Two days later
Whitecrest Enclave, The Alien Quarter, Folctha, Cimbrean, the Far Reaches
Private briefing with Officer Regaari
Champion Genshi of Clan Whitecrest
This was not the first time Genshi had visited Cimbrean on short notice, nor, he feared, would it be the last, not with what he was promised to learn. At least Regaari had dispensed with the usual pleasantries and nervous politeness. He simply marched over, led Genshi straight to his office, swept it for electronics (!) and then, without ceremony, pressed a device against Genshi’s head.
He grumbled, “What is the nature of your implants, Champion?”
Genshi raised an eyebrow. “With the suspicions we’ve had, I’ve downgraded to the basics. It’s an entry-level translator.”
“How entry-level?”
“Auditory and visual overlay only.”
Regaari glanced at his scanner again and back at the Champion. “…I must ask a massive favor, Champion. I need you to remove that implant.”
“…so it’s as we feared, then.”
Regaari said nothing.
Genshi gave a Human sigh. It was such an effective emote. “Could you not have told me this before I left?”
“There is a, uh, trusted augment surgeon in the alien quarter who can do it in an afternoon. I took the liberty of booking you an appointment.” Regaari duck-nodded in half-exasperated apology. He knew how much he was imposing.
“Very well. When is this appointment?”
“We should leave now.”
Genshi duck-nodded in acquiescence and studied Regaari very closely. His self-control was admirable but Genshi was an absolute master of sign and tell. And when he looked upon Regaari’s calm and collected exterior, he could see a deeply worrying truth.
Regaari was terrified. And if Genshi was honest with himself? So was he.
The walk was quick and would ordinarily be pleasant. It cut right past the large park the Clan of Females was designing and which promised to be a showcase of Gaoian life for the betterment of everyone.
Genshi couldn’t think about the park. With a concern that serious, no matter what he learned that day his life would irrevocably change. The last few days had made him keenly aware of an ominous doom approaching and it was all he could do to tackle it calmly and rationally. He could not afford failure.
And if it didn’t end up being a true and genuine danger to Gao, he would personally destroy Regaari’s career and claw his eyes out in a back alley.
They arrived. Regaari shuffled nervously, “I must take my leave, Champion. Training will not wait and my Brothers are suffering their Rites even now. Stainless and Templar will arrive shortly to brief you.”
“Very well. Train hard, Brother.”
Regaari duck-nodded. “Light the Darkness, my Champion.” He turned and left.
Genshi stood for a moment, as if deciding. He steeled himself and went in.
Two hours later
Genshi found himself with an almost imperceptible scar along the side of his skull and, suddenly, an inability to communicate. Fortunately the Locayl augment surgeon understood and pressed an external translator into his paw.
“You’ll get used to the missing emotional context pretty quick. You Gaoians usually do.” He turned, made a completely unrecognizable gesture—Genshi noticed the missing context immediately—“See what I mean? Think of speaking as a textual message and you’ll cope.”
Genshi pondered for a moment, still waiting for the last of the anesthetic to wear off; he was fully awake and functional but his movements were just a tad sluggish. Since he had a few more moments with the surgeon he decided to be bold. “Why do the Humans trust you?”
“Why not?”
A remarkable non-answer, really, and an evasion so blunt it was almost admirable. Genshi decided to push. “I can think of many reasons, myself.”
“Many of them are probably true. But you will learn that for yourself soon.”
Nothing. One final gambit, perhaps, but without a neurotranslator it ran the risk of mistranslation. Oh well, nothing risked, nothing gained. This time he laid his ears back in as confused and mildly worried a gesture he could manage, hoped the Locayl could understand, and asked: “Why?”
The Locayl paused and again the missing emotional context stung Genshi. “You amuse me, Gaoian. As for myself? A favor was done, and a favor returned, and my mind was opened in the process. I can never go back and I would not wish to.”
He puttered around his surgery a bit, disposing of the used dressings and placing his forcefield scalpels in their charging bases. “As for you? I can only presume you are of immense value to the Humans, my little customer. They are doing you an exquisite favor but beware: it comes at an extraordinary cost.”
“What would that cost be?”
“Only you will know. Now leave, little one. I must prepare for my next customer, a Human who is interested in a display tattoo. They are so strange…”
Genshi resolved two things. Firstly, that he had, indeed, been overly reliant on a translator implant. And secondly, he would investigate this surgeon. Discreetly, of course, and only once his greater mission was achieved…
Feeling free of the anesthetic, Genshi popped up from the table, regained his balance, thanked and paid the surgeon, and left.
Technical Sergeant [select] Adam (Warhorse) Arés
Adam had two reasons to be there that day. The first was, genuinely, to get his very first tattoo. He’d hemmed and hawed about it for years, and as of late, Firth’s attitude of “my body is a temple” had rubbed off on him in more ways than one. Something about a permanent tattoo seemed important and he wanted to be completely sure about it before he took the plunge. Also: he was still rapidly growing, and that meant anything he did get would likely be distorted beyond recognition sooner rather than later. Best to wait it out and see where the Crude and his willpower would take him.
But a display tattoo? That was different. The alien versions were designed with many species in mind, some with wildly divergent body plans. They were designed specifically to accommodate changes in shape and volume, amongst other things, and were guaranteed for the life of the wearer. With that being the case—and after a long, torturous technical review and approval by SOR and, well, other entities—Adam had finally got the approval to take the plunge. And after all, he’d recently earned a line number for tech, and though his actual promotion was almost a year away, who wouldn’t celebrate a little?
“Hello!” Adam bounced into the room with his usual cheery attitude and a carefully-mediated smile. The Locayl understood Human body language fairly well by this point, so a basic translator was more than adequate.
“Greetings, ‘Warhorse.’ Have you decided?”
“Yessir!” He examined the metal table carefully, decided it was probably suitable, then carefully settled his weight onto it. He was these days a stupendously dense and heavy being—far more so than even his epic appearance might suggest—and was therefore wary of all furniture not made with SOR in mind. The table groaned very loudly under his mass but held steady. He pulled off his shirt and gestured across his bulging pecs, “I want one that covers my whole chest.” In so doing put on an almost grotesque show of Deathworlder power and ability. He looked down and grinned sheepishly, “Oh, um…do I need to shave? I forgot to ask last time.” He scratched at the short, heavy layer of fine black hair covering his massive chest.
The surgeon stared, intimidated as anyone would be. “…No, that won’t be necessary. My tools are more sophisticated than what your kind would use.”
Adam bounced happily in place. “Sweet! It would’ve looked weird, y’know? I’d hafta’ve shaved everywhere!”
While he was by no means hirsute—at least, not by the standards set by Burgess (the Human poodle), Firth (a walking bear) or Sikes (who “manscaped”)—Adam was recently and suddenly possessed of an impressive dusting everywhere. It erupted shortly after Nova Hound, and though such an almost overnight change would catch anyone by surprise, SOR medical had an explanation; the Crude and the positive reinforcement it enabled in his body’s development meant, amongst other things, that his natural hormones were permanently and massively elevated, well beyond baseline and far into uncharted territory. Really, of all the other changes he was experiencing both physical and mental, a full-body “five o’clock shadow” was the least of his worries. Not that anyone would let it go unnoticed, of course; the teasing had been merciless.
Regardless, it was only one of the more visible changes he was experiencing. Most of the others were less immediately obvious but far more profound: his testosterone count, for example. In a context without Crude it would be so incredibly high it would be medically alarming. His was now well beyond any documented Human experience. That was true of all the Lads but it was truest with him, and to slightly lesser degrees with Baseball and increasingly Righteous, too. It was a source of great worry at first, but as promised by the Corti, there had been no negative effects; there were none of the wildly out-of-balance problems that an abusing, uninformed athlete could develop, nor were there any issues of “atrophy,” something the Lads were keenly concerned about. Quite the opposite, in fact, to their awkward and mutual amusement.
All of which had an interesting effect on their presence and their behavior; they were, in effect, maximally male in a way that most everyone subconsciously perceived, either Human or alien. And as the Crude returned the older men to their biological youth, and maintained the Protectors at the perfect effective moment in their late teens? Their ever-increasing hormones affected their personalities, too. They were playful, caring, puppy-like, aggressive, boisterous, irrepressibly optimistic and high on life, and they grew more so as time went by.
And this was the second reason he was here. All of that was utterly embodied by Adam. He was, in effect, a walking propaganda coup for Humanity and was himself only dimly aware of it, a fact which made him useful. Intel sent him as a very subtle reminder to the Locayl of exactly who he was dealing with when he performed work for SOR.
Adam, by nature, wasn’t one to act the enforcer; he was capable of breathtaking violence if necessary but he would far rather be friends. And that was why intel sent him. Any of the other men would loom and intimidate in counterproductive ways. Adam? He was simultaneously the most fearsome and most affable member of the team, and here, that mattered.
His orders? Simply remind the Locayl of the situation, discreetly. Intel felt no need to ask anything more; they didn’t ask him to posture, cajole, threaten, or do anything at all besides ask about payment terms and security expenses.
Sometimes, the very best agents were the unwitting.
Meanwhile, the Locayl examined the specimen before him. “That is rather…a lot of area to cover. It will be expensive. Do you have the wherewithal?”
“Yup!” Adam reached into his gym shorts and pulled out a credit card. Primitive by even the standards of modern Human payment systems, there was just something comforting in an encrypted physical token. The Locayl took it, ran a pre-authorization on the multi-terminal on the counter, then presented Adam with the estimate. The price caused him to raise a big, bushy eyebrow but he pressed his thumb to the reader and agreed.
“Much appreciated, Warhorse. Do you want anesthetic?” Despite years of advances, even a modern alien tattoo was given in much the same way as the traditional Human method of ink and needle. Most species interested in a tattoo of any kind therefore either felt no dermal pain or required anesthesia. For some, the pain they would experience could be lethal. But for Humans?
“Nah. Starfall says it’s part of earning it, man. I’ll do without.”
The Locayl made a display of disbelief, which Adam did not properly interpret. It had the effect intel was hoping for.
“As you wish. If you would lie flat?” He did, carefully. The table creaked alarmingly. While the Locayl boggled at this in the manner of his species, Adam kicked off his sandals and settled himself in with his hands behind his head.
“How did things go with him?” Adam asked the question directly.
“As expected, I imagine. He asked some pointed questions.” The Locayl moved toward Adam with his tools.
“Heh, I bet! Whitecrests, they’re smart, huh?”
“Indeed.” He began work. Adam made absolutely no sign of reaction or pain beyond a curious glance down and over his enormous slab of a chest.
“…do you not feel anything?”
“Oh, it hurts like hell, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Then why forgo the anesthetic?”
“Meh. Pain is a friend. It’s just a warning sign, no more.”
The surgeon said nothing. He grimly filled in the tattoo.
There was a long, anticlimactic hour of increasingly rapid work as the Locayl applied the tattoo more and more aggressively. Normally, that much area would require several days of application but Adam’s pain tolerance was immense. In the end the Locayl worked with as much force and speed as he would against a chitinous hide. Adam only gave the barest of winces, and then only on the detail work around the vestigial parts of his mammalian anatomy. An odd quirk of Human biology, that.
“That’s it, Warhorse. Sit up and we’ll calibrate.” He went to fetch the programming console, got a matching bridge token so Adam could re-program the tattoo with a Human computer, and began the calibration pattern. Adam watched, fascinated, as his brand new chest tattoo rapidly progressed through a number of colors and patterns. The Locayl fetched a drone camera and aimed it at the tattoo. “Move around naturally. The token must calibrate for your full range of motion.”
“So, what? Just prance around a bit?”
“Move in any way you’re likely to move.”
Adam shrugged, and did so. He bounced off the table with a heavy thump the Locayl could feel through the concrete floor, then progressed through simple movements: swinging his arms, stretching out, crossing them across, scratching his back.
“Oh, yeah! I’m supposed to ask you if you have our next bill ready.” Adam got creative, doing handstands and generally tumbling about. “Am I doing this right?” The drone began to struggle with Adam’s rapid, unpredictable motion.
“…yes. That should be enough for calibration.” The Locayl touched something on his device, and the token chirped a happy sort of tone.
“Sweet! Can I program it?”
“Yes, Sync the token with ‘Bluetooth’ and download the app, and you should be able to upload any design you wish.” Adam tapped on his watch, touched on the floating virtual holodisplay only he could see, and grunted happily when the token beeped. A moment later, a large, greenish pair of stylized Human feet appeared on his left pectoral, and a stylized Human silhouette on the right.
“Dude, this is sweet! Can I animate it, too?”
“If you wish. As for your unit’s bill, I have already prepared and transmitted it. Will there be anything else, Warhorse?”
“Nah, thanks!” He fetched his sandals and t-shirt, pulled them on, said goodbye, and thumped his way out of the office.
Not for the first time, the Locayl wondered just how wise it was to be so intimately involved with a species as eminently impressive and terrifying as the Humans. But they did save his life and that of his wife and children. And that favor was one he could never repay.
He cleaned up for his next customer.
Champion Genshi of Clan Whitecrest
When he emerged from the clinic he met a Human—older and of an intense and dignified mien, if Genshi was any judge—in the full uniform of an “Admiral.” The man was tall and stately, with an understated Deathworlder strength Genshi found himself admiring instantly.
The man next to him was a shock. That man was considerably shorter—only slightly taller than Genshi, in fact—but so utterly embodied the dense, dangerous power the Humans were infamous for, he could only be a SOR operator. He wasn’t as large or obviously strong as Daar, but the Stoneback was a genuine freak in his own right, and the man before him palpably radiated deadly ability in a way Daar simply did not, or maybe could not.
The taller man approached and spoke in English. “Welcome, Champion Genshi. It seems remiss we have not met before now. I am known as Templar. This is the commander of SOR, Stainless. He will be our translator for any tricky bits.”
“Pleased to meet you both,” spoken in Gaori. Genshi stepped forward and offered his paw in the Human manner of greeting.
Templar offered a firm but careful handshake, and the shorter man gave a squeeze that was almost painful. “Good to meet you,” he said in absolutely perfect Gaori. Genshi silently marveled; Stainless had even managed the complex growl-clicks involved when communicating status, a trick most cubs did not master until they were close to adulthood. Here, he settled on a carefully neutral and friendly click used when one was unsure of rank or status.
Impressive.
“Shall we?” The admiral gestured down the path towards the gate out of the Alien Quarter. They walked in silence. Genshi had to move quite quickly to keep up; even with an ambling shuffle, the Humans’ long legs gave them an easy, brisk pace.
They arrived at the gate, sped through the exit process, and walked toward a tremendously large utility vehicle of some kind. Templar opened the rear door and gestured for Genshi to hop in. “After you.”
The Whitecrest bounced into the tall vehicle with dignity intact and chose the far seat. Templar climbed in next to him, Stainless into what was presumably the operator’s seat, and the moment the doors were closed, Templar produced a scanner and affected what Genshi believed was an apologetic look.
“My apologies, but we must be absolutely sure.”
“I understand.” He acquiesced by way of a tilted head, Templar made a quick and discreet scan, and as the device glowed strongly green, the Humans sighed in what felt like profound relief.
“Are you satisfied, ‘Templar?’”
“Yes, Champion. May I refer to you by your name?”
“When I know yours, I will not complain.”
The Humans made a chuckling noise which Genshi knew was laughter.
“A fair cop. And now the paperwork. You’ve seen one of these before.” Templar produced a Human computer—the same one Regaari had produced almost a year ago, in fact—and this one had a very similar set of forms. The only difference was the codeword.
Genshi paused. “So this is the moment I have dreaded, I guess. The codeword is interesting. Is ‘DEEP RELIC’ an accurate translation?”
“Aye,” remarked Stainless. “And it’s fookin’ relevant, too.”
Templar favored the major with a chuckle, but Genshi thought maybe he detected the most subtle rebuke in it. It was hard to tell; Human expressions could be quite complex but he’d lately consumed much Human media, and he felt was growing quite adept at “reading” them.
Genshi considered. “Well. That is certainly…a term filled with potential. That does not ease my worries.”
“…no, I suspect it wouldn’t. Are you ready to be briefed?” Stainless pressed a button and the vehicle drove off on its own, and the windows suddenly became opaque. Genshi also noticed the outside noise was gone; only the three of them could be heard.
Genshi signed the agreement with his thumbprint. “I am.” At last.
Templar let out a breath, than began his tale. “It begins with San Diego…”
Over the next hour, Genshi learned the meaning of Revelation.