Admiral Sir Patrick Knight
Admiral Knight took a drink from his water bottle. He’d talked at length as he briefed Genshi, and with only the occasional pause to review supporting evidence, Knight found the long monologue thirsty and exhausting work.
The subject at hand most assuredly did not help matters.
Genshi’s reactions were difficult to read. With Gaoians, their basic expressions were disconcertingly similar to canines. That someone as intelligent and sophisticated as Genshi had so much in common with Bozo seemed a cruel prank of the Universe, but it did make the essentials of interaction possible. Happiness, surprise, joy, worry…all there.
What was missing were the subtler clues, which for Gaoians were mostly communicated with the ears. Theirs were huge, expressive, highly and individually mobile, and depending on their mood could flick every which way in the course of a conversation. For most Gaoians, anyway. Whitecrests kept their ears under control: noticeably so, in fact. Knight felt it added to their general air of dignity and showed a proper restraint befitting an officer and a gentleman.
If only it didn’t make Genshi so damnably difficult to read. The Champion sat in the truck, looking forward at nothing in particular and clearly lost in thought.
“I find a cup of tea helps me think in these situations. What do you think, Stainless?”
“Aye.” He nodded, deactivated the privacy shields and drove back to base.
Genshi stirred from his reverie. “This ‘tea’ is one of your mild drugs, is it not?”
“Indeed, and it is what powers His Majesty’s armed forces to glory and victory. The Americans prefer coffee. A perfectly civilized drink…”
“I see,” chittered Genshi. “I have heard of this ‘conflict’ as well. I’ve likened it to some of our inter-Clan rivalries.” He tilted his head, “Is this ‘tea’ safe to drink?”
Knight glanced at Powell, who nodded. “It is. Large doses should be avoided, but a cuppa won’t hurt too much.”
“…too much?”
Knight chuckled paternally. “Caffeine can be a powerful stimulant. Best to take it easy and learn your tolerance. Regaari, for example, is as good as a Human.”
“And Faarek,” added Powell, “Shouldn’t be allowed within ten miles of a cup.”
Genshi chittered quietly. “He always was a bit overstimulated, I thought.”
The mildly jovial attitude quickly faded as Genshi returned to his far-off stare. What he was thinking on, Knight could only guess. Not that any guesswork was needed; Knight had laid an incredible burden on his graceful shoulders.
“…Is there something I can do?”
Genshi looked at Knight and considered him with a surprising intensity for a long, awkward while. Knight held his dignity and said nothing.
“…Do you understand the things I must now do?”
“I would not presume to impose upon Gaoian affairs.”
Genshi growled low and aggressively. “A cute evasion, Templar. You owe me more than that. You would not have revealed this information to me if you planned to remain neutral. What other Gaoians have you shared this with? Are there other Champions I must contend with? What is your angle?”
Knight stood silent for a moment. He leveled his gaze square into Genshi’s eyes, and in that moment Knight transformed from a gentle, dignified elder statesman into the hard, calculated, utterly ruthless admiral he truly was.
“Now let us be clear, Genshi of Whitecrest. We have shared this information with Regaari, and his team, and now you on his advice. There are three other aliens in this galaxy who know the full context of DEEP RELIC and none of them are Gaoian. You met one earlier today. Our intent was not to manipulate, or cajole, or to cause internal strife or other strategic harm. Our intent was to warn the one and only promising ally we have on the galactic stage of an existential threat. Now I must ask, because this question has me deeply worried: are you up to this challenge?”
Genshi met it with a cool and calm response. “I must be, because if I am not, my people are doomed. Failure is not an option.”
“Aye,” chimed Powell.
Knight silently thanked him. It was a brilliantly effective interjection and allowed him a decent segue into more civilized topics.
“Yes, well. That aside, shall we close the evening on a lighter note?”
“No, thank you.” Genshi had the distinct air of someone resigned to a long, terrible road. “I have much work to do and I am already at a disadvantage. If you could please return me to the Alien quarter…?”
“Of course.” He nodded at Powell, who turned the truck around.
They sat together in silence, Genshi lost in his thoughts. A few minutes later they arrived. Knight stepped out, gestured for Genshi who hopped out, and they said their goodbyes.
Knight did not envy the Champion.
He climbed into the front seat and Powell set off for base. “What do you reckon will happen, Sir?”
Knight shook his head. “Death.”
Genshi
He wandered the Alien quarter in solitude until late evening. When he wanted to Genshi could move like a wraith, silent and undetected, and on that night he very much did not wish to be disturbed. He walked, and he observed, and he ruminated on his thoughts.
Evening fell. As always the rains approached, and though the forcefield was ever-present, it did permit sanitized rain to fall through mostly unmolested. Even in a fugue he had a sense of his dignity, and longfur Gaoians were not appreciative of water. He returned to the enclave just as the first drops fell.
The small enclave was calm and collected, the evening meditation complete, and was preparing for sleep. They broke into small groups and began to pile atop each other in the traditional nest-beds, and though all invited him, he declined politely. It would be improper for the Champion to favor one group over another, of course, and so he choose a spot roughly equidistant from them all, grabbed a comfortable Naxas blanket, curled up around it, and went to sleep.
Genshi had never felt so alone.
The next morning
Genshi awoke early, as he always did, but on this morning he was ill-rested. He dreamed of things that were and how they were different in the fierce, unforgiving light of DEEP RELIC. He ate breakfast with his brothers, took their morning exercises with them—he noted they now incorporated elements of Tai Chi with some additional Whitecrest innovations—and barricaded himself in his office, leaving strict directions not to be disturbed.
The first thing he needed to do was consider Whitecrest’s Fathers. He drew up a blank spreadsheet, queried the personnel database for a list of all current and pending Fathers, and began making notes. He very quickly had a list of his fellows who were obviously on one side or another, and the patterns were easy to spot: the pro-Dominion Fathers were all allies of Father Mavil, currently enjoying his “promotion” on Qinis, while the pro-Human faction was clearly and unambiguously aligned with Regaari.
Some strategic blundering might be in order. After all, direct and obvious action, if it wasn’t quite obvious enough, could often frighten actors into hasty decisions. He decided he would run a query against their in-Clan decision support system. The query would be noticed by the analysis staff because it would require significant compute time back on Gao. Good.
- Build a vertex graph of all Whitecrest communications to and from Dominion and Human endpoints over the last five years
- Classify this response for Fourth Claw inductees only
- Restrict access to a new Brothergroup
- Add Regaari, Genshi, and Genshi-Staff to this Brothergroup
- Run query with high priority
- Send all data to this endpoint
- Do not perform insight analysis
More mischief, he thought. But this was mischief of the deadliest kind. He didn’t send the query quite yet. He saved it in his queue and moved onto another, more important task. Before he could deploy his query he needed his trap set and ready, and for that, he needed to call in a very old favor.
He addressed his workstation. “Contraption? Compose a secure message to Champion Meereo of Clan Longear.”
Master Sergeant Christian (Righteous) Firth
Firth was happy. He’d just completed the best day of combatives ever and had more to look forward to. Fighting the Gaoians was SO. MUCH. FUN!
Well, sure, they were little. Little by any modern soldier or operator’s standards, anyway, and that weren’t just compared to SOR. In modern battle y’needed ‘ta be strong to wear the armor and carry the ammo, and you still hadta move and jump and stuff. What’s the point of body armor if you couldn’t catch a little bitch Haji and crush his skull? What if you couldn’t get behind cover fast enough?
And yeah, sure. ‘Horse was makin’ ‘em strong just like he was makin’ Righteous an’ everyone else strong, but Gaoians had some no-shit limits, y’know? Their frames were pretty much all light an’ quick, not big an’ strong. Dexter? He looked good these days but he couldn’t be more than a hundred-fifty! Before the days of body armor, and at his height? That’d be a skinny soldier in perfect fighting trim! Now…not so much. Thurrsto? He was biggish but even he was maybe only a buck ninety or so. That’d be where any modern soldier would need to start to be any kind o’ useful, to be honest. Gaoians ain’t like Humans.
‘Course, Gaoians weren’t Humans, neither. Running forever with a ruck, soldiering up and down hills and through muck for days on end…that weren’t their style. They were just awesomely vicious and Firth felt they were his spirit animal. Strike fast and hard. Hit ‘em with as much as you possibly could. Cheat like a whore when the bill came due. And no mercy. Ever. Firth approved.
And that meant they fought like rabid, angry raccoons. They couldn’t punch or kick but they had claws an’ they were fuckin’ willing to use ‘em, too. Firth learned that lesson right away on the first day of combatives.
“Okay, listen up! We gotta see how y’all fight up close and personal before we know how we are gonna do this, yeah? So…” Firth decided to pick on their leader. “Regaari! Come at me like you genuinely tryin’ t’kill me, ‘kay? I got all three of our medics here just in case.” He nodded happily at Baseball, Warhorse, and Thurrsto, pulled off his shirt and sandals, flexed a little with an evil grin, then dropped into a wrestler’s crouch, ready for action.
Firth’s little show was meant to do two things. Firstly, only an idiot would fight in loose clothing like a muscle tee. A gi, maybe…but definitely not sandals, either. Gym shorts were the best. The second thing it was meant to do was intimidate. Firth considered himself a master at that particular art, and he was; but he’d failed to consider the Gaoians were already as intimidated as they were likely to be. They were lined up an’ waiting t’ fight the scariest Deathworlder there was: how much worse could it get?
His quick, nonchalant little display didn’t work on Regaari. He didn’t disappoint. The little guy thought for a moment, then limbered up and gave the most vicious snarl, then pounced. Good Lord was he fast! It was a good thing Firth was faster, ‘cuz the big man narrowly dodged an attack at his eyes, followed by an attack at his groin, and then an attempt, when Firth spun around, at his neck. The little shit was tryin’ to put the big man off balance and it sorta worked, because he managed to land a four-clawed gouge right across Firth’s bare chest. Those wicked claws cut so deeply that the muscles underneath were exposed for all to see. Which he didn’t notice right away, because he countered with a punch so hard it really ought ‘ta have killed the little fucker.
It’s a good thing Regaari was really fast, too. He rolled into it and all he got was a dislocated shoulder and a dizzy limp, ‘cuz Firth’s fist knocked him all the way across the padded floor. ‘Horse immediately intervened, “HALT.” One glance at both combatants was enough to pacify their bloodlust. “Let’s call that a tie before you two kill each other.”
Firth grinned evilly. “What, for this little cut?” Deep wounds could be strange and frequently did not bleed as profusely as one might suspect. Muscular action worked to pinch off the smaller veins and so the mess kept to a visually disturbing but not immediately threatening level.
‘Horse weren’t amused one little bit. “Master sergeant, do I need to pull medical rank, or do I gotta push ‘yer shit in and administer care anyway?”
“Relax, I’m just havin’ fun! Here,” he sat on the ground, “I’ll be a good boy, see?”
Horse grunted in acknowledgement and turned his attention to Regaari. To his credit he struggled up to his feet and fully extended his claws. But one angry glance from Warhorse took all the fight outta the little guy. Firth couldn’t blame ‘em; ‘Horse was scary when he were mad. “I will comply, Warhorse.”
‘Horse rolled his eyes and sighed but the Protectors fixed ‘em both up right quick. ‘Base padded over and set Regaari’s shoulder back into place, which he took bravely, then gave ‘em a big-ass dose of Crude. It didn’t work as fast on Gaoians so the little warrior would hafta sit out fer the rest of the day. Meanwhile ‘Horse stomped over to Firth and gave ‘em some ‘o that quick-clotting magic healing powder bullshit, along with a big mess of that really fuckin’ evil spray-glue cauterizing junk and a big shot of Crude, that from his humorously-labeled full-dose “Juggernog” bottles for combat or severe injury. Firth bore the hurt for a couple minutes while the spacemagic did its thing, then stood up.
He was ready to fight some more.
“Who’s next?”
Faarek stood up, scared but willing. Firth grinned; he liked these brave little motherfuckers. And Faarek didn’t disappoint, neither.
Holy fuck that was fun! Faarek learned from Regaari’s misfortune and saw the best thing ‘ta do was get his lics in an’ escape as quick as can. But Firth weren’t no idiot, either. He restrained himself and pulled his punches (after ‘Horse gave him that scary-as-fuck murder look he saved for when the big Aggressor went too far) but he didn’t hold back on speed, and that pretty much meant by the end of it, they had a big pile o’ bruised and broken Gaoians and a totally exhausted, lacerated, bleeding, panting, deliriously happy Firth.
All three of the medics got Good Training that day. ‘Horse and ‘Base fed him Crude and water and sent him to the kitchen for food. Then they fixed the Gaoians up with Thurrsto while Firth came down from his combat high.
Except he really didn’t. He was giddy and snuggly all night. When they watched their evening movie he tried ‘ta bear-hug all the Gaoians at once, though even he wasn’t quite big enough to manage that. He settled for gently wrasslin’ them on the floor. An’ he couldn’t stop talking ‘bout the fights, neither. They was so damned good. Ironically, the movie was Enter the Dragon and that weren’t lost on nobody.
“Too bad I won’t keep any of these scars, man. Y’all are scary in a fight!” The Brothers chittered amusedly. Since when did Humans value scars?
Thurrsto, as ever, chimed in with his medically-oriented mind as best as he could, which was no small feat while trapped in a fierce Firth squeeze. “The Crue-D is, erf, an amazing drug. Can you loosen up? Gnngh.”
“Nuh,” replied Firth. “Jus’ go with it.”
Thurrsto rolled his eyes and bore the hug. Firth did relent, eventually, but only when he rolled into a pin and snuggled, dragging the Brothers with him.
“The more I see you Humans fight, the more I think Myun had the right of it,” that from Faarek. Nodding all around in agreement.
“Maybe,” said Blaczynski, who plopped thunderously onto the floor next to Firth. “Your natural fighting styles are pretty damn good, though. Righteous’ll be working on counters for weeks and I’m gonna be his punching bag.”
“But you’re the best punching bag!” Firth’s legs snapped up and pinned Blaczynski with a giggle and a brief but fierce struggle. Firth handily won, and to secure his victory the big man locked his ankles and squeezed powerfully. Such a vice would quickly shatter a normal Human and ‘prolly kill a Gaoian, but as usual his Best Bud didn’t surrender. He just grunted in playful discomfort. Firth was still feeling aggressively giddy so he also snuggle-bearhugged Thurrsto, who quickly tapped for mercy. He got it, with more snuggles.
Blac struggled to pry Firth’s legs open and escape. He failed. Each of those huge legs were way thicker than Blac’s waist, who was himself a trim and athletic but very heavily and robustly muscled power athlete. Only ‘Horse had bigger legs and then only by two inches. But ‘Horse was way stronger. Firth could, if he really tried, almost match the ‘Horse’s daily working weights on leg press and squat, but Righteous weren’t even close on reps, sets, or max weight. Someday he’d catch the stumpy fuck. Maybe. And hell, they didn’t even know what ‘Horse’s max weights actually were, neither. Not even their custom equipment could hold enough of the special competition plates to actually test his real strength. How do ‘ya beat someone when you don’t know the score?
Annoying. Firth tightened his leg hold, just ‘cuz.
“Mmf,” protested Blac, but still no surrender, not that Firth were gonna get one. Around that time Bozo showed up with his Pig of Respect and plopped on top of Faarek, and slobbered all over the Gaoian to his chittering protests. Everyone—dog, Gaoian, and Human—settled into a comfortable pile either on the floor or up on the couch. The night was gonna be fight movies!
So basically, pretty much a normal evening for SOR. And more and more, the Whitecrest Bros were part of SOR, too. Hmm. Firth filed that away for later.
Blac resumed his earlier thought. “Ya’ know what I learned today? Gaoian claws are fuckin’ scary. Best idea is to shoot ‘em from far way.”
The Gaoians made happy noises. As they should! The little fucks were mean.
“Pff,” scoffed Firth, “That’s what you always say ‘bout everything.”
“Well, yeah. I’m a combat controller, dude. My best weapon is my radio.”
Firth nodded agreeably. After all, Starfall was right.
“Oh sure, no argument there. But how many nukes ya’ use at Capitol Station?”
“All of them,” came the smug reply.
Firth smashed harder. “Rods from God,” he grumbled happily.
“Mmpf, fuck you, man.” Firth responded with a hard squeeze that blew all the breath outta his Best Bud, then quickly relaxed a little. It was their usual play so he weren’t being mean…but he weren’t gonna let the little shit think he could ever win. Firth had a position to maintain.
The rest of the room ignored the two’s roughhousing and banter. No other combat controllers in the history of the Air Force ever got to use the “big toys” and as a result, Righteous and Starfall were legends in the community. It didn’t help that Blaczynski was taller than Baseball and the perfect cross between an olympic gymnast, a sprinter, and a super-heavyweight powerlifter, and could handily outperform any non-SOR Human in all of those categories. Or that Firth was exactly the same except much more so. In either case the two had supremely large and well-fed egos just like any special operator or especially anyone in SOR. The trick was keeping it in check.
Which didn’t mean they wouldn’t measure and compare, though. That’s just how life in combat arms worked. You always improved and you were always in competition with your best friends and battle brothers.
“Back to the topic at hand,” interjected Rebar, “You got a training plan, Firth?” Now that the brothers were indoctrinated into DEEP RELIC and the final bits of SACRED STRANGER, it was a simple comfort to use each other’s real names.
“Eh, not so much a plan just yet as more…uh, gotta explore their instincts a bit. Today I learned they’re dangerous as fuck but really easy to break with a punch so, uh, I’ve gotta think around that.” He paused, pondering. “I think we’ll be fine. Just gotta noodle around with fighting styles, y’know?” He glanced at the movie. “Like, this? Bruce Lee is a goddamned stud but it ain’t really gonna be their style. It’s fast, sure…but see how he moves? Way too much reliance on an upright posture. He’s upper-body dominant, too. We need something else.”
“Load up another one?” Akiyama was already moving to the controller.
“Yes please. Maybe something…more modern? Yeah. Modern choreography tends to be a lot more realistic fer’ movements an’ such.”
Faarek began to object but Firth pulled him and Bozo over and snuggled them too. “Nah, it’s a fun movie but I really am tryin’ ta’ figger this out.” Bozo wurfed quietly in objection but panted when Firth bribed him with belly rubs, and Faarek gently scratched at Bozo’s flank with his claws. Happy Bozo.
Akiyama clicked the controller and pulled up Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. They watched for a bit, then the big Defender started skipping to fight scenes.
Firth weren’t quite satisfied. “Definitely better, but…”
“Too technical?” Highland always had good observations. But in this case?
“Nuh, that’s what I like. It’s the flying around bits later on that won’t work.”
Thurrsto chattered worriedly. “…Flying?”
Righteous was tempted for a brief instant to spin a tall tale about Human ability. It was one of the more fun games they had, but right then it would prol’ly’ve been a really dumb idea. Shame.
“They exaggerate the forms some. Actually, at the end they exaggerate a lot.”
“Kung-Fu can be really technical and complicated,” warned Burgess. “All the styles we played with? Those were always the hardest to learn.”
“Yeah, I know. But I kinda want something that has a lotta options, y’know? But…yeah. We’d need just the right style.”
“Tiger style?” That from Arés.
“Dude,” Firth laughed, “Shut the fuck up! Heihuquan is for impressing girls and makin’ movies! I want practical and simple. I think. Probably. I dunno. I gotta, like, noodle on it a bunch.”
“Drunken boxing?” A grin from Murray.
“Bitch I will cockslap you. Y’all ain’t helping!”
Murray grinned wider in reply.
“Okay, so…” Vandenberg once again tried to shift back on-topic.
“Basic forms and muscle-memory for now. Actually. Wait. Yeah. Now that I think ‘bout it? Y’all really do jus’ sorta go for it all claws out and rage. I mean, all y’all tried for my throat, my groin, my eyes—”
“—And failed,” noted Regaari.
“Yeah, which is good since I’m really kinda fond of those bits o’ me.” He grinned while the Gaoians chittered. “But, yeah. What kinda combatives training you guys have anyway? You clearly know what you’re doing.”
“Muscle-memory is a good word. We trained to react fast without thinking.”
“And for Gaoian fights, that makes a lotta sense. Speed and teeth and claws.”
Blaczynski seemed to catch on. “Enlightened instincts. But that won’t work if the fight drags on. So…teach them how to think strategically like we learned?”
“Yup,” Firth nodded. “But we did that the same way they did, muscle memory and practice. Lots of it. Hell, maybe that’s really it, stick to basic movements an’ shit, and just drill them until y’all don’t need to think about it at all.”
“Seems like a good starting point,” said Rebar, “But I’d really like a plan.”
“Sarry sargn’t first class, this here is one of those things I can’t really plan for. It’s too much on feel t’really do that. All I can do is go step by step.”
A part of Rebar seemed to rebel at the notion but he did understand, at least intellectually. “I know, and I trust you. I ain’t a combatives instructor, heh.”
“Heh. Don’t worry your big meaty sit-muscle ‘bout this none. I’ll git ‘er dun.”
“Fuck yeah!” Blaczynski interjected. “We’ll get ‘em so fuckin’ badass none of us’ll wanna fight ‘em!”
“Collect some tricks, too.” Murray grinned in anticipation.
“Hell. Yeah. The way y’all bounce and twist? There’s some clever shit in there. I don’t know how I’d do all o’ that…but we’ll figure it out.”
“Gloves,” prompted Murray. Burgess gave him an amused look like he’d been about to make the very same comment.
“Yeah. Today escalated really goddamned fast. So, something for your claws an’ something for me in case I hit too hard. Fair?”
“And please try not break each other so much,” grunted Arés.
“Yeah. But…fuck. I can’t fuckin’ wait until tomorrow!”
It was an interesting contrast, between Firth’s child-like giddiness and exactly what he was so happy about, and the Gaoians didn’t fail to notice.
But if they were being honest? They were happy too.
Commune of Clan Starmind, Alien Quarter, Folctha, Cimbrean, the Far Reaches
Champion Genshi of Clan Whitecrest
Of all the many things the Gaoians learned from the Humans, one of the most exquisitely beautiful and useful was the full richness of meditation. He wasn’t convinced, initially. Hearing it described sounded much like the long-discarded mysticism of the ancient times, something that, perhaps, the Stonebacks or other ancient Clans might practice in their oft-rumored Rites. But Regaari had wheedled him into a visit with Father Gyotin—his Clan eschewed the concept of Champion—and after a long and surprisingly pleasant conversation he gave it a go. The first attempt was comfortably relaxing. He tried it again, later…
Shortly thereafter he became a devotee, and under his indirect influence so now was much of Whitecrest. He didn’t go in for all of the intricate trappings of Buddhism but there was much wisdom to be gained from that mystical art.
Genshi sat on a modified zafu and freed his mind. He sat for a long time.
The Clanbrothers of Starmind tended to him in the quiet, ritualistic way one does when attempting not to disturb. Water was brought, which Genshi mostly ignored. Plain but flavorful food was brought as well. It had a very mild scent so as not to burden the mind with the Corporeal. And so Genshi sat, and his mind became Nothing.
And then, after a time, he knew what he must do.