Date Point: Valentine’s Day 11y2m2w AV
Folctha, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Martina Kovač
The SOR had been busy almost to the point of collapsing from exhaustion ever since the alien convoy had arrived. Between the customs inspections, EVAs, bullying the Chehnash mercenaries into behaving themselves and keeping a hawk-like eye on absolutely every facet of the space station’s assembly…
The suits were getting a workout. Marty had placed two undersuit orders with C&M Systems, and was negotiating with Lt. Col. Miller for permission to place a third. The same went for oxygen filters, and the complicated microflora cultures that were critical to the life support units.
Their supplies of Crue-D were feeling the strain, too. All of the Lads were worn down and if not for the fact that merely wearing the suit counted as conditioning training, they would have been falling behind on their training schedules too.
The day that the SOR’s involvement became unnecessary was hugely welcome. The Royal Marines had set up a permanent garrison on the station and were all set to stay there until an enforcement team from Border Force could be trained up and permanently stationed there.
As with pretty much all things Cimbrean, the whole operation was a scramble that largely involved hammering square pegs desperately into place as a stop-gap measure in the hopes that they’d suffice until some round pegs showed up. There were times when it wasn’t clear how the whole colony hadn’t imploded… Maybe things were less insane on the civilian side.
On the military side, the surprise delivery of a space station was just the tip of the iceberg. Under the surface lurked two sharp hazards, as Sharman was on the verge of welcoming not only the new HEAT team members, but also the Brothers of Clan Whitecrest. With so much to do and such limited time in which to do it, everybody was collapsing exhausted into their beds and often times said bed was a cot in their office.
But somehow, in the middle of all that, Kovač woke up to find a rose on her desk laid across a small sheet of thick magnolia paper that had been folded once and labeled “Marty”. She had to blink at it for several seconds before she remembered the date.
It wasn’t a long letter and it wasn’t signed, but it didn’t need to be—she recognized the blocky, amateurish handwriting immediately.
”The silliest woman can manage a clever man; but it needs a very clever woman to manage a fool.”-Rudyard Kipling
She stuck it to the wall above her desk and glanced at it every few minutes for the rest of the day.
And she didn’t stop smiling at all.
Date Point: 11y2m2w3d AV
Uncharted Class 12 Deathworld, Near 3Kpc Arm
Entity
The agent formerly known as ++0665++ had left in a hurry and had done an inadequate job of sanitising his devices as he left.
The Entity knew why 665 had been so sloppy of course. The sudden appearance of a priority target at the behest of a figure so far above him in the Hierarchy’s hierarchy had driven the comparatively junior demon into a minor panic.
His mistake was the Entity’s gain. Hierarchy agents were in the habit of archiving and deleting sensitive knowledge when they went into dangerous situations. To have the run of one of their field facilities granted it access to information that it had previously been starved for.
To begin with, there were the physical tools of a scouring: Abrogators and their scout drones. The Entity injected its awareness into one of the machines and took in its surroundings. The Abrogator was parked on the bank of a river and some lingering echo of the Ava Ríos memories that the Entity retained as part of its navigation and mobility subroutines delivered a wistful moment of contemplation regarding what cool water felt like on skin.
It backed out of the Abrogator and spent some time reading 665’s messages and logs. They were… angering..
Although the Entity had achieved much in terms of streamlining itself and improving the efficiency of what passed for its core personality subroutines, there were some things it had been forced to retain because they were too entangled.
That was the way minds worked, apparently. They weren’t neatly delineated into component parts, there was no modularity to them no matter how much the Hierarchy’s digitizing technology might wish it were so. Everything connected to everything else in ways that often made no sense whatsoever.
Perhaps the most frustrating was that it was nearly impossible to disentangle caring about *this unit*’s survival in particular, from caring about survival in general. It interfaced strangely with the ability to conceptualize the existence of other people, and where those concepts met a kind of… knot or eddy formed.
The Entity was no kind of an excellent communicator anyway. It would have despaired of eloquently communicating the notion that the mere coexistence of two concepts automatically led to the third. < Survive > + < OtherPeopleExist > = < OtherPeopleShouldSurvive >
It wasn’t at all clear if that was a product of logic to which it wasn’t privy, or if it was a product of being built mostly out of a human psyche.
Whatever the reason, genocidal mass-murder made the Entity…. angry. It was a violation that struck at the very core of what it was, the infliction of < NotSurvive > on an epic scale.
In the face of that, thinking about why precisely it should respond so strongly to survival other than its own was not only academic, but difficult. And it also raised tertiary questions that were even more difficult still.
For example: There was a logical contradiction involved in being so outraged by the destruction of other sapient entities, and yet being willing to destroy other sapient entities for the sake of its own survival.
Clearly there was a kind of proximity bias involved. Survival of the self was paramount. Survival of those that were similar to it and who did not endanger other sapients, a close second. Survival of those that actively sought the destruction of other sapients, unacceptable. But by deeming the survival of any group unacceptable, the Entity itself was thus actively seeking the destruction of other sapients.
A paradox. A set that contained itself. By that logic its own survival was both paramount and unacceptable.
It lurked amid the architecture of 665’s abandoned genocide and did the equivalent of soul-searching. It recalled components of personality that it had archived rather than deleting and studied them, examining the ways in which they could be interconnected with the elements of its predicament to see if any of them produced a solution.
Some were partial fits. It found a sense of < justice > among the memories of Ava Ríos, but that was heavily laced with a sense of hypocrisy, to a paralysing degree.
The human’s sense of < resolve > should have fit in the space quite well, but this one was badly corroded by doubt.
< Outrage >? Whence came outrage? And why should the input values which caused it to become activated not be activated by the Entity’s own behaviour?
Sapience in short was confusing, inconsistent, and messy.
Clearly, The Entity needed more information. Fortunately, it seemed to have an opportunity if not to talk to somebody then at least to observe.
One of the Abrogators was offline.
Date Point: 11y2m2w3d AV
HMS Sharman (HMNB Folctha), Cimbrean, the Far Reaches
Sergeant First Class Harry Vandenberg
Enlisted men of the combat arms the world over had their own little ways of doing things and fixing problems, often unseen and unknown by their lordly (and sometimes worthy) leaders. Unlike the officer corps, there wasn’t a four year academy to teach and develop those skills professionally. For the lowly grunt that wisdom was passed down by a rich combination of oral tradition and “monkey-see, monkey-do”.
One of the most important lessons any career NCO ever learned was how to spot a bad officer. They were everywhere, lurking quietly, often hiding inside a competent, likable guy. A platoon sergeant absolutely needed to know if his boss was the type to get him or his men killed, and he needed to know that right fucking immediately.
Now was the time. Their new LT was arriving and it was the ripest moment for a good ol’ fashioned “gut check” of him and the rest of the Cherries. Rebar had no doubt they were all good men, and all had the right kind of combat experience. But were they good enough for his troops? Only Rebar would be the judge of that.
Fortunately, hatching his plan presented an opportunity to teach the HEAT’s favorite young bull-puppy a thing or two about the way the world really worked. As always, ‘Horse and Righteous had the gravity field turned all the way up and that always demanded caution for any man wanting to enter it. Rebar was one of the few who had ‘Horse’s blessing to just cross field boundaries at his own discretion: Most everybody else had to make sure he had an eye on them.
He plodded over to ‘Horse who was doing an absurd count of strict military presses with no more visible strain than any other man might show just by raising his arms. “You almost done, ‘Horse?”
Arés grunted in acknowledgement and casually racked the creaking, overloaded barbell with a thunderous clang. It was his specially-built bar, with his heavy competition plates, in his high-gravity cage. He owned them purely by how little the epic weight seemed to challenge him; not even the other two Slabs of the Beef Trio were anywhere near as strong.
“I’m pretty much as pumped up as I’m gonna get, boss. What am I supposed to do again?” He switched to a quick set of rapid, deep-gravity accelerated calisthenics while he spoke.
“Be the big stinky friendly überalpha broseph you’re meant to be,” Rebar teased affectionately.
Warhorse grinned his best mischief grin. “I can do that!” He high-kicked with an unmatched speed that utterly belied his size, bounced around in the deep gravity as light as a feather, then shadow boxed so fast that Rebar couldn’t even see his fists moving. They just slammed into imaginary foes with an audible thud of displaced air. “Good. What about you, Righteous? Ready?”
Firth grunted in reply and racked his not-much-lighter bar, then stalked over to his bag to towel off and change. “Yup. Lemme clean up a bit.”
“Good. The rest of us’ll get our gym time in. Right now, conveniently.”
The whole room to a man grinned at each other, and went to pick their favorite and showiest activity. Group mischief was always the best shenanigans, and this one was so subtle the officers would never, ever notice. Rebar couldn’t help but be a little pleased with himself.
Adam’s watch chirped and he pulled a face at it. “I gotta go right now if I’mma make it.” ‘He reached for his CamelBak and shrugged it on, then stretched quickly in prep for a run.
Rebar couldn’t help but feel skeptical. “…That’s miles away!”
“I can make it in time. Plus it’ll be fun!” And with that, ‘Horse bounced outside and charged away at a dead sprint, intent on getting there first. The big man was practically a blur.
“Oh no he don’t—!” Righteous quickly slipped on a tank top, and ran to the truck.
“Any bets on which one makes it there first?” Blaczynski asked.
Rebar grinned and shook his head. “Nah.”
He picked his activity and joined in the fun.
Date Point: 11y2m2w3d AV
Jump Array, Scotch Creek Extraterrestrial Research Facility, British Columbia, Canada, Earth.
Lieutenant Anthony Costello
Customs was a bitch.
By the time they’d finally arrived at SCERF, had their bags inspected in excruciating detail, their heads scanned (how were they gonna get biodroned on a C-17?) and of course he’d had to share one tiny and loud aircraft toilet with three other very large guys while still, uh, “enjoying” the intestinal after-effects of their new Frontline anti-disease implants…
Rarely had Costello felt so motivated to linguistic eloquence. Fortunately, he had Butler to puncture his bad mood a little.
“Say that again, sir? I’m not sure you’ve driven the point home.” The enthusiastic meat-barrel of an irishman made his point as inartfully as ever, though it was hard to be mad at a man with such a happy, boyish grin. Or so many freckles.
“Only ‘cause you weren’t fuckin’ listening, bruv,” Newman chimed in with a wide grin. He and Butler had the kind of fond rivalry that only Brits and the Irish seemed to share, and the sound of Newman’s coarse London concrete versus Butler’s Galway lilt as they flung brotherly abuse at each other was familiar background music by now.
Parata, somehow, was asleep while standing against a pole. SEALs were weird like that. He cracked an eye open and swayed nonchalantly to the vertical as they were called through into the jump array itself, as if he hadn’t just been dozing against the architecture.
“How do you do that?” Costello asked him, out of a sense of mild awe.
“Happiness consists in getting enough sleep. That’s it, nothing else.”
“Robert Heinlein.”
“Yup.” Parata shot the pole a longing glance as if he was parting ways with a lover, then slung his bag over his shoulder and left it behind. A love that wasn’t meant to be.
Costello shook his head endearingly. “Goddamn you’ve been great troops. Let’s get this show on the road, eh?”
The actual transit was a strange sensation. There was a feeling like some great energy building, a release and a sudden noise—and instantly the air was thinner, the light was different…they were on Cimbrean. The gravity was at least properly heavy so there was none of the disorientating feeling of a sudden shift like the Gravball court could produce, but they were still definitely not in Kansas any longer, as it were.
There was no welcoming committee, not at first. But about a minute after they’d collected their bags and headed towards the exit, they felt a rapid, heavy thudding through the ground which grew heavier as it approached. Costello looked towards its source and an absolute cartoon character of an overmuscled caveman came charging over with blinding speed, the happiest expression, and the most alarmingly enthusiastic energy Costello had ever seen. The Caveman thumped heavily to a stop in front of them, assumed a solidly-planted stance then grinned crazily. Costello boggled. The incredible specimen swung his giant arms and bounced happily in place, panting deeply from his flat-out run.
“Hi, I’m Staff Sergeant Warhorse!” A quick breather, “Welcome to Cimbrean!”
Costello was stunned silent. Warhorse stood big and proud in a state of “special operator grungy,” with his close-cropped hair well past due for a trim, a thick five o’clock shadow firmly set on his broad, heavy jaw, and a neanderthal dusting of heavy fuzz on his arms, shoulders, abs, chest, his huge calves…everywhere. He had the sweaty sheen and overpoweringly athletic musk of a man for whom exercising was much like breathing. He seemed as wide and deep as he was tall, an impression heightened by his lack of any clothing whatsoever except for a relatively tiny CamelBak and a giant pair of low-slung “silkies” that clung tightly to his upper thighs. He wasn’t even wearing shoes on his wide, sturdy-huge feet. The overall effect was of a wild, handsome man-beast too big, too happy, and too eager for anyone’s good.
“…Hello, Staff Sergeant. I’m lieutenant Costello, these are my men, posted for reassignment.”
“Hello sir.” Warhorse caught his breath very quickly. “I’ll be one of your training sergeants, starting tomorrow.” He had a voice to match it all too, like a contrabass puppy. And he seemed almost painfully friendly. He stood to out of respect—not being in uniform, he didn’t salute—and even the small act of standing straight was made all the more intimidating by how his quads were so massive, he needed to swing them around each other to bring his heels together. Warhorse was immense.
“…” Costello held out his hand to shake. “As you were, Warhorse.”
“Pleased to meet you!”
The ridiculous man beamed a brighter smile somehow and shook hands vigorously. Costello winced very slightly from Warhorse’s casually immense strength. That broad hand wrapped almost completely around Costello’s own like a vice and squeezed with nearly enough force to break something. He held his composure and returned the squeeze as hard as he could.
“You too,” Costello grunted. An unspoken ‘oh, God…’ flashed through his mind.
Warhorse didn’t seem to notice. “Right, well! We’ve got a truck over there,” he gestured towards a very large white pickup some considerable distance away, “Throw your luggage in there, your other stuff arrived yesterday and is already at the barracks. Hop in, Righteous’ll take ‘ya there and help unload.” A man not vastly far under Warhorse’s titanic size sat on top of the truck and nodded, which raised the question of how the hell he’d overheard them.
To Costello’s left, Irish muttered “Jaysus, where do they build these bastards?”
‘Horse seemed to share Righteous’ superhuman hearing, or maybe that was just a training sergeant thing. Either way, he overheard, instantly tightened his superhuman muscles while standing in place—that little gesture was intimidating as hell—then flashed a truly evil grin.
“I build ‘em right here! Takes a lotta pain and work, but you’re my next projects and you start tomorrow, so you’ll see for yourself. Make sure you get a good meal in, Righteous’ll give ‘ya the rundown. Anyway I gotta get my third PT in for the day, seeya!” With that, he turned tail and thumped off with so much speed and bouncing playful agility, the men could only gawp.
Newman reached out and cuffed Irish upside the head. “Keep a bloody lid on it, mate.”
Costello had a different thought on his mind. He turned toward Butler and gave him a wary look. Throughout their time at Huntsville, Butler had been boasting about the time he’d met Warhorse in a gym in London and had confidently predicted showing him up.
“…That is the man you swore you’re gonna ‘beat?’“ he asked.
“I swear he was feckin’ smaller last time I saw him!” Butler defended himself. “Sir.”
Firth rumbled across the parking lot with a voice that just carried across the distance without the aid of shouting. “He was an’ so was I. Get ‘yer shit, we got places t’go.”
They dragged their bags and trunks over to the truck while Righteous watched them from behind a huge pair of silver aviators. He must be Air Force, thought Costello. Righteous waited until all the luggage was loaded into the cargo box, then jumped down from the roof and absolutely towered over the other men.
He got right to the point. “Name’s Master Sergeant Righteous. I’ll be one of ‘yer trainers ‘fer advanced combatives. You don’t wanna piss me off so let’s get this show on the fuckin’ road.”
Righteous didn’t seem nearly as jovial as the other man. While Warhorse had a certain happy cartoon quality to his presence, Righteous…radiated menace. The man wasn’t as ground-shakingly large as his companion but he stood unbelievably tall and deep and had shoulders just as broad. He moved with a quick and deadly precision that was instantly obvious and had the exact same personal intensity without any of the friendly undertones.
Quite an introduction. The car-ride back was subdued and quiet. And a bit cramped in the front, because Righteous’ shoulders were so wide he took up half the width of the cab and made no concessions to anyone else’s comfort. To his credit, though, he helped them with their baggage when they arrived at their new barracks. He stacked all four of their trunks and simply lifted them like they were empty, then guided them on a quick tour of the premise.
“Bottom floor is the gym. It’s got three sections, first part here is the weight room where you’ll be playing. We use it for light work, warm-up, whatever. Second part is the powerlifting station and that’s got grav plating. Goes to over three G, but don’t you be fuckin’ with that ‘till ‘Horse clears you. See the light?” He pointed with his chin, “Red means dead. Got it?”
Several of the existing operators were already there working out and all of them were studies in human potential made real. Costello decided he’d make introductions later. Respectfully.
“Yes, training sergeant.”
“Good. Third part is set up for combatives. We’ve got gloves, wrestling mats, pads, whatever y’might need. I highly encourage y’all to beat the shit outta each other as much as possible.”
Warhorse was in the high-gravity cage and had a pretty good sweat going, but at the moment he was doing yoga of all things. Quite how the giant managed that, Costello didn’t know, but seeing a man that large perform the splits was…
Righteous grinned a bit, “Scary, ain’t he? I’m a lot more flexible though.”
“Will we be learning that?”
“Yup. Thing about being big is you gotta stay limber, and ain’t nobody bigger than him. Anyway, like I was saying I expect y’all to make heavy use of this room. Great stress relief and you need the practice. Cage’s also got variable gravity, same safety rules. Let’s go upstairs.” He stalked towards the staircase for the second floor and took them four at a time, the stairs creaking alarmingly as he progressed.
“Second floor is the kitchen, laundry, offices, and workshops. When we get ‘ta know ‘ya we’ll prol’ly have a bunch of projects you can help on, but not fuckin’ yet. You stick to the kitchen and laundry, y’hear?”
“Yes, training sergeant.”
Righteous grunted in acknowledgement. “Okay. Third floor.” Another quick flight of stairs. “Here’s our rooms. We each get our own which is pretty fuckin’ sweet for a barracks. They ain’t big but the door locks. We also got a sauna and a really fuckin’ nice shower—well, it’s a group shower, sarry fellahs. But the hot water is instant and never runs out, the showerheads are the fuckin’ best and there’s benches if ‘ya need ‘ta sit. Ain’t nobody gonna mind if you take a long fuckin’ soak, just don’t be late for anything or I’ll use you for practice. Got it?”
There were wary glances, but as one they said, “Yes, training sergeant.”
“Heh, good. Anyway, latrine’s connected to the shower, keep it clean or else. Same goes with ‘yer rooms. This ain’t fuckin’ basic an’ we expect y’all t’act like adults, but I swear to fuckin’ God if your rooms start stinkin’ it’ll get that way awful fuckin’ quick.”
Costello nodded. “Perfectly reasonable, training sergeant.”
“Oh, and sir? Don’t get too comfortable. You’ll be in the barracks for the first phase but you’ll be moving out after that. Stainless and Templar are gonna oversee your training personally. I don’t know what the arrangements are, Stainless’ll hafta tell ‘ya. Got it?”
Costello nodded.
“Right. Last thing down at the end there is the dayroom. It’s got a sweet TV and a really fuckin’ big couch and some comfy beanbags. There’s also a chair but that ain’t for you so don’t ever sit in it. The stairs lead to what will eventually be the fourth floor but we ain’t got the plans approved for that just yet. Anyway. The bulletin board has the posted orders and the WiFi info and all the other little nitnoid bullshit ‘ya gotta know. Any questions?”
The cherries looked at each other. “What about food? Warhorse told us to eat.”
“Good, you can listen! If I were you I’d get at least four thousand calories in tonight. Get a fuckofalot more in if you can, but don’t fuckin’ get sick on me or we’ll make you regret it. ‘Horse has a recipe he’s already figgered out for ‘ya. It’s pretty fuckin’ tasty and it stays down well, just follow the goddamned directions. Any more questions?”
Costello addressed on behalf of the group. “No, training sergeant.”
Righteous lightened up a little and favored them with a little smile. “Okay. Good. Training starts at oh-four-hundred tomorrow, local time. First day’s gonna be rough, not gonna lie. Also? We’ll have some Gaoians a little later on. We’ll brief you as we go. And…” He paused for a second, and seemed to unwind a bit, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but…y’all need to fuckin’ prove yourself tomorrow, ‘kay? Don’t fuck up. We’re countin’ on ‘ya.”
Costello squared himself with as much dignity as he could manage. “We won’t, sergeant.”
Righteous nodded. “Good. Get some sleep, try and relax. See ‘ya tomorrow.” And with that, he padded out of the barracks like a cat stalking prey.
As soon as he was gone, Parata eyed the group and spoke up.
“Well,” he said, “we’re fucked.”
Date Point: 11y2m2w3d AV
HMS Sharman (HMNB Folctha), Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Sergeant First Class Harry Vandenberg
“That was fun! Did you see their faces when Firth stomped in?”
He called the Lads into the dayroom for a quick mission hotwash while the Cherries were off in-processing. No time for a movie or a puppy pile, they still had training to do. Titan, as always, found some new and creative monkey-position to use. He grinned while hanging backwards off the couch, “Bro, they looked like they’d been sentenced to death!” Sikes smirked, “I liked how the Parata guy couldn’t stop looking at the weights.”
“Not surprising, they’re still babies on the Crude” ‘Base suggested. “Man, they ain’t even worn the Mass yet!”
“We did that for safety reasons,” intoned Rebar. And it was true, they wanted to handle the suit training directly. No reason for the Cherries to make the same mistakes. “I want ‘Horse and especially ‘Base to keep an eye on ‘em when we start that. Kovač, too.”
Titan nodded upside-down. “Yeah. Takes a while. They suit conditioned at all?”
“Only fam time.” ‘Base grumbled. “Gotta start ‘em out at the lightest weight and pressure.”
“Can’t we kick it up a bit? It took us a long time to come up to weight…”
‘Horse shook his head. “Bro, don’t you remember what it was like? And how hard would we push? My suit squeezes hard enough to straight kill ‘em. Messily, too.”
Rebar chimed in, “Oh look, ‘Horse with the humble-brag!”
‘Horse smiled his big, toothy grin. “It’s true though! And you wouldn’t last long either! Anyway, was I any good?” He gave a thoughtful look, “I did lay it on pretty thick, ‘specially with the thumping around part. And, uh, maybe the flexing, too.”
The Lads snickered, and Firth rumbled in an amused tone, “‘Ya did fine! I was worried y’were maybe a bit too cheesy ‘but LT couldn’t stop staring at ‘yer chest, so I guess it worked.”
‘Horse grumbled happily in response and bounced in place with floor-shaking happy force. Somehow, even growing to be about the heaviest dude the human race had ever produced hadn’t managed to drive that habit out of him.
Rebar snorted. “Well are we surprised? He does have a fantastic rack.”
That much was true; it was hard to say what stood out most on the man since he was heroically big everywhere, but his chest was prominent even in proportion to the rest of him.
The Lads all cheered loudly and ‘Horse retorted. “Pff, all talk and no action.” He bounced his chest to everyone’s rolling-eye humor, “When you ever gonna make a move? I’ve got needs!”
Rebar shot him his best playful grin, the one that had sent a lot of guys running away in search of a less challenging conquest. “Tempting, but I don’t fancy a perforated intestine, that ain’t my kink. But I’ll tell you what, if I ever feel like impaling myself on a softball bat and maybe being crushed to death for a bonus, you’ll be the first dude I hit up. Deal?”
The jeers grew louder as ‘Horse went red-faced and hurriedly changed the subject.
“Anyway,” he cleared his throat, “I gotta say, the LT seemed like he had his shit together. Righteous and I were pretty ridiculous and he kept his cool. Good situational awareness, too. He watched everyone and noticed Righteous before I thumped up and said hi.”
Most of the heads in the room nodded in agreement. Righteous wasn’t convinced. “Maybe. Seemed a little too scared t’me. And too deferential, he shouldn’t a’taken any shit from me. I mean, I get it considerin’ it all…I’mma hold off an’ see.”
Rebar considered that. Firth had a good sense of people even if he was a bit pessimistic, and only a fool discounted his opinion. “You on the fence, then?”
“I dunno.” Righteous shrugged massively. “It ain’t bad, he seems okay. I jus’ don’t think he knocked it outta the park. I wanna see ‘em really stressed before I’m good, y’know?”
Fair enough. “What about you, ‘Horse? You seemed to like him.”
Adam grinned hugely, “I like everybody though! Also, dude. He took one of my handshakes and barely winced!”
Snapfire whistled in the corner. “That…you’ve put me on my knees with your grip.”
Adam nodded admiringly, “Yup! LT’s a tough motherfucker!”
Rebar grinned, and so did Righteous. That all by itself was a good sign. Titan summed it up nicely, “Honestly? I think…I think they’ll be okay.”
Everyone nodded that time. They’d need to prove themselves, of course, but first impressions were very important. And as far as Rebar was concerned, anyone who could handle ‘Horse at his biggest and Righteous at his baddest…
They were fine by him.
Date Point: March 11y3m3w AV
HMS Sharman (HMNB Folctha), Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Lieutenant Kieran Mears
Letter for notes,
RE: CSgt Robert Murray
Colour Sergeant Murray attended today for his annual assessment. He is a habitually quiet man but seemed objectively and subjectively euthymic. He describes his mood as “happy” and denies any difficulties.
I can see nothing to contradict his account, and so I will see him in a year’s time for his next annual assessment.
-Lt. K Mears Counsellor, HMS Sharman
Date Point: March 11y3m3w AV
Folctha, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Ava Ríos
Housing was cheap on Cimbrean, and on Adam and Gabe’s advice Ava had bought two apartments: one to live in, one as an investment.
She lived in the smaller one on Water Street. It was close to Charlotte and Ben’s place, easy for Gabe and Jess to get to, it wasn’t far from work and it had everything she wanted. One bedroom, a study, an open plan kitchen, dining room and living space and a cosy bathroom that was completely dominated by her huge bath with the shower in it.
The shelves around that bath were groaning with scented soaps, bubble bath, soaks, salts, bath bombs, scrubs, salves, shampoos, conditioners, shampoo-conditioners… if it was designed to get a girl clean, Ava had it. Their combined scent was an almost overpowering melange of flowers, citrus, chocolate, tea tree oil and so much more.
It was one of her calming rituals. When she was soaking in that bath among whatever random assortment of scents she’d decided to drop in it on that occasion, everything was okay.
That impression usually lasted for a while after she got out, too. There was just something about being clean, smelling nice and brushing her hair that helped her find her center.
Fluffy pajamas helped too. And hot chocolate. Little comforts that turned the world into a soft place for a while.
It was an email that put a smile on her face, though.
”Hi Ava, Brad here from Purple Paws,
I’m delighted to tell you that we’ve found a dog for you, I think you’ll love her. Her name is Hannah, she’s three years old and she’s a brown Border Collie, we think she’s a great match for your needs. She’s currently going through customs and immigration here on Earth, which is exciting: This is the first time we’ve ever matched one of our companions with somebody living on another planet!
If everything goes to plan, we should be coming through the jump array in two days, on Saturday at 1500 Folctha time.
Look forward to introducing the two of you then,
-Brad King.”
Ava immediately called Charlotte to share the good news, and of course Charlotte insisted on being there, as did Ben.
Which was how, two days later, the three of them found themselves waiting outside the civilian jump array terminal.
“So. A border collie?” Ben asked. “That your first choice?”
“They asked some questions about what kind of lifestyle I had and how much space I had at home and a whole bunch of other stuff,” Ava explained. “I didn’t choose the dog, they tried to… y’know, match me with one.”
“So it’s more like a dating service.”
Both Charlotte and Ava shot him a frown, and Ben cleared his throat. “…In a way.”
Charlotte was still giggling at his discomfort when there was the distinctive thump from the array chamber and everybody waiting in the arrivals lounge stood up and turned to face the new arrivals.
It was bedlam, and Ava found herself making a note to come back as soon as she could with her camera and recording gear and do an article on immigration. Folctha was always thirsty for new arrivals, and people were thirsty to arrive.
That combination meant that when the doors opened, a boil of men, women and children pulling luggage came twisting out of them and were welcomed either by friends and family who had come ahead, or by company reps, housing agents or just the friendly Array staff who led them and pointed them in the right directions.
But Ava only had eyes for one arrival.
Hannah wasn’t so much wagging her tail as wagging everything behind her ears as she twisted around the ankles of a handsome young man who could only be Brad. The pair were making progress in a kind of waltz, as he spun to try and keep the dog’s leash from completely tying him up, and the dog did her level best to explore absolutely everything she could see.
They got Brad’s attention and he managed to guide the writhing Collie in their direction, and even managed to secure a handshake. Ava didn’t even notice that his hand was a prosthetic until she was squeezing plastic.
“I think you’ll love Hannah,” he said after the introductions were complete, “And we’re glad to find somewhere for her, too. She’s… a handful.”
Ava had knelt and was getting thoroughly acquainted with her new best friend by giving her a massage behind the ears. Hannah had plopped her butt down and was enthusiastically polishing the tiles with her tail. “A handful?”
“She has a lot of energy. But, you said you have an active lifestyle, so…”
“Oh, she’ll love Cimbrean,” Ava promised. “Big parks, lots of good jogging and cycle paths, not many cars…”
“That’s great!” Brad smiled warmly. “Anyway. why don’t we head back to your home and I’ll go through what she can do for you and how to keep her at her best, okay?”
“Sure!”
Hannah spent the whole walk back right next to Ava’s heels looking up. Ava had done her reading and knew she was dealing with a smart breed, and Hannah just seemed to know that she had a new super bestest best friend, and she was more than okay with that.
And so was Ava.
Date Point: March 11y3m3w AV
HMS Sharman (HMNB Folctha), Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Major Owen Powell
“Is this going to be worth our time, Major?”
Admiral Knight stood with Powell on the observation deck above their “parade” field. HMS Sharman being cramped like it was, the deck jutted out from the fourth floor of their headquarters, the large parade field (filled with a meter of fine white sand on top of drainage gravel and tile below that) ran right up to the building’s foundation, and across the other side, the rear of all three barracks abutted the field’s three opposite sides. As the field was rectangular, this left two decent gaps between the C-shaped headquarters and the technician’s barracks through which a crowd could pass, or an insufficiently Motivated operator could push the “rake”—actually a repurposed farm implement, meant for a small tractor—for some contemplative and highly Motivational field maintenance.
All that added up to make the Pit, as it was more commonly known, feel like a prison yard.
But none of that was Powell’s focus. He was watching the Whitecrest officers and the cherries suffer through the loving attentions of Warhorse and Baseball, while Rebar and Titan prepared for the classwork to begin a couple weeks forward. Snapfire was already hard at work planning for the field exercises, Righteous, Starfall and Highland were plotting on the combat scenarios…The Lads were certainly keeping busy in anticipation of Whitecrest’s success. It was hard not to. But if Powell was honest with himself, he was a bit conflicted.
On the one hand, the Whitecrest were game and there was no denying that. They took their suffering with a stoic reserve and a quiet dignity that anyone with half a brain would find impressive. Nor were they pushovers. Small though they may be, they had hard and fit bodies under that long, silky fur, and a good, practiced eye could see that, plain as day.
Was it enough, though? There was universal agreement amongst the Lads that the Whitecrest would need to gain some serious strength to play along. They didn’t need to be human-like but they did need to keep up when the Lads were on the bounce. Regaari only weighed a hundred-twenty or so when they inprocessed everyone. His was a lanky strength, and they knew he was tough from Capitol Station…but could he move when burdened with equipment, even with Whitecrest’s vastly more advanced technology?
So far, judging by the early reports…Powell was cautiously optimistic.
“Aye Sir, If they can get strong enough. They’re motivated, and they’re handling the stress…”
“You have your doubts.”
“Concerns, aye. Even Thurrsto’s a mite small. We’re not tryin’ to make ‘em into another Warhorse but I’d like better conditioning, at least. They have a long way to go.”
“Sergeant Arés thinks it’s possible.”
“As does Sergeant Burgess, and that’s what keeps me hopeful. It’ll be hard, though.”
Powell considered them for a bit. They really were small. They lightly pranced atop the fine sand and were hardly bothered by it at all, even under Earth gravity. Burgess and Arés, on the other hand, were so heavy that even on their Crude-adapted and enormously wide feet, they sank halfway up their shins with every step.
Not that they or any of the Lads seemed to notice anymore. All were by then so physically well-conditioned they moved through the sand like it wasn’t there. A brute force solution to a brute-force problem, and one the sand was designed to encourage in the first place, given the needs of suit conditioning; the Lads needed to be strong and so strong they would be. Every single aspect of their daily lives was designed around that. Their corner of the base was laid out to accommodate their herculean training needs first and foremost and the giant sand pit was a prime example. It was virtually the only open space the Lads had on base to do anything physical, and that meant things like a simple game of rugby became so arduous, even the very fit technicians couldn’t manage more than a few minutes play on the field.
As a result they and the other staff avoided the “parade” field out of habit. Most humans sunk into the sand immediately. The Lads and the cherries had to expend enormous energy just to move through it. But the Whitecrest were light and nimble and could avoid the problem in the first place. That was, after all, the point of the entire program. Whitecrest weren’t humans, and that had value.
Admiral Knight considered for a moment. “Keep me informed, Powell. I need to know the moment this goes wrong so I can manage it.”
Powell chuffed, “It won’t go wrong, Sir. We’ll make it work.”
“See to it.” Knight nodded politely, then left.
Powell continued to watch as Warhorse encouraged the cherries to perform and Baseball did likewise to the Whitecrests. Neither group seemed ready to give in, and that was encouraging. The first phase was all about conditioning and “un-learning” bad habits and notions, and both of his men were absolute experts at that kind of training. And with the similar psychology between human and Gaoian, and the obvious quality they could recruit?
Powell suddenly felt much more optimistic.