bashakra’i hand go up.” Indeed, the raised hands belong entirely to the Bashakra’i. “How about entering and clearing a spaceship?” Same result as before. “So, Bashakra’i, I think you know what we’re going to be having you do.”
“Just like the Narsai’i showed you how they do things in the desert and open combat, you’re going to show them the drills for entering and clearing a ship!” Arketta says. “Who knows what the first principle of ship entry is?”
As ever, Leaj’s hand is one of the first up. Arketta points at her. “Look vertically!” Leaj says.
“That’s right!” Arlana says. “Ships are not built like habs or houses! There are multiple levels to practically every room - and in zero-g, the ceiling can just as easily be the floor to someone else! We’re going to give you time to run your buddies through the basic drills, but then we’re taking you in, one quad at a time, to go up against my daughter and me, see how good your instructions are! Understood?”
“Yes, Samal!” the group barks.
“Good!” Arketta says. “The training rooms are through that door, there are four different ships being simulated under normal grav. Zero-g training is through the door directly behind us, and puke sacks are on the table next to it.” A round of nervous laughter goes around the Narsai’i, and both Arketta and Arlana smirk at that. “You have a half-hour! Break!”

“Whooohooo!” Danielsson shouts as he careens through the narrow corridor of the microgravity sim, twisting his shoulders and arms away from whatever’s in his path. Practical as ever, it’s not so much a fancy mockup of a starship as it is a real section of the ship with the gravity generators turned off - not that that’s stopping Danielsson from rolling in mid-air to hit a bulkhead feet-first, pushing off at an angle towards a pair of handholds. That one comes on slightly too fast, and while he gets a hold, his body slips on, and only a quick pull-up and tucking in his legs keeps him from kicking Boyd in his green-tinged face. With his kneepads banging against the bulkhead above, Danielsson finally comes to a relative stop, then relaxes his arms and hangs from the holds, neck craned towards Boyd.

“Come on, man!” Danielsson barks. “You’re missing all the fun.”
“You’re having enough for both of us,” Boyd retorts, determined not to fill a third sick bag. “Where’d you get so good at this anyway?”
“Uh, hello?” Danielsson says. “Airborne Ranger. I’ve got three dozen jumps on record. I’m a bungee whore. I know a thing or two about freefall.”
"That explains why you like bouncing off of everything like you're falling out of the top bunk," Leaj cracks as she swings towards the pair. "The whole point of moving in zero-g is keeping your momentum up and direct your motion." To demonstrate her point, she gives one last pumping swing, and glides gracefully through the air, her hands miming holding up her rifle as she pretends to pop both Boyd and Danielsson in the head with a "zap" each. She catches herself with an outstretched hand and leg simultaneously, as Shenloma just slowly drifts across the staging room towards the group. "See what I mean?"
“Yeah,” Danielsson says. “See, Boyd? I bet you can do Blue Danube speed. Get the breakfast out and give it a go.”
Boyd swishes and swallows another mouthful of water. "Fuck you," he grunts, shakes his head and looks to Shenloma. "So, what's the trick?"
"Control, and timing," Shenloma says. He grabs forward for a handhold, and with a single swinging pump of his arm and a well-timed release, slings himself towards the group at a higher rate of speed. Leaj puts her feet up to brace and stop Shenloma, but he mostly brakes himself. "You have to use whatever handholds you can to pull yourself forward, swing around to pick your direction, and let go. You let go at the right time, you'll just go."
“Okay, and the part where you don’t spin like crazy?” Danielsson asks. “How does that work?”
"All in the release," Leaj says. "Clean release, no spin. And with a beamer, there's no recoil, either."
“Okay, so if I do something like this…” Danielsson says, then turns around from his hold and slings himself like he saw Shenloma do - not nearly as steady, but with good enough results to make him grin as he glides, slowly rotating around his long axis, right into the next bulkhead. “Woah!” he exclaims, taking the impact on his elbow pads as he bounces off and flails for the next handhold.
“...you look like an idiot,” Boyd says, finishing his partner’s thought.
“Fair - ugh! - fair enough,” Danielsson says, letting his body drift into a corner so he can brace with his hands and feet. “I think I get the general idea, though.”
“So, that’s how you move,” Boyd says, pushing off very gently with his feet as he takes the first baby steps into microgravity. “Have you ever jumped between ships like this?”
Shenloma and Leaj look at each other. "...yes?" Shenloma replies.
"But it's really, really dumb, and you shouldn't do it," Leaj says. "Our Samal would have our heads if we told you it was okay, and...we agree."
"Drifting away from your ship into space is not a good idea," Shenloma finishes.
“Huh,” Danielsson says. “Yeah, I can see that.” He turns to Boyd. “Remember how Sandra Bullock almost died in Gravity? Don’t want that to be you, man.”
“She almost died a lot, as I recall,” Boyd says. “But I get what you mean.”
“And we don’t have George Clooney watching over us,” Danielsson says. “Okay, so...I guess we’ve got a lot of practicing to do now.”

"So, this is fun and all," Boyd says, tenderly letting go of the wall to float freely, "but I'm having a problem seeing how you assault a room without getting your ass shot off bouncing off the walls."
Leaj nods. "Right, right." She pushes herself to one side of the room as Shenloma drifts her way. "So, if this is a door, here?" Leaj says, her hand outlining an imaginary door. "I'll stage to the side, and Shenloma will be above." Illustrating her point, Shenloma drifts up towards the ceiling, pulling himself towards it and "kneeling" in an upside-down position, miming a rifle hold towards the imaginary door. "And I'll have the other member of my trin opposite me. We check the door, then hit the panel." She mimes those actions too. "Door opens, and we pull ourselves around the frame and swing into the room. I swing across, Shenloma goes straight, and the third member swings towards my side. We make a cone and cover towards the opposite zone, with one arm clear to grab and hold onto the wall."

“Okay, but how does that actually work?” Boyd asks.
Leaj grows a nasty grin, while Danielsson just shakes his head. “Ask a dumb question…”