Chapter 3

“Lieutenant, thank you for coming to see us,” the camouflaged man wearing gold oakleaves on the front of his uniform said as he sat down across the basic wooden meeting room table from her. Two other men sat down on either side of the major, a captain and an Army master sergeant. All three she knew worked for the CJTF’s “J2” section, the directorate of the task force that dealt with intelligence matters.

“No problem, Sir,” Patricia said somewhat nervously. Normally, a meeting like this would be basic. Because email and other advanced forms of communication didn’t work on Va’sh, every intelligence officer in the field was required to report for a debrief whenever they visited Jamieson Airfield. So, while the nature of her mission was “less than official,” she was still required to stop by and tell them, in person, things she knew.

“I know you’ve only been there about ten days,” the major went on. “But anything you can tell us about Sector 13 would be beneficial.”

“Of course, Sir,” she replied.

As long as you don’t ask about what I’m doing here, she added silently.

“Great, let’s start with threat indicators,” the major began. “What are you seeing down there?”

“Well... um... nothing,” she confessed.

The major squinted at her in disbelief. The master sergeant clicked his pen a couple of times.

“Nothing?”

“No, Sir. No indicators of intended action toward the FOB.”

“Nothing?” the major asked again. “No activity? No protests? No armed indigenous personnel?”

“Oh! Yes, Sir! There’s the Huntresses!”

The master sergeant clicked his pen and put it to his notepad, ready to take down all the information available on this armed renegade group.

“Okay, how do you assess their political or military objective?” the major asked.

Patricia thought hard for a minute. “Well... they hunt... So... ‘To eat tasty animals,’ would be their primary objective.”

The master sergeant clicked his pen again and sat back in his chair with a sigh.

“You said they were an armed group,” the major reminded her.

“Yes, Sir,” Patricia replied. “They possess hardlight rifles.”

“Great! Rounded up to the nearest ten, about how many rifles are in their possession?”

“I counted four.”

The major squinted again and bit his lip.

“Oh!” Patricia cried. “Sorry! Rounded up it would be ten.”

The master sergeant stood up and started for the door. “Anyone want coffee?” he asked the group. He left without waiting for an answer.

The captain turned to the major and whispered into his ear. “They’ve only been on the ground for just over a week,” he said.

“True,” the major whispered back before turning to Patricia again. “Lieutenant, in your short time in the area, have you had any notable interactions with the indigenous personnel?” He paused and then offered a few examples. “Conversations with locals? Protests? Harsh looks?”

“Oh, jeez, where to start?” Patricia replied. “We’ve spoken to the village chief, Kasshas,” she said. “His myorin, Yasuren...”

“I’m sorry,” the captain broke in. “’Myorin?’”

“His wife.” At the captain’s nod, she continued. “We’ve also spoken at length with the village Mikorin, including the Na’Sha, the Aru’Dace, the Roru’San...”

“Stop! Stop! Stop!” the major interjected. He turned to the captain. “Get Sergeant Simmons back in here.” He turned back to her as the captain got up out of his chair. “I don’t know what those words mean.”

“Oh! Well, the Mikorin are like priestesses... but not... Each one is responsible for a certain part of the village culture and seem to act as an embodiment of the community they serve. The Na’Sha is their leader.”

The major looked at her dumbfounded as the captain and master sergeant returned. “And you’ve spoken at length with them?” he asked.

“Yes, Sir. Why? Is that bad?”

“No! It’s just... You’re the first to report that.” Most reports he had received about interactions with the Va’Shen tended to focus only on the village chiefs, and those discussions were brief and straight to business. He turned to the master sergeant. “Make a note on ‘Mikorin’ and ‘Na’Sha.’”

The senior NCO nodded and started writing. “How do you spell ‘Na’Sha?’” he asked.

They all looked to Patricia, who had, without realizing it, just become the J2’s expert on the Mikorin.

“Oh, I have no idea!”

* * *

“You’re going to let him do it?” Warren asked incredulously even as he knelt down to inspect the fitting between two freshly laid water pipes. Convinced they were solid, he stood back up and faced the officer who had shocked him.

Ben shrugged. “I think I have to,” he said. “It could be an early opportunity to make serious social connections here.”

“Yeah, but alone?” Warren asked as he started toward the next bend in the pipe. As the FOB’s only senior noncommissioned officer, Ben had gone to the worksite on the far side of camp to bounce Ramirez’s request off Warren for a sanity check. “Kid might wake up without a kidney,” he joked darkly. “If he wakes up at all.”

“I agree there’s a risk,” Ben said, falling into step next to him. “But he’s also right that that risk is already here. I found Alacea in... on the FOB this morning,” he continued, quickly correcting himself to avoid uncomfortable questions. “She just walked in past the guards and razor wire like she was taking a walk in the park. If she can do it, you know any pissed off teenager with a glasser can do the same. And out in the bush, surrounded by armed Huntresses, an extra guy won’t be much help anyway.”

“Yeah, but is the risk worth it?” Warren asked him. Ben was a smart enough officer to understand the value of senior NCOs and the decades of experience they had. It was questions like this that brought him to Warren in the first place. “I agree that we have to make connections with these people, but is the reward here worth putting a U.S. Army Ranger at risk? I assume you wouldn’t have put a rifle in his hands and sent him out on patrol alone during the fighting. Why is it different now? You can argue the threat is still the same.”

“No, I wouldn’t have done that,” Ben conceded. “But this has long since ceased being the kind of war where you can count up the bodies at the end and see who wins. Whoever wins this round is the side with the most friends.”

“The old ‘hearts and minds’ cliché?” Warren asked, bending down to inspect the bend in the pipe. “I have never seen a war where that actually works.”

“With humans, no,” Ben said. “The Va’Shen aren’t human.”

The SeaBee stood up and dusted off his pants before turning and facing Ben. “You’re counting on the aliens who started this war being better people than us. That’s a dangerous gamble.”

“We’ve also seen that you can’t win hearts and minds hiding inside a FOB,” Ben told him. “Besides, there’s another good reason to do it.” He pointed to patch of ground nearby with an empty water bottle lying on its side next to a scattering of rocks.

A less experienced officer or NCO would have missed the implication, but Warren had been on several deployments and knew the significance.

“Bored soldiers throw rocks,” Ben told him.

“Bored sailors too,” Warren agreed.

“There’s nothing for the troops to do here when they’re not on duty,” Ben continued. “There’s no net, their devices don’t work, and do you have any idea how much an honest-to-goodness book goes for up at Jamieson? While I was up there, I watched a guy offer up a copy of The Hobbit for six hundred dollars, and he had a buyer ten minutes later. When a bunch of bored soldiers get together, one of two things happens. Either they all get together and use their MREs to cure a deadly disease or...”

“... They burn the whole camp down,” Warren sighed, biting his lip.

“If we can normalize things,” Ben went on, “Make it so the troops can go downtown and feel safe, get out and check out this really amazing place, that’s going to relieve some of the pressure. It’s gonna have to start with little things like this. We can’t hide on the FOB for a whole year.”

Warren sighed. “It’s still a big risk,” he said.

“Yeah, but it might just be worth making.”

The sailor nodded. “In the meantime, I’ll ask some of my guys to come up with some MWR-type stuff. I don’t know... horseshoe pits, a prison gym, stuff like that.”

“Thanks, Chief,” Ben told him. Morale, Welfare and Recreation was an often overlooked aspect of Army deployments, but they went a long way.

“You know, Sir,” Warren added as Ben started to turn away. “If something happens to him... they’ll crucify you.”

The Ranger thought about it for a moment. Warren was right. If this went wrong and Ramirez ended up having his body dumped outside the fenceline, headquarters would want a head to roll, and that head would be his. But more than that, he wasn’t sure what he’d do if faced with knowing he had sent one of his men to his death for the sake of a goodwill outing.

“If something happens to him,” Ben finally answered. “I’ll pay for the nails,” With that, he turned and started back to his office.

* * *

There was already a huge crowd in Pelle’s central square near the Mikorin temple when Alacea and Pavastea finally arrived. It seemed as if every Va’Shen in the village had come to hear what the Emperor’s Herald had come to say.

Heralds had become a more regular sight in Pelle since the war started. It was a Herald who first informed them that the Dark Ones had been found trespassing on one of the Great Ones’ worlds. Another had come to announce that the Emperor had declared war and was calling for volunteers to fight the Dark Ones. The last had come bearing news of the surrender and the Emperor’s command to cooperate with the Dark Ones forces.

Sufficed to say, their visits over the last three years had become bad omens. They hadn’t heard good news from a Herald in quite some time. However, many were hoping for good news this time, including Alacea.

Perhaps... Perhaps today, we’ll know...

The Herald stood upon the circular stone platform that marked the very center of the village. Standing three feet high, the white marble was engraved with imagery that identified Pelle: rivers, trees and crops. It was from this same platform that Kasshas would speak to the village and Alacea would offer prayers in time of need.

The messenger, himself, was arrayed in a short cloak of bright royal red, a color reserved for those who directly served the Emperor. His Imperial Guard wore it, as well as his retainers and, of course, Heralds. Brown trousers were bloused into a pair of well-worn grey boots, and a flat red hat reminiscent of a French beret sat on his head, his dark green ears poking through holes in the hat itself.

Alacea found Kasshas and Yasuren toward the front of the crowd and made her way to them. When she arrived, she gave a short bow to them and offered a quick apology for being late before turning to the green-haired Va’Shen atop the platform.

As with nearly everything in Va’Shen life, there was a ceremony that had to be performed when a Herald arrived. Since the message he brought was for the community, the embodiment of that community had to be present and acknowledge the Herald before he could deliver the Emperor’s words.

<Welcome, Herald,> Alacea said, bowing low to him. <The people of Pelle thank you for bringing our Emperor’s words to us.>

Right on cue, the Herald bowed back to her, just as deeply. <Thank you for your warm welcome, Na’Sha of Pelle,> he told her.

<Then speak, Herald,> Alacea replied. <And tell the people of Pelle how we might serve him.>

The Herald bowed to her again and turned to the assembled villagers. <People of Pelle!> he began, years of training allowing him to project his voice so that every upturned Va’Shen ear could hear him. <His Majesty again thanks you for all your sacrifices during and following the Great Unpleasantness which has gripped His kingdom.>

The Va’Shen listened and waited for the Herald to get through the usual standard messages and get to the real meat of the issue.

That was eye-opening. Like all communities, Pelle had sent the lion’s share of their crops to the capital to help sustain the war effort. So much so, in fact, that there were very real concerns as to how the village would feed its people in the coming year. The Emperor was now intending to send them even more mouths to feed.

The Herald ended by bowing to the crowd.

No one said a word for several moments or even moved. The Herald turned to hop down from the stage.

<What about our tods!?> someone yelled from the crowd.

The Herald turned, his ears pointing up, and his tail twitching. At first he thought he had misheard. A Herald’s message was a one-way communication, not a discussion. But then someone else called out.

<When will we know what happened to them?!> a third called out.

The Herald turned back to the crowd, his tail whipping back and forth. He raised his hands. <People of Pelle,> he began again.

<How can they not know?!> a vixen called. <How can they not know if my son is alive or dead?!>

The rumble from the crowd was growing in volume as the collection of villagers started to turn into a mass of whipping tails and flattened ears.

Seeing the anger approaching a boil, Alacea hopped up onto the stage with a dancer’s grace and held up her hands over head.

<Please!> she called to them. <Please! I am also disappointed! But this Herald is not to blame for it!>

<Then who is!? Why won’t they tell us!?> someone yelled.

<If they knew, I am certain the Emperor would tell us!> Alacea answered, taking the crowd’s anger dead on. <We must be patient!>

The bolt lodged firmly in Alacea’s chest. The words stunned her into silence.

But not Yasuren. The noble vixen moved to the front of the crowd and stood between the crowd and the platform. <Who said that?!> she demanded.

Alacea took a step forward until her feet were on the very edge of the platform. she called out.

The Va’shen fell silent at the Mikorin’s thunder.

<What shall the Gods think of a community that abuses a Herald of the Emperor!?> she continued. <Of a community that lobs stones from the safety of a fog of ears!?> She waited as if expecting an answer. After a moment she continued on. <What argument shall I make for that?> she asked them.

The villagers said nothing, many looking down at the ground or covering their ears with their hands in shame. But some met her steely gaze unapologetically.

Alacea turned to the Herald and bowed to him. she said.

The Herald swallowed nervously. <N... No, Na’Sha. Your community is worried, and I understand that.>

<We are undeserving of your grace,> Alacea told him. <Please, I invite you to stay at our temple and rest before starting the next leg of your journey.>

He bowed back to her. <Thank you, Na’Sha, but I cannot stay.>

<Then please let our Ya’Jahar prepare a meal for you and supply you with food from our pantry for your journey,> she tried again.

<Please!> Alacea snapped suddenly. The Herald’s tail almost puffed up at the sudden interruption.

The Herald looked out at the mass of Va’Shen, many of whom looked positively miserable, and back to Alacea, who was still bowing low to him. Faced with such a request from a Na’Sha, he could not refuse without giving a grave insult, and while such an insult might be deserved in this case, it would still reflect poorly on the Emperor.

He bowed to her.

With a last quick look at the crowd, the Herald stepped away from the platform. A vixen with straight, pale blue hair in a Mikorin’s hanbok approached him and bowed.

From the platform, Alacea watched the Mikorin and the Herald until she was sure he was entering the temple and sighed. The crowd was already breaking up, the villagers murmuring as they left. Alacea looked down and found Yasuren looking back up at her.

<Do not judge them too harshly,> Yasuren told her sympathetically. <They were hopeful that this time there would be news.>

Alacea replied softly.

Yasuren’s ears twitched. Her son had not been seen or heard from in more than two years. <Disappointed as I may be,> she said, <Angry as I may be. I would never bring shame to Tasshas with such behavior.>

<There is still hope,> Alacea told her.

Yasuren’s ears twitched again.

<Yes,> Alacea told her.

<And you must keep hope as well, Alacea,> Yasuren told her, concern in her eyes.

The priestess took a breath. she conceded.

* * *

Ben grunted and put down the pen he had been writing with, shaking his hand in the air to try to work out the cramps. He had never really appreciated how valuable simple computers were until he was forced to write reports by hand with pen and paper. The ability to write reports, save them, and transmit them instantly across a planet had spoiled the modern military for more than two hundred years, and the reward for that efficiency was the demand for even more reports. Now that computers were no longer available due to the Fuzz, it made sense that the Army would demand less reports.

But this was the Army. And the Army didn’t run on fighting soldiers. It ran on spreadsheets and video teleconferences. If some two-star couldn’t see little green and red squares on a spreadsheet, how would he or she be expected to show any kind of leadership?

So, until someone at the Combined Joint Task Force level got their head out of their ass, Ben was stuck spending eighty percent of his day hand-writing reports that would be out of date before they even reached Jamieson.

He looked at the pen as if it were the enemy. It was time for a break. Sitting back in his office chair, his eyes fell on the Va’Shen language guide Patricia had left. Reaching forward, he picked it up and started thumbing through the pages. A lot of the words he saw he had heard, though the phonetic spelling listed in the book seemed different than how he remembered hearing it. His face scrunched up in thought. He remembered reading somewhere that Earth had more than six thousand spoken languages. He wondered how many Va’Sh had and how many different dialects there were. For all he knew this book was only useful in the Va’Shen capital where it was written.

The Ranger picked out a word and pronounced it to himself, trying to get it to sound right as it fell out of his mouth like a boulder falling down a mountainside. He looked up and saw it was getting dark outside. The analog clock hanging on the wall said it was past seven... which had a slightly different meaning in view of Va’sh’s 26-hour day. The rest of the office was empty. Patricia was still at Jamieson and wouldn’t be back until she found a ride on a convoy or a helicopter coming to Pelle.

He put his head down on the desk. It was quiet. There were no crickets on Va’Sh, but then there had been no crickets on Persephone either.

It’s been a long day, he told himself as he closed his eyes.

For a moment, he thought he would open his eyes and be in his kitchen on Persephone. He’d look up and find Jess snickering at him, and he’d tell her in an almost panicked, breathless voice about the dream he’d had. How Earth fought a war with alien fox people and she was killed in an attack on Persephone and he was now stationed on that world and accidentally married to an alien priestess.

Then she’d snicker again. He’d get suspicious and look in a mirror to find cat whiskers drawn on his face in permanent marker and a crude sketch of a penis on his forehead.

When he opened his eyes, he wasn’t sure if he had been asleep or not, but just in case, he opened them slowly, hoping that his wish would be true.

Instead, he saw a pair of Va’Shen ears silhouetted in the office doorway. Suddenly, he wasn’t on Persephone or even Va’Sh. He was on Epsilon Eridani, and any second the sirens would go off, and the Va’Shen soldier would leap at him with a knife.

With a quick, indrawn breath, he pushed away from his desk, falling backward off the chair. He scrabbled for his sidearm but was so used to seeing this scenario in his dreams, he turned left to look under a bed that wasn’t there instead of drawing it from the holster on his right leg. He corrected, and his hand found the butt of his pistol...

<Tesho? Are you well?>

The familiar word stopped him cold. He remained there, half crouched on the ground, facing the back wall, his hand gripping his pistol as he mentally fought the muscles in his hand to keep them from drawing it on their own. He took several breaths and hopped to his feet, whirling on the Va’Shen who had startled him.

“GODDAMMIT, WOMAN! WOULD YOU STOP DOING THAT?!”

Alacea stood five feet from him, her eyes wide, her tail puffed up in fight-or-flight and the hair on her ears standing on end, surprised and taken off-guard by his rage. She swallowed and immediately dropped to her knees, putting her forehead down onto the floor.

<Forgive me, Overlord!> she replied rapidly.

Ben put his hands on his head, trying valiantly to grab hold of the few centimeters of hair on top of his head so he could pull it out. Now they were back to square one, a frightened, dim-witted alien woman and the second coming of Genghis Khan.

He closed his eyes and put his fingers to his temples. He was still breathing fast, and his pulse was racing behind his eyes. Does this woman have any idea how close I came to shooting her?

His hand went from his temple to his mouth, covering it as if to keep more harsh words back. He looked down and found Alacea still on the floor, her tail swishing back and forth against the floor in panic.

“Look... Just... Just get up, okay?”

She didn’t know what he was saying, so she concluded the safest course of action was continued prostration and didn’t move.

“C’mon,” he tried again. “Get up.” At no sign of movement, he swore to himself and crouched down in front of her, taking her by the upper arms and pulling her to a sitting position. She crouched before him, her eyes watching his every move, unsure if the alien speaking to her was the courteous alien she breakfasted with this morning or the enraged Dark One of her people’s nightmares.

He looked at her let out a breath. “Look,” he said. “I’m sorry, okay? I...” He pursed his lips and shook his head. “You don’t understand.”

The Ranger clapped his hands together in front of his face as the befuddled alien watched. He pointed to himself. “I...kill...” He made stabbing motions with his hand. “... Va’shen,” he finished, putting his hands on his head in an imitation of their ears. Alacea’s eyes went wide, and he realized that was a bad way to start. “Va’Shen...” he started before she could interrupt, again with his hand-ears on his head. “... kill... humans.” He made the stabbing motions and pointed to himself. He then pointed at his eye. “I see... Va’Shen...” Hand-ears again before he put his hands over his heart. “... I...” He then pretended to gasp in fear.

Alacea’s mind worked to decipher the meaning of his charades. She watched as he continued a moment later.

“I... sorry.” He worked his fingers trying to figure out how to mime regret in a way that an alien would understand. “Just a sec,” he said, finally remembering he had a dictionary on his desk. He reached for the book and opened it. <Heart regret,> he said in her language.

The vixen’s tail slowed and changed direction, gently striking the floor as she began to take his meaning.

I... frightened him? she wondered.

It would make sense, she knew, if their roles had been reversed. If she had been in the temple, turned and saw a Dark One standing in her door, she would jump in fright as well. But to hear a Dark One, a supposedly fearless, brutal monster admit to fear... She had never considered it possible. This had been the same Overlord who had marched willingly into the smoke alone to face a wild yarl.

The more I learn about them, she thought, the less sense the old stories make.

She watched as he looked away, not realizing it was out of shame.

What the Hell is wrong with me? he asked himself. Rangers aren’t supposed to be skittish...

Alacea took a breath and bowed her head again. <Tesho,> she began,

He looked at her and started flipping through the book. She reached out and put her hand on it. she said, echoing him. She bowed her head to him again to demonstrate it.

Her day had been filled with startling contrasts. One of her own people had tried to shame her publicly and showed no sense of remorse beyond their refusal to claim ownership of the remark. Meanwhile, a Dark One, well within his rights to treat her as a slave, privately snapped at her and immediately tried to apologize for it.

The world has fallen from its place in the heavens and when the Gods caught it again it all was turned about, she thought.

Ben stood up and stepped away from her. “So... um... what can I do for you?” he asked.

She looked at him in confusion again. He looked through the book.

<I... accomplish... activity... behalf...your presence?> he asked.

Her ears began to twitch spasmodically. <Your speech is worse than Lady Patricia’s,> she commented, much more comfortable now that they had made their apologies. She reached into the bag she carried and pulled out another clay jar.

He looked at it cautiously.

<Food,> she said, thinking a basic word might be in his book. Sure enough, he flipped through the pages and found the word and its definition.

Ben pointed at himself. “For me?”

She bowed and offered the jar to him. Taking it, he pulled off the lid and saw the same kind of finger-sized grains she had brought him earlier for breakfast. “It looks... delicious,” he said.

The priestess put her fingers to her lips. <Try it,> she urged.

Not having any kind of utensil, he scooped some of the alien rice from the jar with his fingers and put it into his mouth. It had an odd flavor to it but wasn’t bad.

“Mmm,” he said. He rubbed his stomach to help convey his meaning. “It’s very good,” he told her.

She seemed to comprehend the message and bowed again. <Thank you, Tesho. I’m afraid my knowledge of cooking is very limited. I’ve eaten the food prepared for me in the temple for almost my entire life.>

He didn’t understand her words, so he simply listened to her voice. It was somehow calming. The words of her language made use of a lot of “sh” and “ess” sounds, like it was a language designed from the ground up to be whispered. Given the Va’Shen’s acute hearing and their skill as hunters, it made a certain kind of sense. He felt like the words would sound very much at home when whispered into his ear.

As if reading his mind and knowing he was musing about her language, Alacea reached into her bag and pulled out a cloth sack, dumping it on the floor between them. Several wooden blocks with foreign markings painted on them landed on the plywood floor with a series of clacks. The priestess arranged them in a line on the floor between them as he watched. Finally, she held one up.

<”Sho,”> she pronounced, showing him the marking. <”Sho.”> She put the block down.

“Sho,” he repeated.

Alacea clapped her hands quickly. <Very good!> she said as if praising a three-year-old. She held up another block. <”Tu.”>

He repeated the sound, and she clapped again. His eyes narrowed as he realized she was literally teaching him as if he were a toddler. His suspicion was verified a moment later when Alacea reached into her bag and handed him a thin, brown wafer.

“Look, thanks,” he said, reaching up to take a bite of the cookie. “But I’m not a child...” He stopped as he chewed. “This is amazing,” he said, looking down at the half-eaten cookie. The taste was hard to describe. It was nutty with an almost vanilla-ish taste.

She held up another block. <”Ga,”> she prompted.

“Ga,” he obediently repeated, finishing his cookie. He moved his legs, sitting in a more comfortable position in which to finish tonight’s lesson.

“Shotuga,” she put the sounds together while placing the “ga” block at the end of the other two. She held up another cookie. “Shotuga,” she said again. <Cookie.>

<Cookie,> he repeated.

Her ears flicked forward and back, and she clapped her hands again. <Good job!> She handed him the cookie, and he took it, biting into it immediately.