There's a second paint claymore BAMF during the afternoon that causes everyone to rush back to their positions, but it doesn't result in any contacts. It was deeper into the jungle, along one of the farthest approaches to camp, and it's likely whoever tripped it snuck back to their masters than try to carry on covered in orange.
The pyre stands as tall as a man in the short grass and bare dirt that the camp used for a landing pad. Their construction finished, the wherren set to mixing large pots of paint. They continue this until just before sundown.
Evening
Day 3 of Gateway construction
Only a few clouds scatter the sunset and obscure the encroaching stars as night arrives. The wherren all gather once again outside. The shaman leads them all - males and females - in a similar but more celebratory song to their funeral from before, then lights the pyre. As the flames start to catch and burn higher, the wherren pass around bowls of Zaef's Dr. Moonshine. The next twenty minutes see a quick change; the pyre now blazes almost to the height of the dome, and the wherren have split off into many smaller groups. Shouting and singing carries off into the treetops. There's a steady supply of booze coming out of the autochef, and everyone has the option of getting as hammered as they would like.
For some wherren, especially the ones who were hit hardest by the massacre, it's not possible to get as hammered as they'd like, but they try anyway. The tone shifts from "funeral" to "preparing for battle" for most of the warriors. They're painting themselves with glyphs, similar to the Chosen markings. Their songs have turned martial, angry; still organized, but with a decidedly different tone.
As with any crowd of drunks, there are minor scuffles. Someone painted genitalia on someone instead of the proper glyphs. Someone's not respectful enough to someone's dead wife. Someone's not respectful enough to someone's living wife. And so Sajuuk punches Mola, and the assembled warriors give a great raucous cheer and there are some Tenners and SCARs fired into the air like it was New Year's. A circle's scraped out in the dirt and the two wherren lay into each other. They're sloppy and inebriated and fighting like two hobos with paper bags over their heads, but it's great entertainment. In fact, three more fights break out during the course of the inital "match". These are all met with more shouts, cheers, and jeers, and pretty soon a barely-organized bare-knuckle fistfight-for-the-hell-of-it tournament comes up out of nowhere. For all his standoffish nature towards his tribal fellows, even Swims-the-Black is swaying and singing and waiting his turn in the ring.
---
The wherren are adamant that Zaef learn their songs and dances, and that is why he ends up covered in slimy white Chosen paint and wearing a hat made out of a great hard-shelled fruit. On second thought, Zaef can't remember who told him to put that melon on his melon.
---
Luis is sitting watching the impromptu tournament, his gaze boring straight through it and his mind very clearly not really paying attention to what's going on around him. Arketta, who's sitting just far enough away that any physical contact could be excused as "short bench" instead of "fraternization", can easily recognize the look.
"You didn't even see that hit," Arketta says to Luis, "and that drink looks like it's been neglected too. What's on your mind?"
Luis shakes his head, and seems to come to his senses slightly, "....Hmm? It's just...nothing, never mind. And the drink is being neglected in case another one of these guys gets himself hurt, so I can do something about it."
"Uh huh," Arketta says in that kind of tone that indicates she's not buying it. "That's the kind of 'nevermind' that means you've got something to say," she continues. "You can tell me."
Luis glances at the barely touched drink, considering, then sighs. "It's a lot, I...I just don't know where to start. If I knew, I'd be halfway to figuring it out."
Arketta looks concerned, and a little lost. She's used to direct problems, and so she tries what comes naturally. "Well, start at the beginning before I beat it out of you," she says kindly.
Luis grins at that, but it fades quickly, "I've just got a lot bouncing around. It's the Wherren these Khiraba have co-opted and the Sheen and what the hell we're going to do once we're done here, and...it's just a lot of stuff, and some of it doesn't have answers, and.." He trails off, and looks around the bonfire. "I guess what's bugging me is whether we're anything better than the lesser of two evils here."
Arketta seems relieved. "I thought you were worrying about difficult problems. Here's what we do, Luis. The wherren that have been tricked? If they come try to kill us, we shoot them. We're going to kill the Khiraba, and the Gateway will finish, and we'll have Whiirr and we'll have plenty of time to convince them that they were tricked. The Sheen? Not your problem. That's definitely a Davis or Captain Verrill problem, and it sounds like it's just something that needs some..." and here she rolls her eyes. "Meetings."
Arketta takes Luis' cup, having finished her own, and takes another swig. "As for what happens when we're done here? Let's worry about that after we've survived this mission. Don't let that stuff distract you, Luis."
Luis smiles slightly, "Yeah, and I suppose I've got enough distractions around here without worrying about that stuff." He takes Arketta's hand, and continues, "I guess worying about good and evil can wait for another day, eh?"
Arketta smiles. "I think worrying about it puts you firmly on the good side."
---
Davis sits on a log just on the outskirts of the celebration, sitting and drinking and thinking and for once not dealing with his prisoners.
---
Hugh's tasted the drink someone forced into his hands, but it's a tall order to party before the main event. Too many thoughts occupy his mind. Prisoner control. Fortifications. Enemy intel. Hell, how many bad guys are they looking at, even? Maybe one or two drinks wouldn't be so bad. Maybe they would be.
---
Cowboy's been in drunken brawls before, but never on an alien planet, and certainly not against actual Sasquatches. Sure, he called that one guy Bigfoot at that piano bar in San Antonio (and made damn sure nobody else ever learned he was at a piano bar), but this... well, all he'd have to do would be to get in line, and then he'd be in a "friendly" fight against an honest-to-Alamo yeti.
---
Angel knows well the temptation to live while you can. Zaef's brew isn't bad, all told, but the wherren are celebrating like they're expecting to meet some honorable foe on the field of battle at an appointed time. Angel knows the Imperium - especially the Khiraba - won't pick a fair fight if they can help it, and since they're on the offensive against a known location, the fight is pretty much theirs to pick. He watches the bonfire for a short while, long enough for the roaring fire to make his face a little uncomfortable, before heading toward the perimeter on a long, meandering path. The smell of smoke is inescapable, and for the moment, his mood hasn't improved. Somehow, in the span of a few days, the war got more ugly, not less - and despite Davis' talk to the contrary, he's not entirely convinced Earth will stay out of the mud, when push comes to shove, and is positive their allies won't.
It shouldn't be any surprise given Davis' policy towards prisoner control, but it still puts Angel on edge for a brief moment when he spots Kosai out and about. The Imperial waves Angel over towards her as she watches the fire from a goodly distance. She's managed to acquire a cup of moonshine and nods.
"My compliments to the chef," she says. "From the looks of things, there's a fight coming, yeah?"
Someday the universe is going to call your bluff Davis. And its going to hit hard. Angel nods at the woman, coming up next to her, looking back at the fire. "That's a fair assessment."
"It's kind of... pure, in a way," Kosai says. "Your best against our best, no support, the fate of a planet decided by a handful."
Angel's expression hardens somewhat. "It's not the damned Thunderdome." Her expression indicates she justifiably missed the reference, and he sighs. "It's not pure when it gets kicked off with a civilian massacre. And, you'll forgive me, but I've faced off against 'your best' before - its anything but pure."
Kosai shrugs. "I did not mean to say it will be moral, rather... uncomplicated. War is like fire, Angel. Fire is not good or evil, it simply burns. Your zealot, Davis, he thinks he can wage a moral war but I think you know what I know. It cannot be done."
"Perhaps. But fire is never just fire. It can be something that builds, that is welcome and warms and lets industry grow. Or it can be something feared, and stamped out when it appears. That is the war Davis fights. And to be frank, your people's pet criminals do their part to help him." His opinion of the enemy's "elite" forces is quite clear.
"You don't care for the Khiraba, that much is clear," Kosai replies. "And why should you? They are your enemy, as you are theirs. The Khiraba are not the same as the Turai. I know you have faced both, but perhaps you do not understand it from my perspective. Turai, despite your experiences with them, exist to protect the Imperium. Not this person here or that colony there, but -" and here Kosai holds her hands out wide - "the Imperium as a whole. Khiraba exist to destroy the Imperium's enemies. They serve different purposes. I could not be a Khiraba."
"No, you could not be. Which is why you can stand here, free to wander, enjoying dubious booze and musing on the nature of the universe. Because we are capable of distinguishing between the nature of our enemies."
"And hopefully the nature of your allies," Kosai goes for the easy jab against the Sheen, then relents. "Eh. This political talk is too much work for this much booze. It all exists at a level beyond my compensation, anyway."
He chuckles. "That I can sympathize with. Sadly, I doubt its something that will fade with time."
---
Midnight
Day 3 of Gateway construction
Village 815
"What do you make of that?" Khalomai asks Iketna, looking up at the distant plume of smoke and faint traces of skyward beamer fire.
"Don't know," the Rav-Turai nonchalances.
"The natives typically burn their dead," Arpana offers. "But this fire looks much larger, and our scouts didn't report any additional casualties inflicted."
"Worst case, then?" Manus asks the chief.
"Worst case... I'd say they know the fate of their traitorous fellows we ran into outside 481. I don't expect them to be so keen on surrender, no matter what arguments I can offer."
"What about a straight-up hostage exchange?" Manus replies.
"No good," Arpana smiles. "They have far more hostages than we do, that's just a numbers game. We'd need something... asymmetrical to offer them."
"Samal, I don't even like thinking about dealing with them," Oros states bluntly.
"I know, Oros," Manus says, frowning. "If there was any other way..." the lights and smoke from the distant outpost give him an idea. "All right. Line up the hostages down by the river."
The pyre smoke drifts lazily into a clear Whiirr sky that refuses to give into the clouds forming in the distance. A few warriors are sleeping off the festivities outside on the ground, but most everyone made it back to their beds, bunks, or bags. The guards on duty are a bit bleary.
The bright orange wherren cautiously (and miraculously) breaks the treeline without tripping any of the paint markers. It's clear that he's one of the earlier victims. He's got both hands in the air and spins slowly to show he's not carrying any weapons save for a small knife, which on Whiirr is like going naked. His right hand clutches a vox. With vocalizations only - his color and his whiirrsign are both muted - the orange wherren attempts to speak.
The pyre smoke drifts lazily into a clear Whiirr sky that refuses to give into the clouds forming in the distance. A few warriors are sleeping off the festivities outside on the ground, but most everyone made it back to their beds, bunks, or bags. The guards on duty are a bit bleary.
The bright orange wherren cautiously (and miraculously) breaks the treeline without tripping any of the paint markers. It's clear that he's one of the earlier victims. He's got both hands in the air and spins slowly to show he's not carrying any weapons save for a small knife, which on Whiirr is like going naked. His right hand clutches a vox. With vocalizations only - his color and his whiirrsign are both muted - the orange wherren attempts to speak.
"No shoot! I bring message from gods! No shoot!"
Cowboy draws down on the Wherren, knowing the drill for this kind of impromptu shit.
"Halt! Do not move! If you approach any closer, you will be fire upon! I repeat you WILL be fired upon!"
"Stay where you are!" Hugh shouts, adding his attention to the issue at hand. He turns to the team of Wherren next to him in the foxhole / trench. "Kolmar, you walk around, behind Cowboy, and approach the stranger from the side. Search him for hidden weapons. The rest of you, keep watching the treeline."
Hugh picks up his radio. "Verrill to Davis, we've got another Wherren at the perimeter, looks unarmed, says he has a message from the Gods. You want this guy?"
Orangey stays cool under the assorted weaponry pointed at him, and doesn't move an inch. Kolmar nods and runs off in a wide circle, crossing behind Cowboy and coming up close to the intruder. Meanwhile, the forces currently dug in don't see anything else at or in that treeline. It's not a perfect answer - god knows the team hid a platoon of wherren just outside the camp without detection - but for the moment, the only intruder anyone sees is the orange-painted wherren.
Kolmar approaches close, and it's clear he's not happy about being picked for the job. If this guy was going to try anything, now's about the time he'd try it. He remains cool, however, and lets Kolmar spin him around once more and pat him down, revealing nothing more than the barest of loincloths, the aforementioned knife, and the vox. Kolmar takes the knife just to be certain.
Davis has been watching the situation in the field unfold in the surveillance system in the comm room. "Yeah, have Kolmar bring him in and take the vox from our new friend. I want that vox covered with a cloth or something before it enters the base, have him meet me in Hab 3. I'll be there in a second."
He stands up from the console and lets Luis take over monitoring duties. He runs downstairs and out of the dome, then across the open camp field and into Hab 3. Once the wherren and the vox are brought inside, he opens his backpack and holds it out. "Stick the vox in here, all the way to the bottom. Bury it in there." Once that's done, he tosses his bag across the room.
"There, now we can talk without the interference of gods," Davis signs. "My name is Garrett Davis, what is yours?"
"My name is not important," the orange wherren says, "And the message from the gods is on the thing in the bag. One more thing," he gets out, "I need to leave now if I am to return by midday. The gods stressed that was important, for both of us."
"I think they'll be okay with you being a bit late," Davis says. "In the worst case, I'll let them know when we're done on the vox. This will only take a few minutes, and you must be thirsty from your journey here. So, where are you from?"
The wherren scowls. "Am I your prisoner, demon?"
"Oh, well, maybe just for the moment. I give you my word that as soon as you and I are done talking, I will give you the choice to leave or stay, and I will let you go if that is what you want. I'm just trying to understand why you slaughtered the families of Hiigra's people, your allies, and left their bodies uncovered and unburned on the ground, for the scavengers."
"Nothing less for traitors and heretics," the wherren spits. "When the gods come and smite your lies, we will leave you in the sun just as you left my people!" His agitation is fairly easy to spot even through the paint.
"They blamed us for the death of your Shaman and chief? Said that we had done the same to two other villages, including Hiigra's, and had converted his people to our evil ways after we murdered their leaders?"
The wherren was angry, but now he's incredulous with rage. "And now you act surprised?! After I've seen you demons here with your sad converted henchmen with my own eyes?! I'll kill you!"
The enraged wherren jumps to his feet, and Davis quickly takes a few steps back. "Get him under control, subdue him!" he says to the wherren that escorted their prisoner in, and keys down on his radio. "And Shaman, get in here, now!"
Maybe if he wasn't orange, there would've been a warning from the wherren's hair, but the warrior is up in a flash. He crashes Davis into the hab wall. As his hairy fist comes up, Davis shouts.
"The Shaman's still alive!"
WHAM! The blow whips Davis' head around, but doesn't stop him talking. "And he's coming here right now-"
OOF! The orange warrior lands a vicious body blow that staggers Davis. Then both wherren guards are on him, pulling him back, trying to get him down on the hab floor. The orange wherren struggles, howls, and breaks free. One guard grabs the berserk warrior's arm and shoulder and slows him enough for Davis to duck out of the way. The wherren's next blow cracks painfully against the foamcrete, and then the second wherren's on the angry warrior. They wrestle him to the ground.
Davis' head is swimming, and his breath comes in painful stabs. "Sit him down and wait for the Shaman to get here." Davis sits down as well and tries to stop the world spinning.
The orange wherren is still struggling against his captors when the shaman enters Hab 3.
The shaman, perhaps amusingly, isn't surprised at all to see the state of affairs in Hab 3. "You got him?" he asks the guards. They nod, and just then the orange wherren bursts one arm free and almost gets to a crouch. He's sat upon immediately, prompting the shaman to ask again: "You sure?" The guards nod again.
"Think he broke a rib or two," Davis coughs. "Do you recognize him, Shaman?"
"Maybe?" the shaman admits. "I think he is from the village our people were headed for. You!" he asks the prisoner. "Do you know me, warrior?"
The prisoner spits at the shaman - it's about all he can do at the moment. "So what did they promise in return for your wretched life? Now you are a puppet, a slave to these demons' lies and you will be slaughtered by the true gods if you do not give up this madness!"
"We made no deal," Davis says. "We are here to help the Wherren people. Do you want the truth? Shaman, call Hiigra on your vox and let him and the other chiefs tell him the truth."
"Better do as he says, or he'll smite you, yeah?" Orange says.
The shaman gets to fiddling with the vox. Orange, however, doesn't quit. "Don't waste your time! I know what I saw! Your lies are wasted on me! Either let me go or kill me, but spare me the insult of pretending you didn't kill my people!"
"What did you see? Tell me, warrior. I know that someone wronged your tribe, tell me what happened."
"You KNOW what happened!!!" Orange screams. "You told us our gods were dead! You lined the elders up and shot them! You shot anyone who fought back! My gods saved the rest of us from you hairless pieces of shit! I'll kill you! Kill you! Grrr aarrgh!" He redoubles his efforts, actually lifting both guards off the ground for a moment, but the wherren have Orange down and it doesn't look like he's getting up no matter how much he squirms.
"How many days ago was this?" Davis asks in an even tone.
"Fuck you!"
Davis looks at the Shaman. "Do you have Hiigra and the other chiefs yet?"
The shaman nods. "I don't know what they can say, but..." he hands the vox to Davis.
"Hiigra, we have one of the warriors from one of the villages the Imperials attacked." He turns the holo camera towards the warrior. "Do you know Hiigra, warrior? You know he is an honorable chief, that he would die before betraying his tribe, his people, yes?"
Orange breathes heavily but remains silent. Of course, he's had a rough day.
"You would listen to him, listen to the other chiefs when they tell you what we have done for them." He looks at the camera. "Hiigra, tell him what we have done, and tell them what his gods have done."
Hiigra lays it all out for Orange. When the team arrived at Village 815, what they showed him, the Imperial lies, Swims' stories, the battle at the research camp, everything. Through it all, Orange remains silent. Davis sees him dismissing it as lies, but it's too much too quick, with too many contradictions, and although Orange stays quiet, it's quiet thought by the end.
"So, what do you have to say, warrior? This is the truth, we have given your people the knowledge," Davis taps the vox, "and the means," he taps the XM-10 and SCAR that the wherren guards are carrying, "to rise up and take control of their own destiny. It is the Imperium who have lied to you, who have made your people into puppets. We are here to cut your strings."
It could be from exhaustion, but Orange isn't fighting back anymore. He doesn't directly reply to Davis, except to say, "I don't think I can return by midday anymore. They said... they said it was important, but not why. Maybe these are all lies. My people are not accustomed to them. Spend your energy elsewhere, demon, I'll take no counsel but my own."
"That's fair, warrior. And I am a man of my word. If you wish to return, you are free to go." Davis motions for the guards to release him.
Orange gets up and sparing no words, darts outside. He takes stock of the sun's position in the clear morning sky and takes off for the treeline from whence he came. Several of the guards start upon seeing the orange prisoner sprinting for the woods, but the shaman quickly exits Hab 3 behind the orange wherren.
"Don't fire!" the shaman calls to the wherren assembled in foxholes and trenches. "Davis has let this one go!"
"Ideas can be like diseases, Shaman," Davis says. He walks over to his bag and opens it up. "Let's see how this one spreads." He pulls the vox out of the bag and unwraps it. "Now, let's see what we have here." He taps the screen to wake the device.
It's a "dumb" vox, stripped of any transmission ability and loaded with a prerecorded message. The holo keys up and shows a view of a night sky and treetops. In the distance, faint lances from celebratory beamer fire flash skyward while smoke from your camp's raging bonfire pillars into the sky. Once the rough time has been established, the holo pans down now to show the riverbank near Village 815 where Cowboy and the Sheen had their shooting contest. Eight wherren children and two females stand, bound and gagged, on the riverbank. The holo zooms in on each of their faces. While all bear the signs of a rough march, none look visibly wounded or crippled.
"All right, turn to me." The voice is the same one with which Davis spoke briefly after learning about Hiigra's refugees. The holo pans to a human male wearing a black skinsuit. The face through the visor is older, lined and harsh, but not gaunt. The man begins speaking Imperial while signing in Whiirr.
"I trust this message has reached the right people," he begins. "As you can see, we have hostages from 815. They are in good health for now. We will happily release all of them, alive and unharmed, in exchange for two humans: Garrett Davis and Hugh Verrill."
The man motions to the pyre smoke and beamer fire. "As you can see, this footage is fairly current. We will send a second messenger, with an updated proof of life, to receive your answer before sundown. The wherren who delivered this message should have reached your camp with enough time to return to me by midday." He stops whiirrsign now, and continues solely in Imperial. "If he fails to return, we will kill... some... hostages. Make any attempt to rescue them and we will kill all of them. We can work out details of the exchange once the second messenger arrives. The lives of these poor, misguided, innocent natives are in your hands."
Davis gets on his radio. "Captain Verrill, you'd better get in here, because we've got a serious fucking problem." He looks at the Shaman and Hiigra's image on the vox. "Did you hear what the vox said?"
"If they're serious about that messenger, I hope our detaining him hasn't killed those children," the shaman says grimly.
*I take it you're not going to hand yourselves over?* Hiigra voxes.
"They never intend to hand them over," Davis says. "If they were interested in negotations, they would be negotiating. This is an ultimatum. Surrender to us, or we kill our hostages. They are dead no matter whether we surrender or not. That just means that we must rescue them before that happens."
"Good," Mola says to Cowboy. "You people make less sense to me by the minute, but if letting a prisoner go brings us the battle we've been waiting for, I am all for it."
---
Hugh makes it to Hab 3 quickly. Davis looks like he lost a UFC bout, but there's no permanent damage.
From the perspective of Cowboy, Luis, Zaef, Angel, and the other defenders, Hugh enters Hab 3 moments after the orange captive wherren sprints into the forest and disappears. Something about "serious fucking problems".
It doesn't take long, but when Hugh comes back out he looks like his mind's made up. He gets everyone's attention.
"Listen up, everyone! Bad news is, the assholes have prisoners, and they don't seem too interested in keeping them alive beyond their use as a lure for us. Good news is, I'm putting together a suicide command for getting the prisoners out. Anybody feel like dying next to me give me a HOAH and grab your shit."
Angel does not give Hugh a HOAH, the notion that he would contrary to his very nature. He does however begin packing up his gear with a rather grim expression on his face.
The rescue team stands, sits, or kneels around one of the last free-roaming crates that haven't been added to the bulwarks reinforcing the research camp habs. Weapons are checked for the tenth time, suppressors are screwed onto inviting handgun barrels, and the three claymores taken from the perimeter (judged less useful since their marking claymores had already exploded) are added to the pile. Zaef pats his sword hilts as if to ensure they're still there. He's begrudingly left his trophy kauka with Davis, since Luis is going on the rescue mission as well. And since Luis is going, Arketta stepped forward. Hugh looks over his volunteers; Angel, Luis, Arketta, and Zaef busy themselves as Davis asks him about yet another contingency.
They look up to see an unexpected newcomer approaching from the underground bunker. Hale's walking towards them wearing most of his Turai armor, toting an XM-10 and looking like he's going somewhere.
"I heard you were looking for volunteers," the Rav-Turai says.
"Happens I am," Hugh says. "You want to help us?"
Hale nods. "I still can't speak to all this-" he waves his hand at the ramshackle fort - "but these are kids we're talking about. It's not exactly a hard choice to make."
Hugh nods. "I appreciate that. And I figure a guy like you has thought about this situation. I'd like to pick your brain on how you'd do this."
"Go in as quiet as you can, use almost all your explosives to make an opening, run for it with the hostages, use the rest of the explosives when they chase you. I don't really see them caring about the hostages... once they see it's you, I figure they'll be so occupied trying to capture or kill you all that the hostages'll probably escape just fine."
"Pretty much my thinking, Hale, but that's tactics, not strategy. What I'm concerned about is how we can do this without exposing this camp to more danger than we have to. And that's why I'm assigning some of my best people to stay here and, er, hold the fort. I'd be honored if we could count you among the defenders, Hale."
Davis nods in agreement and appreciation at Hugh's last sentence. "We're running pretty heavy on this mission as is," he adds. "If you were running this camp and mission, how many people would you want on the rescue?"
Hale thinks. Are they buttering me up, trying to get me in one of those holes? Or do they not trust me? "I'd send enough people to make sure it's not just a token rescue effort. If you can send two and get the job done, send two."
"Just looking at facts here, Hale. First, we don't have their numbers, not if we pack up everyone here and move to assault. That means we gotta go in stealthy, and that means the less people we have to move with, the better. Second, freeing the prisoners - and I'm not saying that to be a cynic - is important, but holding this camp is vital. Getting the prisoners doesn't matter if we lose here. We absolutely can't lose this camp, period. And that's why, push comes to shove, I'm trying to run the rescue as light as possible. Because I really, really need all my firepower here."
Hale relents. "I guess I'll stay here, then. Hopefully the next orange furball what crashes through that treeline won't have a recorded message about you."
"Am I going to see you out on the perimeter, Hale?" Davis asks. "If not, that's all right. Thanks for the offer, though. Just stay ready, because when they come back, I expect to see the Khiraba and their Wherren close behind, and we could use all the help keeping everyone safe that we can get when the big push hits. If you want."
"Jesus, Davis," Hugh says with a smirk. "The man's got a rifle. Give him a damn fire sector."
"That's true, he does actually know how to shoot," Davis replies.
"Tell you what, Davis," Hale replies. "When I see your pale ass in a foxhole, I'll come up and join you."
"Then I'll see you in a half-hour," Davis says. "My two-hour watch starts then." He grins. "I have fired one of these things before," he says, lifting his rifle.
---
The rescue team's been gone for just about 30 minutes, stalking through the jungle on their mercy mission. From the safe but not particularly shady confines of his foxhole, Cowboy looks over to see Davis and Hale standing watch in one of the other holes.
Davis looks over to Hale. He offers him a stick of spearmint gum. "Gum? You chew it, it's good. Helps pass the time."
Hale shakes his head. "I'm good," he says through his air-conditioned, adaptive-camouflaging, food-on-demand Turai armor.
Davis laughs and pops the stick in his mouth. "I bet you are," he says, and goes back to watching the forest.
Admiral Duck Sauce
