Date Point: 13y11m2w1d AV
Bat-Yu Gorge Dam, Planet Gao
Brother Fiin of Stoneback
The problem Fiin had with Brother Tyal—Father Tyal, really, but if you served in a Fang you were a Brother regardless of actual rank—was that he wasn’t actually incompetent.
It was a ridiculous thought even inside his own head. ‘My problem with him is that he isn’t incompetent.’ But Tyal never took a risk that would have allowed him to be incompetent. He was…cautious.
It was difficult for Fiin to know exactly when his respect for the elder Stoneback had started to lapse. Tyal had given him his first Rite, after all. He had been there throughout Fiin’s selection, his Association, his Trials…He should have been a figure of respect, and Fiin wanted to respect him.
But the fact was that he…didn’t. And that made him feel awful.
Tyal was a thinking brute sure enough, just the kind of ‘Back the Clan loved. He was strong, honest, forthright, nobody but Daar himself had a better nose and he’d put in a hard day’s work until he collapsed, which was long after almost anybody else would have.
But the received wisdom of the Fangs went unquestioned. He didn’t think to question it, therefore he didn’t understand it. He hadn’t bothered to pick it apart, entertain the idea of what would happen if he ignored it, and thus reach an understanding of why things were as they were.
Fiin had.
Ordinarily he was able to bury his worries under work, but today had given him a lot of time to think about things.
They were clearing a dam. Sediment buildup behind the thick concrete cliff that was the Bat-Yu Gorge Dam was an annual concern—let it sit for just one year and the next year the spillways would be clogged with something that was more like mudstone than wet clay.
Fiin, being a cabinet-maker and joiner by trade, didn’t have any of the kind of “big dirty” skills that came in handy when trying to shift thousands of tonnes of muck and sludge under two hundred fathoms of ice-cold glacial meltwater. Which meant he was stuck leaning on the inspection platform’s railing with a laser sensor in paw, waiting for his Brothers to open the sluice gates.
It had been a fun Job, admittedly—Brother Karek was a civil works engineer who had friends in the Clan’s hydropower department. Learning some of the basics of his Brother’s work had been good exercise for Fiin’s brain, and better exercise still for his back.
But he couldn’t dive, and wasn’t qualified to operate the dam’s controls. So, he’d been given the duty of water quality monitor. Wait for the water to start flowing, shine his laser into it, make sure that the device properly recorded its findings on his tablet. All under the supervision of a comically jaded and ancient Clanless technician.
…Who had wandered off in search of a cup of warm Talamay with honey and left Fiin alone with his thoughts.
The work had been a welcome distraction from the relentless training they’d been under. Every Brother on every Fang was assigned hours every week to work trades and maintain proficiency. But Tyal, for whatever reason, had decided to increase the Fangs’ combat training hours to essentially full-time. Most of the Brothers–Fiin included–had taken to working Jobs in their off hours to keep up with their fields. On the one level he couldn’t automatically disagree with the rationale, given what was coming, but on the other hand…
It was the same exact training, over and over and over again. They were being drilled into stupidity, and they weren’t incorporating any lessons from the Humans unless Daar had already written them into his draft revisions.
The Champion himself was off on another very important mission, so his force of personality wasn’t there to push the issue. That left Tyal as Champion-In-Stead, and he seemed bound and determined to leave Stoneback exactly as it was when Daar went off-world.
The mournful hoot of the alarm siren jolted him back to the here-and-now. It was followed, after a few rumbling moments, by the most enormous belching sound he’d ever heard. Grotesque fecal ropes of thick grey sediments and clay began to vomit out of the outlet pipe.
After a few moments they unified into an immense industrial shart that sailed out into the gorge and splattered all over the rocks far below, entirely robbing the view of its dignity.
The smell was clean, though. Cold water and wet clay, nothing more. Fiin aimed his laser into the hideous flow and checked that it was recording properly. It didn’t take long before the tablet buzzed in his paws with a happy rhythm and started streaming its data back to the control center. The water started to run more like a liquid even as he watched, fading from dark gray, to light gray, to the white of clean, rough water.
As soon as it was flowing almost clean, the Brothers opened the second gate and the second outlet disgorged tonnes of glutinous silt just like its comrade.
Fiin settled into making sure the laser was aimed steady at the clean stream. He turned an ear as he heard feet on the steel steps behind him, and his nose identified the newcomer easily: Tyal.
“Surprisingly big Job, huh?” The Champion-In-Stead asked conversationally, resting his forearms on the rail so that he could watch the raging hydrological chunder below them.
“Mhmm. Nice change in routine, too.”
As always, Fiin couldn’t help but feel a little small next to Tyal. He’d grown enormously since the day of his First Rite, but Tyal was…well, he was big. A pureblood Stoneback in every way, and the only Gaoian that made him seem small was Daar himself. Fiin meanwhile wasn’t even mostly Stoneback, and that made a big difference.
“Grumbling about the combat drills again, little Brother?” Tyal flicked an ear playfully. “I know it frustrates you, I’m not completely stupid.”
“You’re not even mostly stupid,” Fiin replied. It was a compliment with a tiny jab buried deep inside it.
Tyal noticed it, of course. “Y’know, you always were a brave little guy, even on that first day. It’s somethin’ I admire a lot about you. But be careful,” he warned with a slight growl, “Some fights ‘yer destined to lose.”
“That’s what I’m worried about.”
Tyal duck-nodded. “I know. So am I. An’ I know damn well you think we need t’be learning all sortsa new tactics and all…balls, you’re prol’ly right, too.”
“…If you think I’m right, then—?”
“Because things could go real bad real soon and now is not the time to start playin’ around with untried, untested tactics. If we had more time…” Tyal trailed off, then growled regretfully. “…But we don’t. We don’t have the capacity to make them ours right now. What we do have is four Fangs that are under-trained on their existing tactics, and one that ain’t mission-ready at all ‘cuz of that big ‘accident’ a year ago. That’s a huge Fyu-angered problem.”
That was, admittedly, a very good point even if Fiin still felt like he wanted to probe at it some more.
“…Can I make a little confession, Fiin? This is ‘fer yer ears only, Brother.”
“I’ll carry it as a secret,” Fiin vowed.
“No, no secrets. Just don’t go blabbin’ it around, ‘cuz I’m tellin’ you this for your benefit.”
The laser beeped to declare that its survey was complete. Fiin slotted it into his tool belt and hung the tablet in its tough impact-resistant case on his other hip. “No blabbin’,” he agreed.
Tyal sighed and shook out the shaggy pelt around his head. “I can see a little o’ the future, Brother. I know that future don’t include me as Champion. I learned a really fuckin’ painful lesson on that subject a while back, and I ain’t under any delusions ‘bout where I’m goin’.”
Fiin…didn’t know exactly what to say about that. He quarter-turned and gave Tyal his full, undivided attention.
Tyal’s ears were in a melancholy droop, but otherwise didn’t give anything much away. “All I’m sayin’ little Brother, is be patient. What will happen will happen. Trust Champion Daar. I think he’s prol’ly the only person I ever met that’s smarter than you.”
Before Fiin could reply, Tyal turned away and bounced four-pawed up the metal steps again. He nearly bowled the old Clanless technician aside as he reached the top, paused just long enough to apologize, and was gone.
The technician was carrying a second Talamay for Fiin, which he handed over with a knowing angle on his ears. “It’s a good label, Stoneback. Don’t you dare turn your nose up at this!”
It really wasn’t, and the twinkle in his eye when Fiin looked at him over the steaming mug said he knew it, too. He glanced over the side at the flowing plumes of clear white water and gave a satisfied duck-nod.
“I presume I won’t go blind, then.”
“Eh…probably not.” There was a wheezing sound that Fiin needed a moment to identify as a venerable—or possibly decrepit—chitter.
Oh well. The honey took the edge off the drink’s roughness, and its warmth was absolutely welcome in the cold, moist air.
He glanced at the elder, who took a moment to expectorate over the rail. “That’s not a happy-sounding voice, friend.”
“Nope! I’m starting to fall apart and I probably got a year left. I’m pushin’ close to seventy these days.”
“I’m…sorry to hear that.”
“Eh. Still got my eyesight for now, and I sired three cubs. One of ‘em was a female, too! Not bad for a talentless bag o’ ribs.”
Fiin felt compelled to sidle alongside the old-timer and offer support. “That’s as many cubs as I have right now!”
“And less than you’ll have by the time you’re…hmm.” the technician gave him a shrewd look. “…Twenty-three.”
“Close! I just turned twenty-four this year. It’s weird, I can feel myself…settling in, y’know?”
“Pfeh!” The tech spat over the rail. “Young Clan are lookin’ younger every week.”
He was a charmer, no doubt. Fiin felt his ears flatten from the compliment but the elder had other thoughts on his mind.
“…You and the big ‘Back up the stairs there had a serious talk, I think.”
“Yeah.”
“Seemed to upset him more’n it upset you.”
Fiin duck-nodded but said nothing.
“Okay, I get the hint. Just, if you want a piece of advice from a scrawny, half-dead fool like me: anyone that big and that successful isn’t a fool. We Clanless all smell something big coming, so you stay on his good side.”
“Come what may?” Fiin asked.
“No. Never follow anyone blindly. We don’t and you shouldn’t. But loyalty matters, and experience matters. Just…don’t forget that.”
Fiin finished his talamay and looked down into the gorge again. The last of the blackish sludge had been scoured off the rocks, and the waters were flowing clear and cool again. Their work at the dam was done.
“…I won’t,” he promised.
Date Point: 13y11m2w1d AV
Planet Akyawentuo, Unclaimed Space, Near 3Kpc Arm
Professor Daniel Hurt
“That went well.”
The only thing missing, in Daniel’s view, had been alcohol: The Ten’Gewek didn’t have it yet. Still, as sober parties went that one had easily been the best of his life. It had certainly given him plenty of material to write a book on—the merits of old-fashioned pastimes like contests of skill and strength, boasting, singing…
He wondered if he’d ever have the time to write another book in his life.
“You impressed Yan,” Xiù agreed. “He really didn’t think much of you at first. Not physical enough. But…maybe don’t tackle Vemik next time.”
“He took my water!”
“And left you stranded in a tree until Julian rescued you.”
Daniel had to admit, that hadn’t been his finest moment. “Well, I’m pretty sure he wasn’t being mean.”
“He wasn’t. If he was being mean he’d probably have ripped your arm off. They play…hard.”
“…I’ll keep that in mind. Wait, didn’t you wrestle Yan on those videos? And again today?”
“Yeah, but he’s pretty chill,” said Julian. “Mostly he cares how much you can help his tribe.”
“Fair enough. Still, this is good.”
They’d broken out the camp chairs and were sitting in a rough circle near the ships, digesting the evening’s events. Walsh and Hoeff were out in the dark somewhere keeping a watchful eye out, while Daar patrolled the near perimeter and sniffed about for threats.
“They impressed you too,” Allison observed.
“They did! Give it a couple of thousand years, we might have to watch out. I think the Ten’Gewek may actually have us beat for innate rationality.”
Xiù shook her head. “Quicker than that,” she said. “I’d bet our great grandchildren will go to school with them.”
“Maybe,” Daniel replied. “There’s still a long path ahead, even with us nudging them to look in the right places.”
“We didn’t have that,” Julian pointed out.
“And we don’t know what pitfalls and setbacks might show up for them having it.” Daniel sighed and wrapped his jacket around him. A chilly night was setting in, even around the smaller fire that Julian had cultivated for them. “They’ve passed through one filter already. They heed warnings, they listen, they think. I’m honestly impressed…but there are other filters ahead.”
“…You’re enjoying yourself,” Allison accused.
“…Guilty,” Daniel agreed. “It’s an easy trap to fall into. I admit, I’m looking forward to the next story.”
“You memorized more than one?”
“Oh yes. The Epic of Gilgamesh, the Prose Edda, the Four Branches of the Mabinogi…The Cat in the Hat…”
“You’re shitting me?” Allison snorted.
“About which?”
Julian cleared his throat. ♪“One of these things is not like the others,”♫ he sang, with a grin. Allison groaned and rolled her eyes, leading a wave of amusement that swept round the fire and went clear over Daar’s head to judge from the bewildered set of his ears and the way he shook himself before carrying on his patrol.
Daniel shook his head in disgust, despite the inexorable grin that forced itself onto his face. “…Julian, if you were half the size you are you great uncultured oaf, I’d take you over knee and beat you for that.”
Julian chuckled. “You could try. Am I wrong, though? Why the Cat in the Hat?”
“Well, I promised Vemik I’d help. That means…God. Let’s call it the tech tree? Something? Well, the thing that sits right at the bottom of that is writing. And what is the entire point of children’s books?”
“Teach ‘em to read,” Daar duck-nodded. He should have worn himself out giving galloping pony rides to the littlest and most fidgety children during Daniel’s long recitation, but instead he seemed like he could pad slowly around their fire all night. He always had one ear angled in to listen to their conversation.
“More than that. When we teach a child to read, we’re teaching them our system, right? We have to do something much more profound. We have to prompt Vemik to think about writing. Well, all of them really, but especially Vemik. And Yan, if we can.”
Xiù made a soft, disbelieving noise. “You make it sound like you want him to invent his own system of writing.”
“There are so many ways to do it. Why shouldn’t they have their own? But if I prompt him by telling a story full of repeating sounds and simple rhyme, then he’ll be prompted to use a consistent system that visually rhymes, which means that his solution to that problem should be logical and consistent…”
“…But still fits their mouths and their minds…” Xiù nodded. “…It makes sense.”
“That’s the game plan for pretty much everything, really,” Daniel told them. “You could get away with it with steel because really there’s only one way to do it right. You don’t get to…interpret chemistry.”
“Well…” Julian had the look of a man who wanted to correct him, “I mean, there’s—”
“It all involves finding the right rocks and getting rip-roaringly hot, yes?”
“Uh…Well, yeah, but—”
“Which for our purposes is good enough.” Daniel shrugged, “I know I’m simplifying it to the point of absurdity, but that’s more or less where we’re playing right now. We have to give them fundamental nudges. We really, really need to stay away from defining their path for them. They have to do that on their own, at least until they’ve got the basics figured out.”
“Makes me wonder what we were like way back when…” Coombes mused.
“Depends. Who? And when? At the equivalent stage in our history, humans had long since spread out of Africa and across the whole globe. Europe, Asia, America, Australia…all of it. In our terms, the Ten’Gewek are a neolithic culture like the Indus Valley Civilization, the Xia Dynasty, the Norte Chico civilization and the Beaker Culture…who were all contemporaries, but very different. Most but not all of them had cities.”
“So why the hell is it just these forest tribes here?” Coombes asked. “The Cull?”
“There are antimatter blast craters down south of where we found them,” Julian recalled. “Around the big river valley and delta. These fellas were probably just the last on the list.”
Daniel nodded solemnly. “A year later and there wouldn’t have been enough left to save. As it is, the genetic and cultural bottleneck…”
Daar chittered as he orbited back close to them. “We need ‘ta encourage ‘em to have lots of cubs, don’t we?”
Xiù laughed musically. “That’s your answer to everything.”
Daar duck-nodded sheepishly. “I’m not wrong though!”
“No. Just…very Clan. In the best way.”
“I am Stud-Prime, Sister Shoo. I didn’t earn that being useless in bed, y’know.”
“Oh, I remember the gossip around the commune…The Mothers loved to talk. Or pretend they never heard of you, a lot of them.”
“Bah!” Daar leered, “Besides, the ones that complain loudest are always the bestest in bed!”
“Daar!”
“What!? They’re my favorite mating contracts! They seem to make the healthiest cubs too…”
“What exactly does Stud-Prime mean, anyway?” Daniel said half to himself. He was in his own way irredeemably curious.
“Eh, means I’m test-positive on a bunch of genetic assays, show ideal breed conformance, have the right behavior and intelligence scores and I sire strong cubs…and I’m good in bed.”
Allison snorted and Xiù laughed again to Julian’s rolling-eye indulgence, but Daniel was a little perturbed.
“That seems…”
Daar tilted his head and pant-grinned. “Animal?”
“…I wasn’t going to go that far.”
“Yeah, I know. Thanks! That’s the thing, though, I am an animal. A lotta Females don’t like talkin’ bout that but what exactly are we males for? There’s a lot more of us than them.”
“The Ten’Gewek don’t have that imbalance, Daar. And they form something like a nuclear family unit. If we encouraged them to mate promiscuously…”
“It’d make ‘em a lot more like the Gao, yeah. And…if I’m honest, I hope that don’t happen.”
“…Really?”
Daar sighed. “Friend, there’s some really really old Gaoian history not a lotta us know about, and lately it’s had me guessin’ about some stuff. I think…we did the best we could with what we are. I don’t wanna see these Tengy-Wek make mistakes that would keep them Uncivilized.”
A brief and uncomfortable silence descended, punctuated by one of the logs cracking sharply in the fire and spitting out a sweet smoky aroma that reminded Daniel vaguely of caramel.
“…They don’t need encouraging, anyhow,” Coombes observed, rewinding the conversation a little. “They pretty much all went home with plenty of company…The only odd one there was Vemik. He’s got eyes only for his Singer.”
Allison grinned. “Uh-huh, and it’s adorable! He’s completely smitten.”
“Mmhm.” Julian didn’t say anything more than that, but his arms—which had already been resting left and right around both Allison’s shoulders and Xiù’s—squeezed them both in for a second.
Daniel took that as his cue to make a discreet exit.
“I’d better dictate my notes and turn in,” he said, standing. “We have a lot to do tomorrow.”
“Yeah, and I need to relieve Tiny in a bit. Better catch some Zs,” Coombes agreed.
Daar just duck-nodded, prowled to the edge of the fire and flopped down in the dirt with his jaw on his paws. He wouldn’t sleep until Walsh was off-duty, and then only when his “most bestest” buddy had been sufficiently doted upon.
“We’ll be on the ship if you need us,” Allison declared. “See ya in the morning.”
Daniel nodded, and shuffled carefully through the dark until he found his folding tent-hut. He crawled inside, grabbed his tablet, and lay for a moment to collect his thoughts before dictating his notes.
He was slightly irritated when he woke up six hours later to discover that he’d fallen asleep before he could record so much as a syllable.
Date Point: 13y11m2w1d AV
Folctha, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Technical Sergeant Adam “Warhorse” Arés
Fur had its advantages and disadvantages. Gaoians hardly ever suffered minor papercuts and scrapes thanks to their coat, but it demanded constant attention. Shampoo, dust-baths, combing and brushing…a Gaoian who didn’t look after his coat got stinky in short order, and un-stinking himself was a more involved process than just a spin through the shower.
If they got something in their fur, however—say, the petroleum jelly they used to slick it down and keep it out of their suit seals—then there was nothing for it but to brush, and brush, and brush.
All of which explained why Regaari was sprawled on Adam’s couch watching TV while Marty got the vaseline out of his fur with a horsehair brush. For some reason she loved brushing Gaoians, and hey! It was a good excuse to hang with a Brother.
For his part, Regaari enjoyed being brushed. It was a good arrangement, and a nice way to spend an evening away from the sometimes overwhelmingly raucous atmosphere of the barracks.
They were watching ESNN’s late evening news commentary show, ‘The Roundup.’
“So, one of the less-covered news items today was that the Corti have announced a modification to their Galactic Ratings System. A statement released by the Directorate explained that the new system was designed to provide greater clarity and granularity of planetary and cultural assessment in light of, quote: ‘the changing demographics of interstellar society.’ Under the new system, planets will still receive an overall classification as before, but factors such as climate, microbiology and the culture of native sophonts will also be classified…”
Regaari growled slightly.
“Now *there*’s a hatching nava.”
Adam looked up from his sewing. “What’s that mean, Dex?”
He was modifying some old shirts that had stopped fitting, in the hopes that if he really had finally stopped growing then maybe he could actually enjoy wearing them again. Regaari claimed he was dubious, and would believe that unimaginable shake to his worldview only when and if it happened.
“I mean it stinks. The whole point of the classification system is that it’s an approximation, they didn’t need to make it more precise. There’s politics at work here, just you watch.”
Marty stopped brushing to peel the hair out of the brush. “Like what?”
“Another wedge between the Dominion and Gao, I bet…” Regaari sighed, crossed his paws under his chin and watched.
“…Joining me here in the studio are Aaron Mescher the editor of the Folctha Tribune, Xenobiologist Doctor Anthony Landry, and ESNN’s own alien affairs correspondent Ava Ríos…”
“I always thought nine-point-nine-two was weirdly specific,” Marty nodded, applying the brush to getting the petroleum jelly out of another patch of his fur. “Like, why not just call it nine or ten?”
“Nine-point-nine-two-one. It is. Do you know what Earth’s classification is to three decimal places?”
“Nuh,” Adam grunted. “High end class-twelve is all we get.”
“Yeah. Because the Directorate never released the exact score. And see!” Regaari stood up and started pacing the room, “That’s the weird part! The Directorate fought the final score until the very end. They wanted it *lower.*”
“And how did the Gao respond?”
“As long as it wasn’t a ten, we weren’t going to argue it too aggressively. It is…more open to interpretation than the Directorate wants to admit, so annoying either side was seen as unwise.”
On the screen, the xenobiologist, Doctor Landry, had been asked a question. “…Honestly a strange decision to include culture and society of native sophonts in the equation,” he was saying. “As if that makes a difference to overall biological aggressiveness.”
“I dunno,” Adam argued while giving up and ripping his shirt into scrap rags. “Culture’s kinda important to how things evolve. Hell, just look at chimps.”
It was hard to bring up a Deathworlder species more ruthlessly, insanely aggressive than the chimpanzee. They were basically humans without any restraint on their behavior at all, but still.
“Chimps are one species on a planet of millions of species,” Regaari pointed out. “The classification is supposed to be an abstraction of the entire biosphere.”
Adam waved his enormous paws placatingly. “Hey, I ain’t takin’ sides, man. I’m just sayin’ I can see the argument, that’s all.”
“Did you hear what Ava just said?” Marty asked.
“Nuh.”
She grabbed the remote and rewound a few seconds. It was weird seeing Ava on TV without her dog—Hannah usually went everywhere with her, even in front of the camera. She was part of Ava’s ‘brand,’ nowadays. But with puppies on the way, even only a week or so into the pregnancy, Ava had obviously decided to cope without her.
“…really interesting when you dig down into some of the, uh, metrics they use for societies. One of the things the new system measures is, and I’m quoting here, ‘savagery.’ I mean that’s…whose standards are we using for that?”
Adam grunted in annoyance. “Welp. Looks like you’re right, Dex. Like you always are.”
“I take no pleasure in it.”
“Well…” Adam gave Regaari a pensive look, shrugged, and thumped off toward the kitchen. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to bring up the thought that just crossed his mind.
Regaari wasn’t going to let him escape so easily. “Your poker face remains terrible, Warhorse!” he called.
Adam rested his elbows on the island counter to reply. “…Right. Okay. So, like, no offense or anything, but can you honestly say Gaoians ain’t savage?”
“By whose standards? Not by our own. By everybody else’s I suppose we can be, but…”
“Which is kinda the point, bro. I mean…I wasn’t there for the fight with Daar and Firth. I just heard about it, right? Thing is, I can break anyone I want easy, even Firth, but I ain’t exactly excited to spar with him most days. Who in their right mind would wanna fight him?”
“Daar.” Regaari’s ears set themselves in an amused posture and he chittered softly.
“Right, but you pounce me, like, every goddamned day too!”
“Playing pounce is your definition of savage?”
“Naw. It’s why you like playing pounce. They’re all herbivores, man. Our species? We’re predators. They can’t help but notice that. It’s why we’re the only two that have sports.”
Marty chuckled and reached over to pick up her coffee. She always had a cup in the evening. “Who is this new philosophical Warpony?”
“Hey! Maybe, uh, I like to watch the news and stuff,” Adam defended himself. “‘S’kinda relevant to my job…”
“If that’s the definition of savagery, then by definition only our two species can be savage,” Regaari pointed out.
“Sounds kinda speciest,” Marty agreed.
“Maybe it’s true, though,” Adam suggested.
“Maybe it is. But why include it in what’s supposed to be a scientific tool?” Marty sighed, and answered her own rhetorical question. “Politicization of the sciences. Like that ever ends well.”
“I dunno.” Adam had decided the argument was gonna go above him pretty quick. “I kinda think maybe overreacting is the order of the day.” Time for a change of topic. “Hey, Dex! Wanna help me measure? Marty’s makin’ me fit in this damn monkey suit for the wedding.”
“Wouldn’t a tuxedo be more appropriate?”
“…Same thing, bruh.”
“I know.” Regaari pant-grinned at him, and Adam realized he’d run headlong into the classic Gaoian sense of mischief.
Adam rolled his eyes. “God. Fine, you little troll. Get over here and measure me, and I ain’t had a shower yet today so I hope you enjoy it.”
“I still have vaseline in my fur,” Regaari said primly and sat down next to Marty again, who grinned and picked up the brush.
Adam held his cupped hand up to his ear. “What’s that? Go downstairs and work out again?”
“Not if you wanna sleep in your own bed tonight, Chunk.” Marty warned him.
“Aww! Fine, fine…I’ll go shower…all alone…forgotten…”
“You’re as subtle as ever, baby.” Marty wrinkled her nose at him then jerked her head meaningfully toward the bathroom door. “Get.”
Adam grinned: Banter was always fun even if he usually lost, though he couldn’t help but ponder some shower thoughts while he cleaned himself off. More so than usual. He decided to luxuriate under the shower a while.
Regaari was probably right, and it was probably going to be bad for everyone, but who did a change like that really serve? On the one hand it might drive a wedge between the Gaoians and the Dominion, but on the other hand it probably would bond them a little closer with humanity. Which all made sense except other times it had looked like the Hierarchy game plan was the other way, so what were they—?
His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door frame. Marty was leaning in it with her hair down, wearing black lingerie and a confident expression.
“Dexter decided to go talk politics with his Brothers,” she explained. “I thought I’d slip into something less comfortable.”
“Huh. Uh…less comfortable?” Adam asked. It had sounded more intelligent in his head, but she was using that grin. The feline one that completely short-circuited him.
“Mhmm. It’s just awful. I hope I don’t have to wear it too long…”
She turned with a swish of blonde hair, looked over her shoulder to flick her eyes up and down him in a way that should have been illegal, and trailed her fingers on the door frame as she headed toward the bedroom.
Adam only narrowly avoided slipping and falling over as he scrambled for a towel.
To Hell with the news.
Date Point: 13y11m3w AV
Malmstrom Air Force Base, Montana, USA, Earth
Lt.Col. Rylee Jackson
Owen Powell didn’t look like a man with neat handwriting, but in reality he’d taught himself an elegant, flowing cursive pen hand. He was old-fashioned in some of the best ways, really, and he reserved emails for business and pen-and-paper for pleasure. It didn’t matter if they took two weeks to arrive, if he was going to write to his long-distance lover, he was damn well going to do it right. A gesture that was as dumb as it was romantic.
But finding one of his envelopes in her mailbox was a highlight in Rylee’s busy week.
Most of her job was just that—a job. And not an exciting one, either: When she wasn’t in training she was on call, when she wasn’t doing either of those she was in her office handling squadron affairs that didn’t need to go as high as Brigadier-General Stewart, and when those had been dealt with there was the infinite hungry pit of Public Relations. Jog to work, change into her uniform, do her hours, change back into sweats and a t-shirt, jog home. Check her mail, find a letter…smile.
She sorted through the rest of the mail as she let herself into her house. It was too much house for her, really—Malmstrom AFB’s housing assumed that if a resident was O5 they were going to want a minimum of three bedrooms and plenty of space for the family that Rylee didn’t, in fact, have. She’d have preferred a cozy two-bedroom number, but preference didn’t enter into it—she was the XO, and that meant she was given more house than she knew what to do with whether she wanted it or not.
Not having a family was another sticky point, too. It ran counter to the Air Force’s culture. An officer of Rylee’s age, it was felt, should have a spouse and a couple of children. Lacking those things was…it raised eyebrows.
But the question was, when and how? The 946th was based in Montana, the SOR was based on a whole different *planet…*Concessions and accommodation could only go so far. And both of them were married to service first, and anything—or anyone—else a distant second.
It was a logjam: The only way things were going to change was if something broke. Best to just enjoy what she could, when it was available.
She dropped the rest of the mail on her kitchen counter, took her time brewing a coffee in the French press, toasted a cream cheese bagel to go with it and took all three items upstairs into what was technically the house’s second bedroom but in her case was her…for lack of a better word, her den.
Men could have a “Man Cave”. But the word “cave” didn’t go well with, say, “girl,” “lady” or “woman.” “Den” was better, but it had a squalid edge to it which didn’t match with the way Rylee kept it scrupulously neat.
Sanctum, maybe. Her sacred place, with her soul stamped on it in photographic form. Snapshots from her grandma’s house, from school. Herself standing in front of Pandora, and another of herself and the motley band who’d formed the core of the first Odyssey flight. Keepsakes from all over Earth, from the embassy station and from Cimbrean.
She dropped into her desk chair and worked the envelope open with her thumbnail. She paused to sip her coffee and take a bite of the bagel before she read.
Rylee,
Aye, another shit letter from me. They’re no substitute for the real thing, are they?
She nodded sadly, sipped her coffee again, then set it down to continue reading.
We’re buzzing around like blue-arsed flies over here. Between the humanitarian stuff and all the worst-case-scenario prep for if (more like when) the Hunters decide to aim a million ships at somebody else…well, I bet it’s the same for you. Reckon I have about four hours of actual leave time saved up by now, between travel and that. Give it a couple months, we might actually get to spend a weekend together.
That prompted a smile and a shake of the head, which turned into a wide grin as she read on.
We’ve just learned of the first SOR pregnancy—courtesy of Bozo. The big randy bugger had his eye on a border collie bitch called Hannah for a while now and it looks like his luck came in, don’t ask me how that’s even mechanically possible. The Lads are like bloody kids over it—and so is the whole town. EVERYBODY wants a pup, and apparently that even includes the Governor-General.
Naturally, Warhorse has let me know that if you ask for one then he can arrange it.
The grin turned into a quiet laugh and Rylee sat back, crossed one leg over the other and completely forgot about her snack..
All joking aside, I hope you won’t think I’m being selfish if I suggested that Arés and Kovač would be delighted if you showed up at their wedding…
“Good idea…”
Assuming it doesn’t get postponed, that is. Don’t know if you feel it, but everybody is a touch on edge at the moment. Ever since the Guvnurag got hit…I don’t think any of us are relaxing just yet. Here’s hoping it’s just old-fashioned sensible paranoia.
“Mm.”
Take care of yourself, love. I’ll email if a real opportunity crops up. If not…
X
-Owen.
Rylee read the letter twice more before she put it back down and remembered her bagel
He was right—Nobody was daring to relax at the moment. AEC were constantly sending out updates, Brigadier-General Stewart’s schedule was absolutely packed with keeping the 946th at a keen razor’s edge, and it was anybody’s guess how Miller had avoided a nervous breakdown in his constant shuttling back and forth between Earth and Cimbrean. A Cimbrean day was four hours longer than a Terran one, which meant he was perpetually suffering from a kind of interstellar jet lag.
That kind of prolonged stress could be devastating if left to fester, even if individuals could hack it. Something was going to have to give, and soon.
She re-folded the letter and archived it in a decorative wooden box she’d bought just for that purpose, then grabbed her own pen and paper. The gesture might be as dumb as it was romantic…
But it was also completely welcome.