It began with two large pieces of equipment being wheeled into the office—a generator, and a piece of technology that Regaari didn’t recognize at all. Stainless didn’t speak until both were connected and powered up. Regaari gritted his teeth against the hypersonic whine that it made. It was probably outside of a human’s range of hearing—it was on the very upper edge of a Gaoian’s.
Stainless noticed his discomfort straight away. “Right, we’ll make this quick. Important talk time, because what’s decided in this room is going to make or break the future of our joint operations.” He gestured to a chair and Regaari perched on its edge.
Regaari perked up at that. “That seems…alarming.” He and his staff had been expecting a revelation at some point, but given SOR’s normally understated way of handling things, this was, indeed, concerning.
“It is. First and foremost, you may have noticed that your human comrades are not equipped with neural cybernetics of any description.”
“That had not escaped our notice.” Regaari’s alarm grew deeper but he maintained his outward neutrality. “Our assumption had been that it was either a security or technological matter—”
Stainless did something strange—he touched a finger to his nose and pointed at Regaari. “Top of the class as always.”
“—Well. Is it safe to assume a little of both?”
“We’ve…discussed how to break this news at length. Suffice it to say that the conclusion has been that we are going to reveal nothing…yet. But I invite you to consider summat—in all these months of working with us, in all the time you’ve known the SOR, have you ever known us to overlook or omit any detail except for extremely good reason?”
Regaari suspected the human was leading him on a bit; he let it pass. He trusted them utterly and had no evidence to suggest he should do otherwise. They were, after all, professionals in a way he deeply appreciated. Therefore there was a reason they avoided implants, a point he had forcefully made to the Whitecrest leadership. And given the esteem in which he held SOR, he naturally assumed it was an extremely serious matter.
On that point Whitecrest agreed and his Brothers, along with a cadre on Gao, were all tasked with English language immersion. All were making excellent progress, so much so they almost never spoke Gaori with the humans anymore. Progress that, Regaari felt with certainty, they would now depend upon.
Of course, this could merely be a simple medical issue or some other concern with the Corti. So he humored Stainless. It would be valuable to see where this conversation went.
“Of course not, Stainless. I have learned to trust in your judgement implicitly. This is not praise I give lightly.”
Stainless acknowledged the compliment with a nod. “Then trust it in this. I could have implants, any of us could. the Corti would happily sell ‘em to us.”
Regaari sighed. There goes that glimmer of hope.
“…we have a shuttle returning in a week. We can make necessary arrangements at that time.”
Stainless breathed out a great breath of relief. “I would be very grateful.”
Regaari head-ducked in acknowledgement. He was not looking forward to a lesser set of cybernetics. Suddenly: “To be clear, the issue is direct neural interface, yes?”
Stainless chuckled, “We’re not robbing you of an arm, mate. Direct brain interface is the concern. Other levels of integration are acceptable but we will need proof that any intra-cranial implants are not unduly intrusive. I’ll send you a file that spells it out.”
Regaari cracked a sly, toothy grin. “Excellent, I feel I would be properly useless without my hand. And besides,” he stood up and headed towards the exit, “Our English could always use practice.”
[“You are greatly improved since you began!”] said Powell in the best Gaori he could render. It was a bit of a childish tone, it must be said, and favored the easier, more direct core words. But that was understandable. Gaori could be tricky to pronounce.
The Gaoians’ English was getting good, too. It wasn’t perfect. Some of the sounds were quite difficult to wrap their canid-analog mouths around, and the resultant soreness in their tongues and jaws was an unpleasant surprise; yet more exercise to prepare themselves. Fortunately the humans were similarly challenged. Some sounds in Gaori involved growls, yips, and very tiny snarls in rapid succession and those sounds were almost physically impossible for a human to produce.
One did not need them—the core language was designed to be easy for a cub to render—but the more advanced sounds conveyed emotion and social status that mere words could not. It was similar to the subtle tones of human speech, and Regaari often wondered if that subtext was as impenetrable to humans as tone was to he and his Brothers.
“Excellent. That is all,” said Powell, making an attempt at a formal growl-click indicating friendly, superior status. Close enough for a beginner. Regaari head-ducked in acknowledgement and stood to attention. Powell stood as well and deactivated the whining box to Regaari’s profound relief; the sound was becoming physically painful. “You are dismissed.” Regaari turned to leave.
“Oh, and Sergeant Regaari?” This time it was in English.
“Yes?” He replied in Gaori automatically.
“Call me…Major Owen Powell.”
Regaari paused and struggled to contain his emotions. “Yes sir.” He left to pack.
Their visit to Gao was quicker and much more productive than they had anticipated. It was not entirely without drama, however. There were those in Whitecrest who did not approve of the Brothers and their increasingly deep integration with and fondness for the humans. In fact, when they initially arrived the very first thing their waiting transport detail commented on was their scent.
“You smell like human.” A rare and aggressive open insult.
And it was true; they did. Eating the SOR’s food, sleeping in their beds, exercising, wrestling, piling on, all had permanently imbued Human and Gaoian with each other’s scent. The Brothers sometimes joked the Humans smelled like Gaoians! The implication, of course, was that such “civilized” aroma could only improve the human’s lives.
But the guards were not delivering a friendly joke between Gaoian and Human Brothers. This was an insult to their adopted Human-Clan, an insult to honor, and it was not one that could be permitted to stand. Gaoians were a proud race, their males triply so. Hackles were instantly raised but a sharp growl from Regaari brought the situation to heel.
“Indeed we do. We’ve lived very closely with them and learned much. Would you care for a demonstration?” He grinned viciously and bared his teeth.
The guards responded immediately but so did the Brothers, and the guards paused, every one of them. The Brothers radiated a new, undefinable quality, a dangerous competence the guards had never experienced. It was very…Human.
Thurrsto stepped forward. The guards stepped back. He was big, almost a small Stoneback in size and in many ways just as threatening. He snarled and bared his teeth without any of the civilized veneer Regaari had managed. “Let me, Regaari.”
Regaari nodded and smirked. The lead guard gulped and stepped forward, and attacked.
“I’ll never speak ill of you or your friends again.” The hapless guard coughed up a loose tooth as he said it and sprayed a visually worrisome amount of blood in so doing. The other challenger said nothing; he was unconscious with an arm bent the wrong way.
“Good. Be glad you did not fight Regaari.” Thurrsto took mere seconds to defeat his two challengers. The speed and endurance they had gained, combined with their excellent training as Whitecrest operatives and some new ideas the SOR had given them…well. It wasn’t much of a contest.
The guard—smaller than Thurrsto but large nonetheless—stared open-eyed at the shorter, smaller Regaari. “But he—”
“Size is not everything.”
The guard took another look at Regaari. While Regaari was always an infuriatingly handsome male and had on more than one occasion outcompeted that particular guard for the attention of a female, even our hapless guard was forced to admit: Regaari looked good. All of them did. A little larger, perhaps, obviously stronger, but more importantly they were more…intense. The flow of their body was more prominent under their (strangely soft and silky) fur, their posture was…more animal. Ready for action. Even the way they looked at everything. Their eyes shifted, their ears swiveled…
These were not Gaoians to harass in any manner and everyone knew it instantly.
From that point forward things changed drastically for the Brothers. All of them suddenly found females interested in their company, even criminally ugly Thurrsto! Other males were far more wary. The Fathers…well. They schemed, as Fathers do and must. What would come of that was not Regaari’s immediate concern.
Then the implants were removed. They did retain a translator but it was auditory and visual only, and then via the sensory nerves instead of direct brain interface. It was disorientating at first, having a voice appear in one’s ear louder than what was being heard, and having a visual “overlay” seemingly inside their head. But those were the rules, and the rules were not to be violated.
They even went so far as to design the compute unit as an external device which could be easily removed by way of a simple retainer. Simply pull the device off its discreet magnetic pad in the skull and no sign at all remained, and critically no sophisticated electronics either. All of this was an idea suggested by the humans; they pointed out it would make upgrades and customization far easier. All in all, a very clever compromise to their…ominous concerns.
After that, there was essential Clan business to attend, some rest and relaxation, and then of course the return trip. All in all, productive, restful, gratifying on several levels; Thurrsto was a now a sire—Thurrsto!—and the professional rewards were many. Why, once the Fathers had seen what the Brothers could actually do, and saw that it wasn’t terribly different from what Whitecrest was already training, it was natural and easy to adopt the general philosophy into their existing programs. This in turn guaranteed prestigious and productive postings for all the Brothers under Regaari’s care, and what could make him happier?
Rumors began circulating as well. Regaari could find himself appointed to Father soon. That was a piece of news he wasn’t entirely sure he enjoyed.
Enough fantasizing. All of that was in the future. For now? He contemplated the return with happy anticipation. But more urgent and immediate needs drove him at that moment. He chittered to himself, snuggled much more firmly into the lovely, delightful female he bed, and returned to a thoroughly enjoyable sleep.
Soon, he would know the SOR by name.
“And so my idiot friend tattooed it on my abs!” Everyone laughed along as Blazcynski chuckled drunkenly, “But it really tickled, y’know? I couldn’t hold still! And he didn’t shave it, or clean the skin, or anything like that.” He gulped down more beer. “Oh! An’ I had really big abs even as a punk kid, too. So he just fuck’d it all up.” He wobbled to his feet, lifted his abused t-shirt and flexed his extremely impressive abdominals—tied for best-looking on the team in a raucous, impromptu competition judged by the ladies present—and twisted just so to make the poorly-executed design appear correctly. Once he did that it became obvious it was the logo for Project Starfall, an old human videogame.
“See, my favorite part of all this is how ‘ya doubled down on the design. I mean, your tattoo work covers your whole damn torso now.” Rebar grinned his sly grin and quite predictably provoked Blaczynski into action.
“Fuck yeah, dude! It’s a fuckin’ badass piece!” He grinned crazily and yanked off his t-shirt for all to see, and flexed his muscles outrageously to the good-natured jeers and cheers of everyone present. As Rebar—no, Vandenberg—commented, it did in fact cover his entire upper body, front and back, much like a human t-shirt would. Watching Blaczynski prance about to display his tattoo was an almost obscene study in perfect human anatomy. The way he moved was hypnotically predatory and incredibly organic; all the men of SOR were like this but the Aggressors in particular had very well-practiced control of their motion. It never failed to intimidate Regaari or his fellow Whitecrest. Nor, in fact, the other human males at the bar.
Fortunately Blaczynski was a dependably friendly (if amusingly obnoxious) individual and so it was clear he meant no harm, even when he danced right in front of Regaari with an odd smirk on his face to raucous cheers and whoops. The huge tattoo itself was done in bold and vibrant colors with the artwork nearest his navel (and the terrible logo) having integrated perfectly with the original tattoo. The effect was oddly beautiful and Regaari admired him as he strut about.
There was then some humor which escaped Regaari’s understanding. The other humans began throwing their archaic paper money at Starfall—Blaczynski—which was accompanied by lewd, laughing jeers and outrageous insults delivered in that special manner which indicated love and affection, instead of insult and derision. Even the Gaoians joined in! Blaczynski did not seem offended; to the contrary, before long he was dancing that same hypnotic dance practically on top of Vandenberg to his clear red-faced embarrassment and the much louder, animalistic cheers of everyone else.
Shortly thereafter all the men were shirtless and dancing to the incredibly loud and brutal music, and the women—many from the support unit, and some who were close friends of SOR and trusted guests of the Pub—soon joined in. The vibe and smell became decidedly more primal. Regaari chittered in amusement, for it seemed all the Gaoian Brothers would be sleeping in the common area on their old mats this weekend. A good thing; the humans got antsy if they hadn’t “got their rocks off” recently.
This cycle of building tension and happy release seemed to be common to most humans and it was not unlike the feelings a Gaoian male experienced. The difference was the focus and the intensity; the men of SOR had a laser-like focus on bedding someone agreeable. Siring a cub seemed at most a distant concern, at least at this point in their lives. Gaoian males, by contrast, had much different motivations. For them, the mating agreement and the promise of cubs was the central goal. The mating itself was a pleasantly long and desirable affair, of course—even with the inevitable small injuries—but they did not obsess or wax rhapsodic on it like the humans did, and certainly did not pursue sex with the same all-consuming drive.
Regaari suspected there was a very interesting study to be had here.
He chuckled at his thoughts and the antics, and watched from a safe distance. It was a thoroughly enjoyable return party. They were at Rooney’s, SORs favorite pub, and one which over time came to cater specifically to the nearby military base. It was a delightfully cozy establishment that very much appealed to Gaoian sensibilities. It was warm, homely, and comfortable. Though at the moment, with all of the operators and much of the closest support staff present, it was also crammed full of large Deathworlders all inebriated and stumbling slightly about. Best to keep his distance and stay safely out from underfoot, as it were.
And were it not for the exceptionally powerful air conditioning it would also be stiflingly hot in addition to mildly dangerous. Instead it was pleasantly warm. This was much improved from previous years, from what Adam had said. Before the owner upgraded his HVAC to accommodate his most profitable customers, any SOR gathering quickly made the pub unbearably hot. Of course, over time the pub had been transformed into a space catering especially to SOR interests, both operator and support personnel alike. The seating, tables, and general fixtures were all of very heavy wooden or metal construction. Food came in enormous quantities with much emphasis on clean, high quality meats and produce. There was little in the way of fried or processed edibles on the menu excepting a few mandatories like the ever-popular scotch egg. Even the clientele had shifted over time to predominantly young and single patrons. SOR effectively claimed the pub as theirs. If one looked closely, one could find feet, daggers, and castles discreetly placed everywhere, along with other unit insignia from the many and varied support staff. Such was the fate of all military pubs. The owner didn’t mind.
Regaari reflected on the names and personal stories of the men he had until the evening before known by callsign only. The big reveal was something the men had planned for some time, since emptying out the Pub required advance notice. And the pub, as always, delivered an excellent spread. There were steaks (delicious), beer (a most excellent concoction, and so many varieties!), and foods of many description, along with the joyful rough-housing and carousing one always expected with SOR, and of course the tales behind their callsigns.
Warhorse in particular seemed deeply embarrassed about the story behind his name. Why would he be shy about such an enjoyable gift, especially given that Burgess and Firth were so smugly proud of their similar luck? The Brothers had long known the “Footlongs” were exceptional, of course; aside from the humans’ typically blunt and descriptive nicknames, there were few secrets in such close proximity and amongst such brashly uninhibited men. The difference was apparently that ‘Horse’s body had a very predictable morning routine, one which would not be denied no matter how embarrassed he grew or how much anyone teased. Not even the first and most personally transformative phase of his Clan Rites blunted his body’s need. Why this one aspect of himself could so embarrass him despite his utter nonchalance about nudity in any other circumstance was, yet again, a source of near-infinite bemused humor to the Gaoian Brothers. And the rest of SOR, apparently.
Baseball felt it was in part driven by mild jealousy on the part of most of the other humans. Understandable, of course, though from what Regaari could tell none of the other men were lacking, nor were any of the females complaining…he filed the thought away for future contemplation. Humans were a very strange species. He smiled ruefully at it all as he sipped his delicious beer. It was yet another victory his enormous friend had over him, though quite why he felt so competitive with Warhorse eluded him at the moment. No matter, he was in a good mood today and none of his routine, trained ambivalence lingered about his thoughts. He was with friends he now truly knew and he was raring and ready to adventure with them again.
And so they celebrated their return until the men—even Rebar, who generally kept his affairs private—had women on their arms and began to meander back to base and barracks to do what healthy, enthusiastic humans do when slightly tipsy, full of energy, and driven by hormones and unwise motivations. Most went in pairs, a few in other, more complex arrangements, but all had partners for the night, leaving a few lesser human males and females behind to contemplate each other, and perhaps “settle” as Blaczynski so bluntly put it.
Regaari had to commend the humans on the brutal honesty of their Game. Their mating dance was in its own way as vicious as Gaoian selection could be; it was sometimes even violent, though the men of SOR were remarkably self-restrained in that regard. Quite why the clearly superior males tolerated the occasional belligerence of the inferior males vying for attention escaped Regaari on an emotional level. Though it did make sense intellectually, and the females clearly rewarded them for it…
Oh well. Aliens were by definition alien. It was doubtful the two species would ever completely understand each other. Still, it was very hard not to like them no matter how odd their worldview or infuriatingly better it frequently seemed to be. At least they were friendly about it.
The Brothers followed shortly thereafter once the weight of the food had settled inward a bit and the mood in the Pub approached “last call” desperation. Definitely time to head back. They would have the weekend to rest, recover, re-adjust to life under the heavy gravity of HMS Sharman, and attend to any last-minute preparations. All of the Brothers were eager to resume their training, even knowing the pain that awaited them come Monday morning.
They returned to a barracks filled with closed doors and the well-muffled sounds of joy, surprise, and impressive physical exertion. The humans would, if history proved a guide, wrestle with each other until well past sunrise and only then fall asleep. They would awaken around mid-day and then would likely carry on through the weekend, feeding on leftovers, delivery from the chow hall, and “snack runs” by the Gaoian Brothers coupled with profuse thanks and promises of return favors. Sunday evening would be a scramble of chores and put-off housework and humorous, improbable tall tales of their amorous achievements.
Sleep would come very late for everyone. Closed doors and nearly soundproofed walls helped much but sounds escaped anyway, and there was nothing to be done about the scents and pheromones inevitably filling the Brothers with an odd restless energy. No matter. The Brothers were still on Gaoian time and had much studying to do anyway. Let the humans have their fun.