(5) Tribals: Family

Arkold system - Moonworld Tahara - Shakalassa Ridgeline: 0730 local time. [2300. 13/3/2003 Omega time]
Tawal and Vean Tahli of tribe Shroa.

***

 The deer were tiny, barely knee high; their almond colored coats were covered with black and dull emerald spots. The scores of rounded, plump bodies flitted surprisingly quickly on skinny legs through the dense olive green underbrush. The crashing foliage and light thunder of hundreds of small hooves pounding against the dry and sandy soil. The herd rapidly changed direction again as another sharp crack sounded.
One stumbling buck emerged from the rear of the fleeing herd. It repeatedly fell to its knees, the stubby antlers scratching up tufts of sand as it flailed about to keep running.
Another crack brought the buck to its side, panicked breaths coursed through a dying body with the rapid rise and fall of its belly.

 Small spittles of blood collected on silent, coal black lips as jungle eyes wildly searched the dense vegetation; the prey searched for his hunter.

 The crashing herd faded as that vegetation parted to reveal the hunter; a tall Taharan 23 year old man casually walked forward, a badly pitted and rusted AKM held at a low ready. His skin was a dark bronze, long locks of thinly braided black hair hanging about a chinless beard; the typical tone and cut of men of the lowlander tribes. He wore a heavily dusted and grass stained light cotton shirt that hung loosely over a lean and muscular frame; a decades old slogan from some League corporation was once printed in Aethereen script, though now it was faded beyond comprehension by years of wind and wear. Not that the hunter could’ve read it anyway.  The original bleach white color had similarly evolved into a light green and beige splash. But the hunter didn’t care, that color worked better for the underbrush anyway. His ancient large running shoes were both soaked with water from some stream he’d leapt through.
Behind the man followed a ten year old boy with a familiar face and height if leaner build. His hair was shorter, barely falling below his ears in a tangled mass that hid vividly green eyes. Those eyes darted from hunter to prey with the excited anticipation of a cub.

 The hunter approached the fallen buck and quickly tapped one, then a second round into the back of its head; the prey jerked twice before stilling. He slung the rifle over his shoulder as he knelt, his fingers felt the thick throat and side of the carcass.

 “Son, come see.” The hunter spoke Kartoa with a very heavy native Taharan accent that rounded broadly about vowels. He had a paternal baritone.

 The boy quickly ran forward and stood next to the hunter, drawing a large knife with a rope wrapped handle in his left hand. The boy halted in his steps when the hunter raised his hand. The boy’s face fell into disappointment as he spoke in Ha’jiam, “I can clean it Dad, you said if I did a good job you’d let me go hunting.”

 “In Kahtowa, you will learn the alien’s tongue.”
 The boy looked down and nodded his head.

 “And so you will, but first come and see.”
 The boy kept the knife in his hand as he scrutinized the body.

 This is a test. Gotta get this right. Dad’s pointing out something, something. Gotta sound smart, gotta bullseye it on the first try, gotta sound smart.

 The boy nervously fingered the knife in his hand.
 “Uh… It’s a buck?”

 Damn it!

 The father’s smile cracked into a soft chuckle, “Yeesss, it’s a buck. Anything else?”

 Oh!

 “It’s a yearling.”
 “And?”
 “We only kill yearlings for special meals.”
 “Such as?”
 “New babies, somebody dies, or gets married, sacrifices. Stuff like that.”
 “And why did we kill this one?”
 “Because Granddad made a big business deal.”
 “And would you ever kill a yearling?”
 “Only if you told me to.”

 The father smiled and grabbed the two front legs of the buck, easily hoisting the animal over his shoulders while getting to his feet. The boy smiled proudly,.

 My Dad is the strongest in the tribe… Well, maybe not the tribe. Hutyan is a lot bigger, but he’s definitely the best fighter. NOBODY can beat my Dad. Nobody on the whole world.

 “We’re going to string it up at the house, you can field dress it there.”

 The boy tucked his knife back into a crudely stitched - but secure - sleeve of his pants.

 “You’re going to be thorough, I don’t want to see a single calorie of meat wasted.”
 “It’ll be the cleanest body ever.”

 Father and son casually walk through the jungle, brushing through immense ferns, branches, and vines. Moving around the thickly twisted trees with roots upraised like some tentacled sea beast writhing in mid frenzy. Yet the overhead canopy was sparse, at least when compared to the thicker inland tracts of the Moon Tahara; sunlight penetrated almost unheeded, casting a strangely patchwork contrast of dark shadow and bright tropical floor. Massive beige boulders towered over the pair. The intense heat was somewhat relieved under the guard of the trees.

 The natural sounds quickly returned as the minutes ticked by from the hunt, tan and brown birds flitted about in the canopy while the smaller ground bound mammals and reptiles slithered and prowled about their way, hidden by the foliage. Hidden to sight that is, but the boy knew that his father would still know them all by their scent. A nine kilogram knight rat was watching them warily from the underbrush, his overlapping armored plates of black grey bone that gave him his name blended well in the background. Those rats were alien pests brought to this world by Clan breeders. A two meter long brown arrowbacked viper almost woke from its month-long slumberous roost. A small flock of green and brown Guineas huddled together in fear. A spike backed lizard fled before them with an impressive burst of speed, its grainy green hide vanishing in a blur. Overhead, another sort of lizard clasped closer to its low hanging branch, its thin brown skin flushing into a luscious emerald. The air was filled with the buzz of Cicalas and other insects; a thirty centimeter long turquoise and black dragonfly flitted past on huge silvery wings, strange since they usually stuck to the mangroves nearer the coast.

 The land was alive today.

 The pair walked just under a kilometer through this scene before crossing the game trail they sought. The barely meter wide path formed after decades of little feet pounding the earth below. They changed their course to follow this trail up a sharply inclining mountain. It crossed over a steadily trickling bright azure stream of water several times, where both father and son stooped to gulp down and soak their faces in the rejuvenating life before moving on again. The path took them under arching roots and between large boulders. It started to switchback and forth as the climb became nearly vertical, yet the natives easily pressed upward; even the boy’s nimble feet had walked this way hundreds of times.

 As the climb became close to vertical, they broke free of the over head canopy; only the smallest of trees and shrubs clung to the side of the small mountain. From this side of the ridge they could easily see much higher mountains to the north west before they wrapped around the moon at the close horizon. The furiously red gas giant Hannok swallowed most of the light blue sky above them. Tahara’s sun shined comparatively distantly as it nearly met Hannok’s horizon. The boy looked up at the sky, Gonna be dark soon.

 Tahara had a complicated solar cycle, since it was orbiting the gas giant Hannok which in turn orbited the system’s sun. Tahara itself had regular twelve hour days amid month long alternating intervals of near constant light or darkness. Corresponding to whether the sun was facing Tahara, or eclipsed by the gas giant. The native calender maintained by the older shamans recorded ten light months to ten dark months. The red glare from Hannok created a strange nocturnal world that emerged during the dark months. The vipers and bats came from their roosts and reigned in the darkness, subverting and replacing the animals that lived in the times of bright.

 Two villagers hold a doe before the head shaman; the shaman holds aloft the ritual machete while chanting to Yatao, then bringing it down severing the head from the body. The blood surges forth, pouring onto the earth from the neck like a hose. As the villagers drag the body around the square under the stark night red light from Yatao. Then Yateo’s sacrifice; the second doe tossed into the flames, pinned by a shaman with a fire pole till the doe’s frenzied screams faded away. “Red shadow, gold light; Yatao’s reign, Yateo’s reign.” 

 I like Yatao’s sacrifices more, we get to eat it after.

 The boy shuddered thinking of the two gods that ruled over Tahara. The storming great red gas giant called Yatao - that aliens called Hannok - was obviously the more powerful one. His little brother Yateo - what they had long since learned was a sun - was the much smaller object in the sky that would blind you if you looked too close.

 The pair climbed another few kilometers, the buck and AK slung over the father’s broad shoulders. They finally crossed over the crest of the ridge to follow the trail in a sharp series of switchbacks downward. On this side of the ridge you could see the many rivers and creeks that ran toward and from the great lake to the south. Gigantic white clouds loomed to the south, the misty white seemingly frozen outline of rain was outlined from them down to the jungle. One of those rivers came up to form a small lake down below at the foot of the ridge. A few motor boats and canoes were running down there now.

 They look so tiny. Like little ants I can squish with my fingertip.

 The boy looked over to see several trails of smoke emerge from a clearing in the canopy just below.

 Home. Rang both within the boy’s and his father’s minds at the sight. Tribe Shroa

 Home gradually became clearer through the treeline. Four mudbrick and cob buildings stood in in a flattened clearing on the side of the ridge. The largest family house was four levels tall, a mansion by Taharan standards. The second and third were both just one level carports storing several trucks, speeders, and ATV’s. The fourth was just a small cinder block shed with a tin roof. On the roofs of the first three structures rested dozens of water drums, a few of which were hooked into a pipeline that ran into the house below. A large net dish was setup on the roof of the family house. The first three houses all had overhangs made from tin and thatch, various chairs, logs, benches, and crates were hauled in the shade.

 Over a dozen children were playing kickball in the dusty square, a few mothers and older children sat on the family house’s front porch shucking the rough husks of roadfruit into large tin wash basins. A few old Shaog bolt action rifles leaned against the porch railing just within easy reach of the women. The mothers’ long black hair were tied into many small braids, while the couple young women present had theirs tied back into a single cord of hair. As per the general custom for women in the lowlander and lakeside tribes. Some had receivers, and all were chatting in Ha’jiam.

 Why do they all talk at once?

 Several old men and young boys were also lounging about in the shade, Disukan made Machine pistols in their laps. A couple were on also on receivers, but for the most part they were napping in the afternoon heat. The game trail finally emerged past another large boulder into the sun baked dust of home.
“Tawal! Little Vean!” A fifteen year old woman waved over to them, she sat aside the roadfruit and sprang to her feet just as the hunter dropped the buck onto the wooden slats of the front porch. She wore a more traditional feminine Taharan garb, flowing white robes bound up by an embroidered sash. She somehow managed to hug them both, drawing them into a tightly familial embrace.

 Don’t call me ‘little’ Aunt Ilani, that’s for babies! You’re only five years older than me! Stop kissing me! The boy wanted to say, but he knew his father Tawal might slap him for it later. Instead, he just prickled a bit, casting a quick look at the other boys to see if they heard her. One of the boys had forgotten the game and was already sneering in his direction.
Hanan did hear, DAMN. 

 Vean glared at the other boy through Ilani’s hug, but neither she nor Tawal noticed. She brushed cheek to cheek with Tawal before planting several kisses on Vean’s head.

 “Careful Ilani, don’t get blood on your dress.” Tawal said, some small blood stains had trickled over his shoulders from where the buck’s mouth had been lagging.
 “I don’t care! It’s a beautiful buck! You know Kovono loves venison at his feasts! Would you like me to clean it for you?”
 “I was actually going to see if Vean can do a good job.”
 “Ooohh!” Ilani gushed, turning to her nephew, “Vean is going to dress it? That’s a big responsibility to clean a yearling buck!”
 Vean grinned triumphantly at Hanan before turning to Ilani, “And I’ll do it perfect too!”
 Tawal opened his mouth to remind him, but Vean remembered and quickly restated his sentence in Kartoa.  “And I do it great too.”
 “And you will do it great too.” Tawal corrected anyway. “You need help moving the buck?”

 “No,” Vean quickly replied, “I’m strong enough.” He pointedly said in Hanan’s direction. He looked down at the buck that Tawal had carried for several kilometers over the ridge. I got this. He grabbed the buck and tried to heave it onto his back, but only made it halfway before he lost momentum and it slid back down to the ground.

 Damn, Damn, Damn! 

 Hanan’s laughter racked through his brain.
 “You sure son?”
 Vean didn’t reply, he just dragged the buck onto a nearby chair and knelt down under it. Now he’s just able to struggle to his feet, the buck slumped awkwardly over his head. He started walking toward the meat shed, one careful step at a time, trying to ignore the other boys. The other children kept after the ball with rapt focus, even little Oshta - another of Kovono’s grandchildren - waddled after the ball, squealing with delight when she neared it.

 Ilani looked toward Tawal with a slightly concerned look on her face, “Ashara’s not going to be happy that you’re teaching him the alien’s tongue.”
 “I don’t care what Ashara thinks.”
 His reply caused some of the nearby chatter to drop into shocked silence before the busy whispering started. Tawal had always hated that, but at least they hadn’t waited for him to turn his back before talking about him.
 “Where is Sali?”
 “She’s… um.” Ilani’s gaze turned away.
 Tawal didn’t detect any trouble, but he definitely wasn’t going to like what he heard. He asked the question again, gently enunciating each word.

 “She’s working down in the bar, cleaning dishes I think.”

 Tawal’s brow furrowed in anger, “How long?”
 “Since this morning I think, please don’t tell Ashara I told you!”
 Tawal stormed off toward the auto-shed, hopping onto an ATV and revving it to life. He roared across the yard, slowing down and steering carefully around the children, and squeezed the throttle down the winding single road that led to the foot of the ridge and the bar.

 Tawal sighed at the name of the matriarch of Shroa: Ashara. They had always been at odds. Ever since he had defied her marriage arrangement and eloped with Sali at fifteen - a year before the customary age. Ever since he’d gone out of his way to learn the alien tongue and encouraged its use across the tribe. He hated the old way of tribal patriarchs and matriarchs, it wasn’t right for the new generation to be at the beck and call of the old. He was the rising young warrior that everyone knew would lead the tribe one day; he flaunted his independence and Ashara hated him for it. Tawal wielded a lot of clout with the tribe. And she more usually than not took it out on Sali.  Singling her out to work in the steaming hot kitchen of the bar while most of the women were up here.

 Ashara loves to boss Sali around whenever I’m gone. It’s going to stop. 

 He was frustrated with Sali as well, she wasn’t stupid or intimidated easily; far from it. So why did she just keep smiling and curb to whatever Ashara wants? It wasn’t fair.

 Tawal roared from the house road to the main road, a couple dozen other homes and buildings surrounded the bar on the main road in front of the lake. Darkness was quickly starting to set in as first night was coming; the sun was creeping behind the red mass of Yatao, the dimmer red light quickly falling upon the world. A small wharf filled with returning boats and Shroa tribesmen waved to him. He waved back as he pulled up in front of the bar. It was a very broad three level structure bustling with activity as more tribesmen were coming in tired and leaving in various states of inebriation.

 He curtly responded to a few greetings as he strode to the open front doors. By the time he reached it, the full darkness of first night hit, so he was illuminated against the inward light of the bar.

 The bar was packed - as usual - with about seventy patrons, most of which were Shroa. These were the night owls who staid up through much of the four hour eclipse would spend most of that time drinking here. The dull red light filtered through a few cracks and open windows in the thick mud brick walls; the scarlet rays reflected off the faint haze of pipe smoke that filled the air. The scent was powerful to those unaccustomed to it. Extinguished kerosene lamps were spaced around a score of tables of a dozen different makes. The variety is outdone by the seats thereof, everything from ancient handmade wicker rocking chairs to empty shipping crates are propped haphazardly around.

 The patrons were of two types, some wore the diversely patterned multi-colored Taharan robes of the Shroa. Though most were wearing cheaper t shirts and shorts or tunics from various alien cultures. Most were armed with some sort of firearm that were only as diverse as they were collectively worn and rusted. Fourteen tribeswomen in a corner were from the Cartel’s mushroom plant down the road smoking their pipes; it was good work that brought a nice income to their families. In another were the muddy diamond divers that worked for the Freedom Fighter’s Front in the diamond fields to the south. They took 4 day shifts at a time before walking home.

 Tawal drew stares when he entered the room, stares that quickly returned to their drinks at his stern expression.

 The Shroa tribe fear you Matriarch Ashara? They fear me too. 

 He strode across the room straight to the kitchen, moving around the bar till one of the bouncers named Hanyuk stood in his path; he was a huge man, taller than Tawal. He wasn’t armed, but in the crowded spaces of the bar and his usually unfocused opponents it wasn’t really necessary. Yet the expression on his face was uncertainty, out of place on a face which was always certain. To the side a bargirl named Kallia watched with a frightened expression on her face.
“Hanyuk, step aside.”
“Ashara told me to not let you pass.”
“Hanyuk, step aside."
 “Yes Tawal.”
 Tawal gently but firmly brushed Hanyuk aside and moved to the kitchen door, thrusting it open violently as he entered.

 The unbearable heat blew over him; sixteen different workers were deep in the large metal sinks, washing cups, mugs, tankards, and glasses in a mass of bubbly froth. His entry drew several startled stares from those workers, he studied their faces for a moment before he recognized his wife. Her face and shirt were sopping with sweat, her arms red and pruny from being in the rinse water all day. Yet she didn’t seem to know it.
Sali smiled at him fondly while shaking off the bubbles and drying her arms with a dishrag, “Never mind ladies, my husband loves dramatic entrances.”
 “How long have you been working here?”
 “Since last night, a good day’s work to nurse the soul.”
 “You’re on permanent break now; come on, I’m taking you back to the house.”
 “If you insist.” Sali tossed the dishrag onto the sink and walked over to Tawal, planting a wet kiss on his lips as she took his arm.
 “By Yatao, you’re as sweaty as I am!”
 “Had a good day’s hunt.” Tawal commented as he walked back out of the kitchen into the bar. Tawal started walking straight for the door till Sali turned him back to a few empty bar chairs. “Sit, we could both use a quick drink before heading back.” He obeyed without protest.

 Sali hopped onto a chair by the bar as she beckoned to Kallia for two drinks. She was thin as a stick but unusually tall. The bargirl moved quickly to pour them, looking apologetic then relieved when Sali smiled at her. Tawal took the seat next to his wife, watching the bar door. Sali sat silently for a minute before asking,
 “So I trust you ran into little Hannu up at the house?”
 “No, Sakea looking after him?”
 “Yep, Sakea and Ilani, I can barely pry him from them. Ilani’s going to make a great mother."
 Tawal didn't comment, Sali fingered her drink for a moment.
"How did Vean do on the hunt?”
“He did good, kept up well enough and didn’t complain.”
 Sali left a moment’s pause, “You know, he’s been talking about running off with the PA when he turns twelve.”
 Tawal finally took a swig from his tankard on the bar. “Few months ago he was talking about leaving Tahara and becoming a pilot in the alien’s army. Before that it was joining the diamond divers with the triple F. He’s still a boy.”
 Sali shrugged her shoulders, “Either way he’s still going to want that SKS when he turns twelve, like all the other boys.” She had that particularly patient voice.
“He’ll get a rifle, I just want him hunting with it, not running off to get himself killed with the PA. We keep him here he’ll stay alive like the rest of us.”
“Your father is quite the diplomat,” Sali emptied her tankard and tapped the bar for a refill. “I didn’t think anyone else could keep Shroa neutral between the triple F and the PA.”
“He has a lot of friends in both, and he keeps them happy.”
“Yes, he does…” Tawal caught the faintly disapproving tone behind Sila’s smile, understandable.

 The tide of chatter dimmed down slightly, immediately drawing Tawal’s gaze to the door. A tall and powerful woman stalked into the bar. Streaks of grey shone in her hair, the braids hung before a scarred eye socket and one intense blue eye.

 The matriarch’s here.

 Sila smiled and toasted her entrance, “Good evening Ashara!”

 Ashara walked up to the bar and tapped for a drink. She glared at Hutyan before turning to Tawal and speaking with perfectly articulated Ha’jiam.

 “Good evening son.”

 Tawal stiffly nodded his head in bare recognition,
 "Mother."


***
 As always I appreciate your time and would love to hear your critiques, suggestions, observations, and predictions. So feel free to comment or message me. And if you're enjoying Mercs, Feds, and Tribals, then don't forget to subscribe!

Your Servant,
The Chivalrous Rogue

(4) Mercs: First Day on the Job

Sanduro system - Moonworld Nergovia - Skyborne Skylark: 3254 local time. [0454. 14/3/2003 Omega time]
Jeremy Brock, Specialist 11A honorably discharged from the Federation Army.

***

“SHITE!”

 Brock watched as dull clacks echoed throughout the cargo bay from the synthetic blades of the stun swords. Scout eagerly tore forward into Chin, delivering a rapid flurry of skilled - if not overly zealous - strikes before darting away from the much larger man’s massive swings. Chin was barely able to ward off Scout’s attacks without giving ground, let alone being able to counter effectively. Scout’s eyes were alit with the rush of competition and the mounting scent of victory, just as Chin’s were funneled into intense concentration. Chin was excellent at hand to hand combatives, but swords were unfamiliar territory. This was the sixth match, and the longest so far of them all, already past twenty seconds. Scout had knocked glancing strikes twice already off Chin’s forearms, yet ‘Weasel’ hadn’t declared a victor. In the previous five matches - four of which Scout won - Weasel only intervened when he judged a strike to be fatal. Both men were dripping with sweat and heaving with exertion, pacing every breath to their efforts and every attack to the other’s timing.

 After Scout had showed him his tiny bunk, Brock had taken just a few minutes to secure his rucksack, G3, fatigues top, and web gear in the personal chest welded into the floor below his bunk. Though he did keep the sidearm on his hip. Feel naked without something. He had then come out into the cargo bay to find the three gearing up for some sparring. ‘Weasel’ hadn’t acknowledged Brock’s existence yet, he seemed too intent on the match to notice the young alien that was invading his personal universe; at least, that was Brock’s impression. The man had pale grey hair and sun-crusted skin. He wore Disukan scatter-gravel combat fatigues and spoke Kartoa with an easy, fringer Tautoan accent through a chaw of dip. Overall the look of a man in his late sixties, yet still wiry and tough enough to be deadly. He exuded the attitude and presence of a senior NCO, a man who demanded everything from his men and gave them nothing less.

 The exclamation came from Chin as Scout weaved under a counter and lashed into Chin’s shoulder before leaping back again. “Pace yourself Scout,” Weasel drawled nonchalantly, “you don’t chop down a tree with one swing. And be aggressive Chin, you’re going to bleed out in a minute.”
Chin didn’t seem to hear, he just resumed his guard and stared straight ahead like a cobra facing a mongoose.
 Scout, however, surged into Chin, quadrupling his energy as he frothed for that final blow. And that final blow came, Chin feinted and swung his stun sword straight into Scout’s face. Even with the rubber-like trauma absorbing exterior, the impact still resounded a wet crunch that made Brock visibly wince. Scout dropped straight to the metal cargo bay floor like a rucksack soaked with sweat.

“Uády!” Weasel barked.

 Chin froze on reflex at the Gahlic command before stepping back, relaxing his stance and breathing easily.

Must be SOP for this outfit. Brock thought to himself.

 Weasel jumped to his feet and limped over to Scout’s still form. He knelt down over him and loudly bawled into his head, “Wake the fuck up princess!” Despite the volume, Brock noted how he took great - almost tender - care rolling Scout onto his back as he checked his vitals. Guess he isn’t worried about spinal damage then. 

 Scout wasn’t unconscious, just really punch drunk. A stream of blood ran from a nasty open welt across his face; Brock couldn’t be certain, but it looked like his nose was crookeder than before. He was breathing raggedly through his mouth.

 Weasel pulled a bottle from his cargo pocket and spat a black sluice into it as he turned half way to Chin. “You did good boy, kept cool and baited him toward the end there; even if he was kicking your ass the rest of the time. Now go tell MD he’s going to have a guest soon.”
“Roger Stárshiy.” Chin said breathlessly before turning around and striding briskly away, setting the stun blade down before he left.

 Weasel pulled out a unusually dainty white handkerchief, then a green flask from his back pocket. What else does he keep in there? He poured a capful onto the handkerchief then - after drinking a quick swig - started attentively dabbing at Scout’s cut. Scout groaned as the liquid frothed into his flesh.
“It’s in my eyes Stárshiy.”
“Shut the fuck up bitch and take your medicine.” Weasel lightly growled as he kept cleaning Scout’s cuts. “This would’ve been Chin’s ugly face I’d be patching up if you had kept your head clear. You could’ve just done NOTHING for another thirty seconds and won. But noooo. You acted like a bitch in heat when you smelled blood and had to promptly go get yourself fucked. How’d that work for you?”
“Not well Stárshiy.”
“No… No it didn’t. So are you going to do it again?”
“No Stárshiy.”
 Weasel grunted in response, “Pizdobol, you do it every fucking time. You’re as predictable as dirt and will always be fucked by an opponent who knows you.”

 Scout was coming out of the stupor and slowly sat up, taking careful sips out of Weasel’s flask. Brock slowly approached and tried to think of something to say, but the way Weasel looked up and the calculating glare he gave tied Brock’s tongue into knots. Brock hated when NCO’s from any army did that.

 Weasel finally spoke up,
“The fuck you looking at boy?”
“I’m… I’m a new crewman Stárshiy.” He wasn’t sure if that was his real title or not, but since the other crewmen called ‘Weasel’ that, Brock guessed he should too.
“I can see that; you don’t answer NCOs’ questions in your army?”
“We do.” Brock still wasn’t sure what to say.
“…AND? What the fuck are you looking at?”
“I’m looking at you Stárshiy.” This isn’t the army, it’s a freelance crew, I don’t have to put up with this shit anymore.
“Oooh looking at me boy? You know the Chief doesn’t take kindly to sexual advances between crew.”
“I… What?”
“We’re all professionals here, you’ll just have to control yourself, even with 89 kilos of sexy standing right by you.”
It took Brock’s nervous brain a moment to realize that the old NCO was joking; fine, two could play that game.
“Can’t make any promises Stárshiy.”

 The Stárshiy’s face never broke his stern glare, yet Brock detected an amused glimmer in his eyes. “Honesty, that’s what I like to hear, now stop undressing me with your eyes and help drag Scout over to those crates.”

“I can walk.” Scout said as he gingerly got to his feet, he started to hand back the blood stained handkerchief before Weasel firmly returned it to Scout’s face. “Direct pressure bitch, how else are you going to stop that geyser?”
“Happy thoughts?” Scout groaned.
 “Chin should’ve hit you harder, maybe knock that tongue in place; now get out of here.” Weasel gently shoved him into Brock, who steadied him. “Run on over to MD and get some stitches, your nose set, stasis for that little concussion, and shoot up some regen. I’m starting to wonder if Pimp could fuck you up like this.”
“Roger Stárshiy.” Scout quietly replied, it hurt Brock just to see how absolutely devastated Scout was, but apparently he wasn’t the only one.

“Scout,” Weasel called after them, “get that kicked-puppy look off your face, you’re the fourth best fighter and second best swordsman on this ship.”

 Scout’s grin returned.

****

“Repeat after me, shla Sasha po shosse i sosala sushku.”

 ‘MD’ spoke to Scout while he carefully drew a few milligrams of the bluish liquid regen from a vial. Scout lay slumped on a metallic exam table while Brock stood by.

 “Why? Tongue twisters are stupid.” Brock noticed the tongued lulled slur in Scout’s speech and slight disorientation. Yep, definite concussion.
“It gives you something to focus on, plus it’s hilarious.”
“As in watching a paraplegic climb stairs hilarious?” Brock asked,
“As in a double amputee trying to play soccer hilarious.” ‘MD’ clarified as he laid the vial and shot down on a surgical tray.

 Is there anyone on this crew that doesn’t have a darkly sarcastic sense of humor? 

 Scout sighed and repeated the Kartoan twister fuzzily. The superficial bleeding on his face had finally stopped at least.

 “Regen is topping eleven carats a milligram on the black net, that isn’t cheap.” MD observed as he removed a surgically sealed packet of sutures and needle driver from a drawer.
 “I have plenty saved up.”
 “Enough to keep Tashya happy?” Ok, at least one of the crew is married. 
 Scout’s face broke into a crooked grin that stubbornly pulled against the laceration at the name of his pregnant wife. “You think Chief will let me call her?”
 MD tapped the vial with a practiced flick as he turned to his patient, “I’ll talk to him, but both Nergovian cartels will be monitoring net traffic as we exit the system. Since as I understand, Chief’s grand plan is to backstab them.”

“Preemptively backstab them.” Chief interrupted as he strode into the room, casually twirling one of the stun blades in his left hand. How does he keep sneaking up like that? 
“Scout, Scout, Scout…” Chief shook his head as he examined Scout’s face. “Do you just hate safety or something?”
“Just helmets Chief.”
“Dumbass, you and Chin were just whacking the shit out of each other with these stun swords? That’s not how they work.”
“Last I checked, you hit people with swords.”
“They’re stun blades, they stun.”
“I feel stunned, how isn’t that the way they work?”
Chief depressed the pommel for a few seconds before the sword exploded into life, casting a blue tinge, emitting a low toned hum, and dripping small and strangely molten looking electric sparks.

“Oh.”
“That’s why I got them,” Chief gave the sword a few practice swings, the movement leaving a faintly blue white trace in its wake and a fierce hiss in the air, “so you didn’t have to spend half an op’s pay on regen every time you sparred. These just leave a burn mark that’ll fade in a few days.”
Chief flicked the sword off before continuing.
“Chin might’ve improved your face, Tashya’s into giant scars and zombie porn right?”
“There’s no way that little cut’s going to leave a scar,” MD interjected, “I’ll hook him up on stasis and the brain damage will be reversed too.”
“Hallefuckinglujah, you got to save whatever little brains were there to begin with.”
Scout sighed and slowly leaned his head back onto the table, “This isn’t my day.”
“Cheer up now, Pimp just about pissed himself when I told him he had to spar with you till he scored.”
Chief placed the stun blade next to Scout on the exam table before rapidly turning away to stride out of the room again, “Brock, walk with me.”

 He followed Chief’s hulking figure out of the OR, keeping a brisk pace through the narrow hatches and walkways of the Skylark. Chief strode silently for a few seconds before he stated with his gruff voice, “So you’re a fast runner.”
He did read my PF scores. 
“So I’m a fast runner.”
“With a shitty upper body.”
All of them, damn.
“I always hated push ups.”
 “Wrong.” Chief seemed to talk out of the side of his mouth while staring straight ahead. “You started a love affair with push ups the moment you signed onto the Skylark, and they’re presses, Copy? None of those pussy Fed push ups.”
“Roger Chief.”
 “Feds that pump out 200 ‘push ups’ can’t do 100 good Tautoan presses, and maybe 20 of those motherfucking ‘fists’ that the clans do.”
“We called those marine press ups in the Fed Infantry.”
 Chief stopped in front of a closed hatch to key in a command on a wall display, when it failed to respond he muttered and pulled the manual release. “You’re not with the Feds anymore, my second in command loves push ups as much as you’re going to, you’ll be working out with him till he’s satisfied with your progress, copy?”
“Roger Chief.”
 The door slammed open with a jarring force. “This ship has several treadmills built into the floor in the cargo bay, I expect you to utilize them whenever you can. PF assessments are once every other month, and you will meet my standard, copy?”
 “Roger Chief.” Being a merc isn’t that different after all, I’ve heard this rapid fire briefing a few billion times before. 
 “One more thing,” Chief continued, “Jay and Clutch are poor runners, I want you to bring them up to your speed with the treadmills; can you do that?”
“Can’t run it for them, but they can pace off me if they want.”
“That’s all I want to hear, any questions?”

 Brock took a second to think, the envious bitching of all his comrades back at every in-unit reception and pre-deployment physicals was completely vindicated; in processing with a merc crew had no kilometer long lines, endless paperwork, bullshit exams, or exhausted and pissed off civilian secretaries. Still, a couple thoughts did come to mind.
“Two.”
“Go for it.”
“How do I get paid?”
 “Shit, I knew I was forgetting something important. Just stop by Pimp or Weasel later and give them the info for the account you want funded. Nothing big to remember, other than  no direct deposits. Pimp always trails pay through several ghost accounts first, security you know.”
“Feds or the Empire after y’all?”
“Neither, just a good habit to have; was that your second question?”
“Uh, anything I should know about Logan?”
 Chief didn’t skip a beat in answering, “Nope, just call him Logan and do what he says; if he wants you to know anything else he’ll tell you. You’ll meet him in a few minutes anyway, he’s finishing up a little op planetside.”

 The command room was somewhat anticlimactic, less than half the size of the galley he passed through earlier and twice as crowded with computers, holographic readouts, and other machinery. Clutch, Jay and Pimp were busy at the consoles, conferring with each other while pouring their attention over the monitors and displays that surrounded them. Just as Chief and Brock entered, Pimp called out without looking up,
“Chief, may I speak with you? I’ve two matters that require your attention.”
Chief let out an exasperated sigh, “What’s wrong?”
“I need another couple techies to run this system effectively.”
 Chief glared at Pimp, “I remember a certain techie who assured me he could get this ship operational by himself.”
“Operational sure, but not combat ready.”
“Can’t Clutch and Jay do their part to get the systems up?”
“At the expense of the engine room and navigations, yes. And they’re still not programmers.”
“Damn straight,” Jay spoke up with an irritant tone, “I’m a pilot, not a console jockey.”
 Chief rolled his eyes toward him, “You’re a fucking navigator, pilots maneuver and dodge with a joystick, you plot and navigate with a console and helm.”
 “Pimp’s right about that,” Clutch chimed in, “I feel nervous leaving the sublight engine on its lonesome on our first flight with it.” He cast a concerned glance toward the Chief before returning to his monitor.
 “I don’t suppose our new crewmember has any technical experience?” Brock was starting to figure Pimp had a thing against eye contact.
“I can usually figure out where the power key is.”
“Great.” Pimp observed monotonically.
“Ok, so you want me to hire another techie?”
“Please?” All three crewmen said at the same time.
“Fine, I’ll start shopping around, it’d be nice having all the systems operational anyway.” Chief turned to Brock, “The internal comm system’s still down, that’s why I had to go get you rather than just call you up; so before I forget, go run by Weasel later and he’ll set you up with a secure comm unit, copy?”
“Roger Chief.”
“One other thing Chief.” Pimp said, still with his eyes on the console.
“What now?”
“Logan’s messaged me that he’s in a little trouble.”

 THAT got Chief’s attention, and it turned the heads of Jay and Clutch, though Jay spoke up first, “I thought Scout was monitoring comm traf…”

 “What do you mean a little trouble?” Chief enunciated the last two words with dripping anger.
 “His words. And Scout is in the infirmary so I’m keeping a tab on comms from here.”
 “PIMP! Focus.” Chief grabbed Pimp’s chair and swiveled it about to face him. When did you get the message, what exactly did Logan say, why didn’t it come through my receiver, and why didn’t you tell me immediately?”
 Pimp looked Chief in the eye with the calm though irritated demeanor of an interrupted  multitasker, he took a deep breath and spoke in a placating tone, “Four minutes ago, “Hey Chief, their backup’s getting here sooner than expected. We might have a little trouble.” He didn’t say it was urgent, and you didn’t resign into the system when you got back.”

 Chief looked the epitome of fury as he glared at Pimp, “Listen to me fuckface.”

 Oh shit, he's actually angry now. 

 “Logan doesn’t do protocol, he has never, ever rated anything as urgent; he wouldn’t notify like this at all unless shit was totally fucked.”

 Chief swung Pimp’s chair back toward the console - probably with a little more force than necessary - and turned about to the rest of the crew, quickly and smoothly settling into the routine of his command. The others sensed it as well, Brock could feel the adrenaline rushing through his system.
 “Jay, get back up to the cockpit now, take the ship off autopilot and prep to execute an LAE.”
“Yes Chief.” He leapt toward the hatch.
 Clutch, get to the engine room and make sure that the Skylark is good for whatever Jay needs.”
Clutch tapped the console and snatched his card from a dataport while Chief was speaking, “Aye aye Chief.”
 “Pimp, loop my receiver into the comms and work on getting shields and the 20’s online. And NO, I don’t care about the other systems right now. Brock, go meet everyone else in the galley.”
"Roger Chief."

 Just as Chief was instructing Brock, Pimp signaled him that the connection was made; without a moment’s pause, Chief turned away again and keyed his receiver, “Fuchsia, Fuchsia, Fuchsia. If you’re hearing this, head to the cargo bay. Logan’s in trouble, and we’re getting him out.”

(3) Feds: A Moon Called Tahara

Alpha system - Coreworld Terra - District 38.92.14. Student Residential: 3100 local time. [0800. 2/11/2002 Omega time]
Dr. Rachel Plasse, Doctor of clinical bacteriology, recently licensed by the Federation based Board of Natural Sciences.

***

 She took a cautious sip of the searingly warm drink and paused to savor the moment. Closing her eyes to breath in the rich scent of pure cocoa, bathing her tired yet youthful brow in the pleasantly climbing warmths of steam; the bitter sweet taste hung upon her tongue as she swallowed and opened those light blue eyes, reluctantly returning them to the screen before her.

 Her name was Rachel Plasse… Doctor Rachel Plasse. It had already been six months since her ‘coating’ (lab coat ceremony), yet the title still felt strange attached to her name. She had practiced that signature - Doctor Rachel Plasse - ever since she first decided she wanted it seven years ago in second school. Now that the omnisciently massive Board of Natural Sciences had justified those sleepless post-university years of endless tests and menial residencies, she still didn’t quite know how to process this new found freedom. After the initial joys and familial adulations had quieted down, what had shocked her was the huge gaps of time that was hers again; no classes, no examinations or boards to study for, no instructors breathing down her cricked neck… and no job.

 Thankfully a student’s life was cheap, and her frugal living and few scholarships had alleviated the massive financial burdens. Burdens wrought by the subsistence pay the ever stingy government funded university hospitals generously bestowed, and the huge tuition rates imposed by said hospitals. She honestly never would have survived debtless without her wealthy family to rescue her. For that matter she probably wouldn’t have persevered through the residencies had her older sister not commed her weekly to encourage and drive her on. Her ’s administrative connections with the hospital certainly didn’t hurt either, or her mother’s constant scrutiny of her grades. Even in the early-soul searching days when she switched her concentration from Human Medicine to the Bio-sciences they remained steadfast.

 Though she loved her family dearly, she still loathed to admit that she would not have made it without them. Though she had inceptive difficulty, she had made those near-perfect grades, she had passed a test after analyzing samples all night long for the fifteenth time. No, she might not have the genius of her older sisters or the stunning looks and suavity of her younger brother Caiden, but she could work. She could study for days and hammer through an impossible subject. She could spend hours researching and defining some strange rimworld bacterium and recite the mandated procedures for cleansing that bacterium and the medical risks involved. She was fifteen when she got accepted into the University, and was always the youngest in her class. Her head instructor, Dr. Simms even once told her in one of his rarely personable moments that she was one of his most promising students. The vast majority of her coworkers and fellow students had been older than her; in fact, now as a licensed bacteriologist at 24 almost all of her students were a decade older than her. So sure, she had a great family behind her and the shadow of her siblings to stand in, but in the end, she could risk a moment of mild megalomania.

 Rachel Plasse sat on her favorite couch in her small apartment room, a mug of steaming chocolate in one hand and her computer lying on her lap. The room was small by common middle class domestic standards, yet relatively spacious for a single student. The room was in a state of careful chaos, with datapads and paper books overflowing past the shelves and scattered across the room in organized knee high stacks. Considering the terabytes of information that even the cheapest of these pads contained, all told her room was a ridiculous database almost exclusively focused toward bacteria. Research for the thousands of essays and profiles she had written about individual bacterium, examinations of health concerns for different colonies and outbreak studies across the galaxies. A cornucopia of compiled knowledge to whoever could navigate the labyrinth of stacks cataloged roughly by subject, species, lethality, instructor, and intergalactic system. A cornucopia that only Rachel could comprehend, and would be thrown into upheaval - well, upheaval to her - if so much as one stack was bumped; thankfully no one ever visited to risk knocking about her system. Which was just as well, for between these stacks of knowledge were a bare few pieces of furniture, the bare minimum for a single student; the fluffy couch she currently rested on, a small bed that folded up into a couch, and a small folding coffee table with clean utensils and several small plates stacked neatly. That was all the silver and dinnerware Rachel owned, the old kitchen cabinets and spacious drawers normally intended for them instead simply held more datapads. Her small netcast receiver rested on a corner of the coffee table, on the rare occasions that she turned it on, it projected a large, crystal clear display of the dozens of newscasts available on the Federation net.

 Her exacting and taciturn mother always hated this “absolutely inexcusable fault,” but no matter how much disapproval she preached on the subject, in this Rachel always allowed herself some freedom. This was her room, she knew where everything was, and there were no actual ‘messes.’ She liked her careful chaos, and as long as she lived here alone it would remain this way.

 Thankfully her father - James Plasse - was a more sanguine parent. Though he had also kept her focused throughout her scholastic pursuits, the day she graduated he started playing the matchmaker. Planting suggestions and pushing various men in her direction. The thought was nice as the men were all incredibly intelligent, if usually poor conversationalists or not downright awkward. Rachel couldn’t have that, not at all. She’d be the last to claim possession of any consequential wit or quick humor like the heroines in her novels, yet she could certainly carry a conversation. And she didn’t want to spend that much time around an ineloquent brick. It was a pity that all of her peers who spoke fluently with brilliant minds to match were also around twenty years her senior.

 Yet none of that really mattered, even with so much extra time on her hands, she didn’t want another distraction to gobble it back up. Her life was hers at last, it was time to spend it on getting experience and putting the last decade to use.

 This was the same apartment Rachel had kept throughout most of her academic career. As a creature of particularly set habits, Rachel had done her best to keep as many constants as she could. The private room, the daily chocolate comfort, the personalized surroundings, and most importantly, her precious few novels tucked away under the bed/couch. Those books remained there unless things were truly dire, only when home sickness struck, or the collective stresses of competitive academia overwhelmed her would she reach for these old books.  and artistically printed hardbacks with colors faded from reading in sunlight; pages rendered brittle and crisp, both from the original excited thumbing through of the pages to the endless later more careful and familiar turnings.

 Her chestnut hair was uncharacteristically loose and tustled about her shoulders; it might be called ‘morning hair’ if that didn’t imply sleep the night before. Rachel - already rendered an insomniac through necessity - had spent the night reading research articles and reviewing one of her dozen-plus job applications. This one that caught and kept her eye so readily was a research position with the Federation Navy; not a formal contract, nor even a one time tour assignment. The basic form aositioned that she’d be signing onto a Federation ship for 8 months as a civilian resident doing humanitarian research, and hence she wouldn’t be restricted to military regulations or requirements, “Thank god.”

 Rachel considered herself a fairly apolitical person; her job was her life after all. Her parents, however, were anything but ‘apolitical.’ Her mother - Dr. Yutah Hareensy - was a hardlining member of the Imperialist party, with a very active and vocal family; her father James was (of course!) a diametrically liberal Corporatist. They disagreed on almost every major issue that came on the broadcasts and commentators; whether it was the ‘propaganda/Public relations scandal’ back in ‘34 or the more recent kitchen knife bans spreading from the core worlds. It got worse as her siblings got older and started declaring for one party or another. She remembered the actual tears James shed after her older sister first voted for the Conservative Centralist minister that increased military spending by another percentile of the Federation’s GDP. Or how angry Yutah had gotten when Caiden went with her father to go vote against criminal conscription for the military. Or both parents’ frustration with Rachel’s bureaucratic ambivalence; she hated the endless simmering debates and those silent disapproving looks they always gave her when she threw up her hands about an issue.

 Politics was a sore subject with the Plasse family, taking a civilian contracting job with the military would not endear her to James or Caiden.

 Yet these concerns were momentarily pushed from her mind as she came across the pay description. It wasn’t the amount that fascinated her, though the position paid very well. Her entrancement focused upon a single line:

 “Contested Zone Service Compensation: 500 credits per MUTA day that the employing vessel has been engaged.”

Contested Zone…

 The omnipresent international threats like the Tautoan Empire, the Caliphate, Shaog, or the Disuka constantly loom near. The Feds hadn’t actually been at war with any of them for over forty years, but that didn’t mean that billions weren’t still deployed internationally fighting Insurrectionists, pirates, fringe worlds, star lords, war chieftains, dictators, or the mercenary clans… As Yutah said many times before, “The list of Federation enemies is long.” Federation trans-system commitments were massive; trade routes had to be protected, colonies had to be maintained, vital resources had to be occupied, and humanitarian law had to be enforced… Or so Yutah told her.

 But she didn’t want to think about that right now, that’s not what was drawing her to those two words.

Contested Zone… Combat…

 She let that thought sink in for a minute. Allowing the odd sensation of excitement coupled with a prickle of fear to flow through her body. What better opportunity could she ask for to see what the real world was like? What could possibly make a better - albeit sharp - transition from the purely academic and hypothetical world to the physical and result focused?

 As she continued reading, another line of the contract caught her eye.

 “You will conduct your work on a Federation Naval Vessel during an active tour to a moon called ‘Tahara.’ Once you arrive you’ll be receiving assignments to save these underprivileged peoples from weaponized diseases and native bacteria.
Save millions of innocent lives, explore this fringe world, earn excellent pay, and serve your country.”

Tahara.

 She knew the name, she’d read about that moon before. An apparent shocking coincidence considering the millions of cultivated and populated worlds, moons, asteroids, and stations in the universe. Yet still apparent since aside from her thousands of research essays, she had simply ‘read about’ tens of thousands more. So only a minor coincidence.

 Besides, Species 37A42/ Strain 18 was nicknamed ‘Baby Ghorta’ by the scientist who defined it just a couple years ago (Dr. Samantha Voor.) ‘Ghorta’ was a some reference to some big movie scene where lots of people died. She didn’t know or cared; what made it stick in her memory particularly well was the parasite’s durability. It was waterborne and almost impossible to exterminate or purify. Basic coagulation and flocculation and the chemicals normally associated didn’t cleanse it. The native Taharan sedimentation method didn’t work. Any form of advanced filtration completely failed. Even distillation was useless. Dr. Voor eventually developed a complex disinfection method involving repeated exposures to intense UV radiation coupled with additional chlorine treatments. Apparently the nearly permanently overcast Taharan sky didn’t allow many bright skies.

 But in the end, the process was only effective with individual samples of water. And it proved too expensive for the impoverished native population. Which honestly wasn’t that big of a deal since the natives had lived with it for the last few centuries. Every native Taharan lived their entire life with the microparasite in them. It was found even in breast milk. The infant morality rate was unusually high even for a third world, nearly a fifteenth of all local children died soon post childbirth. She hadn’t read those studies, but the link had yet to be found between the infant morality rate and the parasite, though they had to be connected. The more conclusively proved damage done by the parasite was a slight increase in hyperthyroidism; barely .03% if she remembered correctly, which she usually did. Additionally, though the natives had adapted to drinking the water, foreigners would get terribly sick for anywhere between 24 hours to a month after the smallest cup. The adjustment was sometimes so bad for aliens, that one out of sixty would die. Though there her memory failed her as to exactly why or how. Even after a person was infested with the parasite, it was nearly impossible to remove it. She really hoped that the humanitarian work did not include finding some answer for it.

 The terse tone of a call notification from her computer suddenly shook Rachel from her thoughts. She gently laid her mug on the floor beside the couch before tapping a flashing green icon on the corner of her screen.
“Hey Rachel! Please tell me you went to bed last night after our midnight chat.”

 Rachel leaned back on her couch and stretched out her arms, smiling at the familiar and eager feminine voice.
“Sleep is for pre-grads and philosophy con’s Olivia.”
“And smartmouth Doctors! It’s been forever since your coating, you need to get back on a human schedule.”
“I am on a human schedule, haven’t done anything all night except drink Chocolate and read job proposals and articles.”
“Yeah! Where will you be going? Have you picked which one yet?”
“I think so…”
“…AND? Just tell me already! Is it the Handel contract?” (Handel International was one of the giant medical research corporations between the Feds, League, or the Union.)
“Well, I’ll be going offsystem.”
“Oh! Thayer corp then!” Olivia had nearly squealed with excitement; Rachel was very fond of her friend, though she could be a little grating at times like this.
“No… Not Thayer, though it will be on a ship.”
“Just TELL me!”

 Rachel wasn’t really certain how Olivia was going to take this; politics had never really come up in their midnight chats or lunch dates.
“It’s a humanitarian job with the navy.”

  There was a pause on the other end of the line, Rachel visibly cringed as she could hear Olivia’s slight intake of breath on the other line.
“…Ohhh. That sounds… Adventurous.”
She wasn’t offended, good. Yet she wasn’t pleased either. Rachel spoke plainly,
“You don’t like it.”

“No, no, no, it sounds like fun. And I’m sure you’ll be helping a lot of people. It’s just…”
“It’s just?”
“Isn’t that sort of thing really… dangerous?”
“Yep, really dangerous. This humanitarian mission is actually a cover mission to kill Prime Minister Azarov. My scanners are actually a kind of wrist gun, and the slides are bombs.”

“Rachel!” Olivia sounded shocked, “The FSI’s going to track this call now with those three words. And I was being serious.”
“So what? They’ll know I’m joking, and I appreciate it Olivia. I really do, but you shouldn’t worry about it. Humanitarian missions don’t get into any battles, that’s why they’re called humanitarian.”
“I’m sorry for being worried, I don’t mean to rain on your parade. And I am happy for you! This job really sounds wonderful if you get to help so many people like that. Where are you going?”
“This moon called Tahara.”

 Olivia gasped again, the excited exhilaration rushing back into her voice.
“What? Tahara!? as in the Ankor border system Tahara?
This genuinely surprised Rachel, Olivia was never really one for geography.
“Yes… You’ve vacationed there or something?”
“No! Silly! You haven’t heard about Take Down Ariseny?”
“No, is it big or something?”
“YES! It’s HUGE! Even the newscasts have mentioned it a few times. It’s ALL OVER the net! Just how have you not heard about it?”
“What can I say? I live under a scholastic rock.”

 “Anyway,” Olivia continued in that rushed voice she always spoke in when talking about something she was passionate it. “Tahara is in some sort of civil war, and Ariseny is a horrible, horrible war criminal. He has killed aid workers, civilians, tortured people, burns villages. And some of his soldiers are as young as ten! The movement was started by a few aid workers that came back from Tahara and wanted him brought to justice; they’ve been legislating parliament to send an intervention force and the proposal just passed like last month. Their site has over half a billion subscribers! And I’m guessing that you get to be a part of it all!”

 Tahara was just becoming more and more interesting. It always hurt to read and hear about the suffering of others, even in the vague, academic language of her journals on the net. Her first memory of violence had been catching glimpses of syndicated adult only newscasts, showing helmetcam footage from soldiers on the frontlines or enforcers fighting crime in the streets. Yet the sounds of violence and sight of blood were always carefully censored for the standard, politically correct upper middle class audiences. Rachel guessed that partly created her distaste for blood, which was the reason she switched away from human anatomy and medicine early on. She threw up after seeing her first cadaver, and from there it only got worse and worse. Even after switching, the many symptom photos and case studies showed the first pictures of real suffering that she’d ever seen. And they still made her a little queasy. She had a weak, upper middle class stomach.

  Still, as an intelligent professional woman, Rachel hated what she saw as a superficial facade of her popular culture. How could the Federation ignore the unbridled violence going on in the universe? Though she wasn’t an activist and had simply been too busy in the last several years to develop that belief, Rachel did sympathize when her father’s party wanted to enforce international humanitarian law. ‘Order Saving Chaos’ and similar slogans to some extent resounded with her.
Yet she still replied with a sardonic pitch in her voice.

 “Courtney Wilson’s fan site has over three billion subscribers.”
 “Oh come on! It’s a lot of people to support a parliament proposal. PM’s (Parliament members) were scrambling over themselves trying to appear at Ariseny rallies.”
 “It does sound like a good cause, and it’s great people went out and actually supported it. It’ll be nice to be doing something that actually matters.”
 “Heey now! Who didn’t even now about it?”
 “Again, scholastic rock.”

 The chime of Olivia’s chuckle echoed through the apartment, “Hey, gotta go now, get some sleep Rachel!”

 Rachel sat aside her computer and stood up from the couch, looking down at her disheveled appearance. Time to get presentable.

(2) Mercs: Fresh Faces

Sanduro system - Moonworld Nergovia - Port city Oruna: 3100 local time. [0300. 14/3/2003 Omega time]
Jeremy Brock, Specialist 11A honorably discharged from the Federation Army.

***

 The “Skylark,” that was the name of his new home for the next several months, provided he wasn’t killed.

 Recently made ex-Specialist Jeremy Brock stood amid the crowded bustle of the port hangars in the lazy heat of a bright Nergovian day. The surrounding bustle consisted of the ridiculous variety an experienced trader would expect on a rimworld. Each of the several known intelligent species were in the crowd dressed in every imaginable attire according to the hundreds of varying regional, racial, cultural, occupational, and moral norms that were represented here. The crowd was united in one means, all were - whether overtly or subvertly - essentially armed. Even the smallest shops have a couple guards bearing body armor and AK’s or the rarer pulse rifles slung over their shoulders.

 They wandered against a backdrop of similarly diversely constructed buildings, though these had much more in common with each other than the crowd surrounding and imbuing them; many have a certain impromptu - though hardly flimsy - packed construction, though a few larger, independent compounds are surrounded by high concrete walls rimmed with unpleasant barriers. Barriers are a common sight lining the roofs, walls, and windowsills of nearly every structure; the more solidly funded have powerfully charged electric wires, the more sadistic and similarly affluent have electrified concertina wire. Cheaper barb wire is well used, though the most common of all are rows of shattered glass and sharpened scrap metal; glued, buried into, and likewise secured with blade ends facing outward. All prove painful obstacles, discouraging the average, less-desperate thieves that proliferate the haphazard streets.

 Nergovia was a trade moon, its wide orbit, not unreasonably hospitable atmosphere and its larger fortuitously strategic placement in the greater universe determined that it would become the focal point for the financial interests of many outlying worlds. It’s political neutrality secured by the gridlock of local power and the Federation’s over extension additionally assures its popularity as a base for the manifold clandestine services that the universe requires.

 Ex-Specialist Jeremy Brock stands tall, confidently watching the many faces that pass him. He wears surplus urban combat fatigues, a web belt loaded with fresh mags, but empty frag and utility pouches. He carried a heavy assault pack, a .50 caliber pistol on a hip holster, and a G3A3 with an expensive ACOG sight. He wore an old and battered Federation issued helmet with a tan digital camo pattern; his chin and head are both freshly shaved.

 Brock had justed concluded a four year contract with the Federal Army as a 04Delta, a field Translator. Well, first as an 01Alpha (infantryman) before he quickly switched MOS’s. The experience as a translator is why he entered the army, but translators didn’t get nearly as good combat training that the standard infantrymen did. His father - an ex-marine gunnery sergeant himself - urged him to get those skill sets first, it was essential if he wanted to become a Merc. His native tongue was the most common language of the Federation, though his interest in foreign languages started when he picked up his mother’s native language; she was a refugee from some inconsequential trade moon and had trouble speaking standard. After his parent’s messy divorce four years ago he did his best to sever all ties with her, including Hajiam Tribal. The somewhat vaguely named ‘Tautoan’ and the three major dialects thereof - Derisian, Kartoa and Mah’to were the focus of his studies anyway. They are descendents of the old Kartoa Empire and had become the trade language of most rim worlds. He’d also more recently started cursory study of Gahlic, one of the more common Clan languages, yet this was still a peripheral study. No matter how good the program, auto-translators were always limiting; the occasional misreading of a word or the more common overlooking of obvious cultural habits risked disastrous results. Hence the immense value of translators.

 That’s why he took the shortest possible term with the Fed’s; it was a means to this end, just a particularly sweat and grim filled residency program. The path that lead to this moment, him standing in front of the dock registry amid an alien crowd, basking in the heat of an alien sun. The taste of eager anticipation and fulfillment was physically knotting within his stomach; a familiar feeling when he first signed up with the Feds, when he left the Feds, the first time he got shot at, and when he got his advanced Derisian, Kartoa, and Mah’to qualifications.

 He was studying a large screen denoting the registries and docking of the dozens of space faring vessels that were moored in this city on business. Most were obviously merchant or transitory in nature, some bounty hunting operators and a few private contractors. He was certain that all could be considered smugglers in one way or another, pay any ship’s captain enough credits and he’d gladly take ‘sensitive cargo.’

 But he hadn’t contracted with just any ship, in just any wild cowboy crew, or under just any ex-officer; he’d contracted with Connor’s group. Known for many names both announced and given within many armies, political parties, insurgent cells, systems, and cities. They held quite a reputation on the black net; Brock would know, he’d monitored the records of over a hundred different crews since he first joined the Army of the Federation three years ago. Connor was a retired Master Chief Petty Officer from the Neur system, Brock didn’t know how long his crew had been together, but the word was that his ship the ‘Sparrow’ had been leaving serious wakes in their path. Big contracts with big names, formulating a dependable reputation for smuggling, bounty hunting, and the occasional assassination. And that was just the public record, or as public as the underground black net can get.

 It was a good operation, a great place to start his career; he didn’t actually expect to contract onto Connor’s crew, just getting his signal off the net was hard enough. He took days painstakingly writing it out in the excellent Kartoa his years of intense study could manage. That was a calculated guess, since most of Connor’s contracts would have to be in Kartoa. Even then he still wasn’t sure of himself sending that first message; just a twenty-one year old specialist fresh out of the uniform with a few mediocre deployments under his belt, an average service record, no schools, and no contracts to his name. His translating experience turned out to be his one saving grace. Connor responded promptly, not even asking for an interview or additional paperwork, and it was devoid of any standard formal business pleasantries common to most Kartoa cultures, - “Direct, professional, I’ll have to remember that” - though additionally the terse message bore two surprises.

 First, he responded in Fed standard; was he insinuating that his Kartoa was unacceptable? In his resume he simply listed his fluent languages, he didn’t specify which was his native, so was he letting Brock know that he knew Federal Standard was his first language?  And in turn implying that he had done a further background check of his own? The former had to be impossible, since Brock took great pride in his knowledge of Kartoa and those customs. The latter? Probably, in fact it’d be ridiculous for an experience merc leader to entrust a new crew member on his ship without a full investigation. “Ok, so Connor wants me to know that he’s done his research.”
Secondly - and honestly primarily - the message simply consisted of one question:

“How’s your Ha’jiam Tribal?”

 His mother’s native? That caught him off guard. He’d listed it as a fluency in his resume, and that wasn’t a fabrication… Necessarily… True, he hadn’t conversed in it for about a year, he’d in fact almost grew a disdain for it. Ha’jiam Tribal  was an extremely localized and confused mess of a dialect; an inbred bastard of a blend of ancient indigenous Verb-object-subject grammar structures utterly dominated by Federation vocabulary and Tautoan pronounciation. The formulaic fate of any indigenous language caught in the economic crosshairs of greater powers. Its localized nature, primitive home, and ridiculous difficulty meant there were very few speakers; well, aside from the thirty million something natives trapped in that hell hole by poverty, some local warlord, or simple force of habit. There must be very, very few speakers with military training and experience who were also looking to contract with a merc crew.

“Ah.” That explained Connor’s prompt and unlikely response, his crew must be taking a contract involved with that moon and needed a translator; an impressive stroke of luck, provided he hadn’t lost that much.

 He remembered laying to rest a panic attack by pulling up some Hajiam dialogue on the net from an Anthropological Linguistics database via his console and skimming over it; ensuring that he indeed hadn’t forgotten too much before he responded likewise in Fed Regular to Connor.

“It isn’t my specialty, I can negotiate in it without problem but I doubt I’d pass as a native.”

 Dishonesty now wouldn’t help him later on, but complete honesty wasn’t immediately desirable either. At any rate, Connor’s response is more detailed:

“Arrive at the attached coordinates in 5 days, 14 hours, and 33 minutes Omega time. Stand directly in front of the port call registry screen facing magnetic north. Travel light. You’ll enter the ship on a trial basis. I don't believe in making contracts complicated; eat the standard rations, follow orders, don’t be a bitch, and you’ll receive an eight percent cut from contracts and can borrow gear from the armory. You'll learn the other rules as they come up. I’ll take your arrival as acceptance. Look for the Skylark. Call me Chief.”

So, no mention of an entry bonus. But his luck had been running high enough to make that irrelevant. He had his first contract, an unusual one yes, but with a crew he’d be proud to put on his record.

 And so, here he stood. The lengthy attached coordinates were precise down to a ten square meter area. The space in front of the docking registry of this chaotic town on this nondescript trade moon.

 That’s when he heard it, a forceful baritone voice, from the first syllable obviously accustomed to command.

“You lost soldier?”

 Brock turned his head to see a man standing less than a meter away, behind him.

 How the fuck did he slip past me?

 A first glance drew distracted confusion, the man was tall and powerfully built. The six foot five figure wore a rough, apparently untanned furry buck-hide jacket over a simple tan shirt and dark green cargo pants made from some strong and thick textile; both rather uncomfortable options given the heat.

Ok, he’s packing.

 He sported a large rough beard and a rougher square face with a neutral expression upon it. His mass of completely unkempt red hair hanged matted down onto his shoulders; a dozen thick strands are strung about in braids. His left hand was at his side, the other tucked at his shoulder, holding the strap of an old tan colored synthetic satchel. The man’s whole form from head to toe was covered with a fine layer of dust, sweat, and grime. His massive size, demeanor, and the hide jacket gave him the general look, attitude, smell, and intimidation of an ill-tempered Kodiak bear.

 Brock had looked up Connor’s service record and had seen a few photos of him in his enlisted days. The young, clean cut, crisply uniformed, and professional seaman in those pictures did nothing to help him recognize the man before him.

 A moment’s confusion awkwardly reigned before recognition set in on Brock’s face; he quickly recovered and faced about to address him.

“Chief… Connor, I presume?”
“Just Chief, and yeah, follow me.”

 With that he turned around and quickly stalked into the crowd. Brock started walking briskly to keep up. They navigated through the crowds in silence into the hangar and past several of the docked ships. Brock thought about asking Connor - Ahem, Chief. - if the Skylark was a ploy and the Sparrow was moored nearby, at least something to start conversation; but instinct told him to leave the silence be. He could also be the cold professional.

“There’s our new home.”

 The Chief stopped in his tracks facing a sizeable space faring craft. It was shaped like a long rectangular box, with a wide cylindrical single engine protruding toward the rear of the vessel; twin engines mounted on short wings extended thirty meters out from the ship’s center. The whole was painted black with a boxlike but relatively smooth outward finish. The sheen metallic hull had very few glass ports.

 Brock knew very little about ships, or hyperdrives, or mechanics in general; so the sight of this large metallic creature yielded no insight into its capabilities or functions. Even when the Chief abruptly rattled off a list of specs and class numbers, it meant nothing to Brock.

 Brock suddenly noticed the ‘our,’ in the Chief’s statement; so something did happen to the Sparrow?”

 The sound of casually trotting bootprints across the metal surface of the ship emanated from the open bay doors and lowered metal gangplank toward the back of the ship. A hand reached down from inside the ship and grabbed support from a hydraulic cylinder as a figure wearing torn fatigue bottoms and a faded olive drab shirt quickly swung through; landing with a final loud clunk on the hangar deck.

 The man was young, maybe his early twenties at most, and bearing a permanent fixture of - Brock expected unshakable - genial cheer and unmistakable familial kinship. He called out in one of the rough clannic langugages; Brock wasn't fluent but he knew enough to extrapolate the general meaning.

“Chief! I’ve been calling you for three fucking days!” His tone bore less irritation and more pleased relief.
“Turned my comm off," Chief responded in the same language, "needed some personal time; you know, get in touch with my inner peace.” Chief tapped his chest sarcastically while the bare hint of a fond smile crosses his face. “Y’all good here?”
“No! You scared the shit out of me… Again! You don’t just vanish like that with a note in your shitty handwriting and not call in.”
“I’m the boss, yes I do.” He motions between the man and Brock while switching to Fed Standard, "Ex-Specialist Brock of the Federation Army, meet Ex-PFC Dren of the Allied Clans. Our communications and scans Operator."

 Dren, one of the larger High Rock Clans. Brock thought to himself as he returned Dren's warm smile.

 Dren approached with his right arm extended while switching to Fed as well, "Hey! You are the new translator! What languages do you speak?" Dren was fairly fluent in standard (though contractions were just beyond his grasp) and with a heavy sing songy accent. And his naturally rushed and excited speaking voice was slowed down to a careful jog, but Brock was too relieved that there was at least one friendly crew member to notice.

"Five and a half, Kartoa, Mah’to, Derisian, Fed, Ha'jian, and a little Gahlic." As he went in to shake Dren's hand, he paused in momentary cultural confusion as Dren's hand glided past his and grasped his wrist; he quickly reciprocated just as Dren laughed jovially at his mistake.

"I'm sorry! The core worlds, they shake hands right?" He released Brock's wrist and regrasped his hand, giving it a strong squeeze before letting go. Brock cursed himself in the back of his mind, he should've refreshed his memory of clannic cultural customs; those systems were extremely involved in the private contracting market, it was inevitable that he'd work with clansmen from those worlds.

 Brock reciprocated with a small nervous laugh, "No problem man, I'll have to brush up on Clan customs." Dren still hadn't gotten the standard core world greeting quite right; you didn't strongly overpower the other's grasp in most social circles; usually it was more acceptable to simply gently clasp the other. "Damn, need to look that up later." Brock made a mental note.

"You'll fit right in man, and you may call me 'Scout,' everybody else does."

 Chief flips the satchel off his back and tosses it over to 'Scout.' “Brought some new toys for y’all, since you've been such a patient little soldier, you get first pick.” Chief continues the conversation in Kartoa, to not leave Brock awkwardly out of it.

 He deftly catches it and follows closely behind Chief as they near the gangplank.
“Resorting to Bribery eh?" He spoke as he eagerly zipped open the satchel and peered within. He exclaimed in delight as he gingerly held the open satchel in one arm while drawing out a strangly curved machete; Brock noticed that the blade looked strangely dull, and an odd black fiberglass-looking strip ran about the edge.

"Stun blades! Thanks Chief! Can I spar with Pimp?"
Chief raised his eyebrows, “I thought you usually fought Chin, what did Pimp do to you?"
"The fucker's been switching all of the ship's systems on and off all week. it's been a fucking nightmare trying to monitor comm traffic when I have to replug all the frequencies every five fucking minutes. I really miss the Sparrow."
"Is something wrong with the systems?"
"Jay's had trouble getting the new shields online, everything else works fine, but Pimp insists that it ALL has to be overhauled for 'maximum efficiency." He mimicked a high pitched, nasally voice on the last two words.
"This ship's a lot more electronic heavy than the Sparrow. I've told you before, Pimp's a pain in the ass but he knows what he's doing. And yeah, Pimp could use some practice in combatives."
"Like, right now?"
Chief rolled his eyes as they walked up the gangplank. "No, after we're offworld; we're picking up Wolfe from that op in a half hour at RP Alpha."
"Good, I was starting to miss Woofie."
"You know if he hears you call him that again he'll fuck your nose with his machete."
"Aww, he's just a big fluffy teddy bear."
"Fluffy teddy bear puts a tungsten bullet dead center mass at 2000 meters, play nice."

"So uh, who are Chin, Pimp, Wolfe, and Jay?" Brock awkwardly interjected.
"You'll meet them all today," Scout answered, "Wolfe's our sniper, Jay's the navigator, Pimp is our computer systems programmer, and Chin's just a badass."

 "The fuck?" The chief declared as he surveyed the Skylark's cargo hold. The metallic room's large size was made to seem larger by the near emptiness; it was the full twenty meters wide, twenty meters high, and maybe fifty meters deep. A rickety looking metal grate walkway hangs suspended from the ceiling and creates a pseudo second story to the room; and access to the several thick and ridiculously narrow bulkhead doors that lead further into the ship. Several large chests and crates are nestled in the far back of the room, nestled around piles of duffels, cord, and other machinery. The sight that apparently drew Chief's profanity is a single man busy shoving a chest across the deck.

 "Tell me something Scout, did I not order everything loaded into the new ship and packed away by the time I got back?"
"Uhh, that you did Chief." Scout neutrally said, his smile vanishing.
"And what did I say I'd do if one cable was loose?"
"You said that you'd systematically sodomize us with serrated garden hoes."
"Then what's this shit I'm looking at?"
"That's... Uh... None of it's mine Chief," Scout gestures toward the gear as he draws an evil glare from the Chief. "I swear! I had the comm gear stowed away yesterday! Whatever's not screwed down there is Clutch's or Chin's."
"So, I've been gone three days, you're telling me it took you two to move your comm gear and personal shit?"
"Had to install everything too, and it's all online! At least when Pimp's not rebooting the system."

 Chief continues grumbling, "Be glad I'm in a good fucking mood." as he stalks across the hold toward the man pushing a chest toward the back wall.

"Clutch! Three days man! Three days!" Clutch pauses from moving the chest to wipe sweat from his brow and look at Chief.

"So, you're back. How was the bar and brothel vacation?" Clutch spoke with some strange rim world accent, Brock had no idea where it was from. Clutch himself was dressed in a billowy tan dyed cotton shirt, and light tan pants of the same hand weaved cotton textile. He stood just over six feet tall with a runner's slim build, his head was cleanly shaven, and the corner of a large tattoo just barely peeks from underneath his thin shirt.
"I was kind of busy," Chief sarcastically responded, "you know, the fucking op Logan and I were setting up? The reason I wanted y'all ready for action in case we needed backup? The hell even IS half of this shit?" Chief kicked a duffel at his feet.


 Chief turned to Brock, "This lazy fuck is Clutch, hydraulics and engine mechanic. The ship runs on fuel and his engine oil sweat."

 “Gallons of his engine oil sweat.” Clutch declares in third person while makes a final attack launching the chest to a triumphant thud against the wall of the cargo hold; a second glance from Brock confirms a suspicion that it’s official Federation military issue, or was. The Federation flag on the upper left corner of the chest’s face was scratched off with a small red Sparrow painted over it.

 “More like teaspoons.” Chief corrected over his shoulder as he continued walking across the hold, stepping over loose cables, around crates and kicking aside a couple more duffles.
“Hey Chin!” The Chief was yelling at a tall and powerful man dressed in forest camo army fatigues who had just entered the hold from a hallway leading to the mess hall. His arms were filled to the breaking point with a mass of duffels and jugs of powerful cleaning solutions. His chiseled features and prominent jaw denoting his apparent nickname glanced questioningly and exasperatedly toward the Chief.

“What?”
“I want this shit cleaned up before we break atmo! We have to fit a fucking transport vehicle in here when we pickup Wolfe.” The Chief gestured toward the mass collusion of supplies across the bay as he leapt up the stairway three steps at a time; Scout and Brock close in tow.

“Kind of busy Chief!” Chin gasped as a couple jugs clattered from his arms to the ground.

 “Then grab a couple to help, I know CLUTCH isn’t doing anything at the moment.” Chief stopped his deliberate journey toward the cockpit to lean on the stairwell midsentence and enunciate Clutch’s name.
“Aye aye Chief.” Clutch sarcastically responds, breathing heavily on the mountainous chest before straightening up to go help Chin.
“Chin’s our resident SAW gunner by the way,” the Chief mentions over his shoulder to Brock, “lays a lot of hate downrange.”
“He looks the type.” Brock commented.

 A loud ascending roar suddenly rumbles throughout the ship, shaking the crossbeams, rattling the metal stairwell and imbuing Brock with its reverberations. The roar quickly pinnacles in a raucous jolt as the ship bucks off the ground; almost throwing the Chief and Brock over the railing, Scout tripping back down the stairwell with the satchel swinging into his face, sending Chin and his armload sprawling across the ground and slamming Clutch against the tool chest.

“The hell was that?! Why is grav control fucked!?” Chief shouted over the din.

 Clutch shouted upward as he deftly ran across the sliding duffels to seal the cargo bay door. “Oh yeah, Pimp mentioned that he took it offline to fix something; said it’d be back in a bit.”

"Motherfucker!" Scout yells as he clambers back up the stairwell with the duffel.

“A bit eh?” Chief continued swearing as he wrestled his way up the stairwell with Brock close in tow, who slung his G3 over his shoulder to hang on to it.
 The ship settled from caustic seizures into a general calmer shivering as it quickly started gaining altitude and steadied. The roar was dulled short as the massive metallic clanking signified the bay doors locking in place. Yet the rumble was still abnormally loud.

“I thought the shields on this new system muted outside noise well.” The Chief wondered aloud for a moment.

“Unless he took them down as well Chief.” Scout observed.

 The Chief clambers up a ladder and through an open hatch into a sort of loft while roaring, “Pimp! Where the fuck are you and what the fuck have you done to my goddamn ship?”

 A shorter man moved swiftly from the hallway, his eyes focused upon a datapad before him which his fingers were running deftly over. He seemed to ignore the quaking of the ship as he strode briskly to the bottom of the ladder and reached out to grab it, looking up to see the Chief in his path.
“Excuse me Chief, I need to get up there.”
 The Chief slid down the ladder with a massive metallic slam as his 275 pounds hit the walkway; he leaned to the side, allowing just enough room for ‘Pimp’ to climb up past him. As Pimp did so, the Chief grabbed his sinewy arm with his massive fist and and took a moment to stare down Pimp’s ambivalent face. “We just bought this beauty, it’s too late to get our money back, understand?”
“Yes Chief, would you please let me go? I'm running one last systems check before exfil."

 Chief hopped down and motioned for Brock and Scout to follow him back toward the hallway. “You see soldier, this is what happens to a good team when the leaders leave for five minutes.”
“So this 'Wolfe' is the second in command?” Brock specualted openly.

“Oh hell no.”
  Both Brock and Scout look up questioningly and almost runs into the Chief, he had stopped and was staring at the hallway before him. A whole row of wall panels were taken down leading straight down the corridor, exposing a mass of running wall circuits, wires, cords, and air ducts. The ship’s quaking were scattering the panels back and forth across the hallway. The massive clutter leads to an open maintenance shaft with a pair of combat boots sticking out of it. He strides toward them and violently grabs the boots with both hands.

“That better not be you Cook!”
“Wait!” A muffled voice emanates from the hatch, “Chief! NOoooo!”
There’s a loud metallic thump as Chief jerks the legs onto the deck, dragging a sweat soaked man and a few spilling tools after him; though most noticeably, in one clasping hand is a large, heavy looking metallic cylinder, and a primer in the other.

 Primer? Is that a... Fuck. Brock always hated being around high explosives.

The moment the Chief notices the primer’s proximity to the cylinder he stumbled backwards, “Fuck!” A rapidly forming bruise pulsed on the man’s brow, his expression was startled, and momentarily panicked. He dropped the explosive to the rattling deck before he rubbed his head and directed severe annoyance toward the Chief.

“You called oh fearless leader?”

Chief straightened up, quickly composed himself as his gaze darted between the cylinder, the primer, the wall, and finally resting cooly upon ‘Cook.’

“Cook, do I look drunk?”

‘Cook’ wiped his head again checking for blood, but finding only sweat before answering, “No Chief, I daresay you’re actually sober, we’re all so proud of you.” He snidely said before snatching up the dropped cylinder and carefully tucking his head back into the shaft; despite the roarous vibrations.

“Ok, so I actually am watching you stuff our preciously expensive new ship with high explosives?
“Just laying out some DFFC’s and a few EFP’s in the walls.”
“Not to mention I’d be a lot more comfortable if the high explosives stuffed in the wall were not snuggled right next to really expensive circuits.” Chief knocked on exterior circuits to illustrate.

“I’m so sorry if my saving our lives if we get boarded makes you uncomfortable. And the circuits are fine, container’s an inch thick, blast is going…” Cook makes the already spooked Chief jump again as he casually punches out a wall panel facing down the corridor they had come. “That way.”

“Can you at least be less messy about it? Did you really have to take down the whole wall?”
“I’m running a direct line from all of the charges straight to the cockpit, so ‘Jay’ can blow away any landing parties and we won’t have to worry about rogue signals setting these off.. Prematurely.”

 The Chief does a double take, “Hold on, what do you mean, ‘all’ of the charges? Just how much of my ship are you trying to destroy?”

“Relax, it’s perfectly safe as long as no one jerks my fucking feet while I’m trying to quietly set in the primer… Would you kindly hand me that hydrospanner?”

Chief glares at the smiling face and pointing hand peeking through the circuits for a moment before turning to Brock.

“The man makes the finest plastic I’ve seen outside a lab; though he’s a shitty chef and has no comprehension of value.”

“You can’t complain till you get me more than beans and paste to work with.”
 The Chief turns to Cook, partly addressing him now, “This is why we can’t have nice things, because you’re always taking them apart and blowing them up.”
“Well, that IS my job description.” Cook responded as Brock handed him the hydrospanner.
The Chief rolled his eyes and turned to continue toward the cockpit, “Just clean this shit up, sooner than later.”
“Roger Chief.”

 The trio stride down a long, winding, and tight hallway; doorways both open and closed that leads off to different rooms. The hallway finally culminates in a short stairway that leads to the cockpit. The Chief jumps through the bulkhead, there's a brief silence before he hears the Chief speak,

 "Y'all fucking planned this! Didn't you! Let's just think of every possible way to make Chief go fucking insane. Right?"

 The cockpit was tight, maybe five by seven meters and crowded with equipment. A huge mass of controls, electronic screens, nobs, dials, and overhead compartments that jutted rudely into headspace. A few bolted down chairs were placed close to the main control panel below a large window. Sitting on the chair is a man wearing light PT's. The intriguing aspect of the room is not the controls, or the navigator at the panel, but what is spaced on every surface of the room that isn't already covered by controls. Scout whistled long and slow, what must be hundreds of various pinups of hundreds of models in various states of undress surrounded the room. "So.... Jay, didn't tell me you were bringing out the collection..."

"Nah man, thought I'd make it a lovely surprise for you and our illustrious leader."

 Brock had to comment, "You know the cheapest datapads can easily hold terrabytes of info." Jay glanced from Chief toward Brock, "These are lucky mate, always flown better with them."

“The bloody hell!?” The Chief interjects, “Wolfe and I leave for one fucking day and everything has gone to shit, you’re playing house, Clutch is screwing around, Pimp is splattering us across the wall, and Cook’s rigging the whole ship to explode.”
“Cook’s doing whaa?” Jay interjects,
“If that happens, can we get the Sparrow back?” Scout queries.
“Both of you, shut up! Seriously Jay, what made you think you could get away with this? Do you think any client would take us seriously if he saw this? He'd think we're some floating fucking brothel! This cockpit has the same deal as on the Sparrow, you can keep your little mini-fridge and one - one! - of your little dirty pictures. Understood?"

 Jay's asenting nod corresponded with the hum and momentary mechanical grind of the shields and grav systems coming back online. The violent quaking of the ship ceased immediately, turning the thick metal flooring under their feet into hard earth; and giving the rising queasiness in Brock's stomach a moment to settle.

 Chief sighs as the new ship settles into its routine noises. "Jay, watch the skies and clean this shit up the moment we're on autopilot. Scout," he turns toward Brock and Scout, "show Brock his bunk to dump his gear then move to the cargo bay to help Clutch fix his shit."

"Roger Chief." Scout says as he turns and motions for Brock to follow.

 Met almost half the crew, Chief's not at all what I expected, and I’m not dead yet. So far, so good.