With the war underway, the Kashkin Air Force takes a leading role. Offworld, Anders takes shore leave to seek advice from his mate, Ambassador Lishad.

Alright, let's get back into the novel! After the front-line view of the last chapter, this one is a bit quieter. Tarashir, still at his job as a logistics consultant, sits helplessly as the air force is called upon. Anders, a CODA pilot worlds away, can't even do that--removed from flight status, he's just waiting to see what happens next. The focus here is on consequences, although the conflict itself is developing in the background--and that, of course, has its own implications... thanks to :iconSpudz: for his help with this, to all of you wonderful readers, and to my supporters on Patreon for keeping me writing. Speaking of which: Patreon subscribers, this should also be live for you with notes and maps and stuff.

Released under the Creative Commons BY-NC-SA license. Share, modify, and redistribute--as long as it's attributed and noncommercial, anything goes.

---

Crucible, by Rob Baird. Parts 12 & 13.

Spaceport Al-hass Hakh-Kin
Kashkin, Jericho
28.11.2560

“You should go home. Get some sleep."

Startled awake by the voice, Tarashir shook his head—although he was, in truth, tired enough that the movement made his vision swim briefly. “There's too much to do here, still. The data from the first… from yesterday, and…" He trailed off, looking around for anything that showed the time—fearful he'd already slept valuable hours away.

But it had only been a few minutes, and Runaki wasn't having any of it. “We can handle it. The major talked to our ordnance chief—we'll be fine for a bit." She nosed at his muzzle gently. “Go on. Please."

He relented. If nothing else, he was analytical enough to know that his ability to make sense of the data they did have would already be severely impaired. And it only took a few minutes to reach his apartment, if the maglev was running on time.

It was, and he found himself the only passenger. Tarashir focused on his computer, trying to keep from nodding off by looking at the most recent report. He'd been working for thirty hours before the fighting started. Another thirty-six later, the dog felt he could safely say the preparation had been worth it.

Thirty-seven sorties in the first day and a half. Three fighter-bombers lost—one downed by a missile barrage somewhere in the east, its pilot missing; the other two had at least made it back to the spaceport. He didn't know of any damage assessments, and it wasn't his place to question, but Major Dekakos ha'Sochek had taken a minute to thank him personally.

She'd seemed relieved, if anything. So was he.

But he couldn't relax. Anticipating supply shortages before they happened—before the air force ran out of ammunition or planes needed to be grounded for want of spare parts—would be critical as they expended their initial stocks and tried to determine what should be prioritized.

His roommate Senno was awake, and the wall of their living room was covered in projections—maps, news articles; notes written by Senno himself. The badger perked up: “You're back. How are things at the cosmodrome?"

“Busy. But well."

“Two Boreas lost, I heard."

“Three." Belatedly, he realized the number likely counted as sensitive information. “Where'd you hear that, anyway?"

Senno gestured towards the wall. “Amateur radio operators listening to traffic from Jericho, and some observers. I'd imagine you've been too busy with your work to follow the news, haven't you?"

“Yes. Really, I…" Tarashir sat heavily, and immediately became aware that he was not getting up again. Sleep would have to find him on the sofa. “I haven't thought of anything but trying to keep the supply lines working."

“You look exhausted. Should I bring you some tea? Breakfast?"

“I'd take breakfast," the dog admitted. “Or lunch, now. I wasn't expecting anyone here. Is your office closed? The shops are, I think, but…"

“To all non-essential employees, yes. And since most of the constabulary are OVKK reservists, there isn't anyone to listen to me even if I do go in." Senno got up, continuing the conversation on his walk to the kitchen. “I've just been here, trying to figure out what I can. It seems to be going well."

“Yeah?"

“According to the observers, we've cleared almost everything south of the Alph. Jackson and the Bodie Slope are the last holdouts. Starting to hear the lines in the east might break completely. Hard to know what's rumor and what isn't…"

Tarashir could offer no insight, but he listened, at least: bridging equipment was being moved out of Shadesh towards the Dun valley. Most of the sorties seemed to be directed to the east. Silver City's human occupants were said to be fleeing in a panic.

“The Kingdom is going to be the wild card," Senno continued. “They haven't yet taken any action officially. It seems like Jericho might be trying to provoke us into provoking them. Someone hit Salem with a few rockets overnight."

“Was anyone injured?"

“No, fortunately. We seem to have pushed the Jericho military back to new lines closer to Keizer. Compared to the east, though, it's a lot quieter—they're not starting fights like the militias do. I guess we don't want to tangle with the Sanganese if we don't have to."

“I can't blame us."

“I can't, either. The Kingdom's main outpost is incredibly well-guarded, according to all the analysis I've seen of it: overlapping air-defense coverage, directed-energy weapons—and their air force is in protected bunkers underground. If we don't have to contend with that…"

“Well…" He lost his train of thought. Senno loved digging up information, and whatever he said was probably accurate. If the fighting stayed contained, and Jericho's eastern front did collapse, then they could consider their objectives met. The war would be over. He—

Buzzing startled him. Buzzing, and the jarring awareness that the light had shifted and the projections covering the wall were gone. His communicator was going off. “Tarashir? It's Major Sochek."

“Ma'am?" His tongue felt thick in his muzzle, and his neck ached. According to the communicator, seven hours had elapsed since he'd returned to his apartment. Breakfast, resting on the coffee table in front of him, was long cold.

“Report back to the cosmodrome when you can—within the hour, if possible. We need your help."

Senno was nowhere to be found. Tarashir ate quickly and allowed himself fifteen minutes to shower: two to quickly soak himself and clean his fur; the balance to stand with the floor grates open and warm air working through his pelt. He put off thinking about what help Dekakos might need; he'd know soon enough, anyway.

The Rottweiler had a guard escort him to the spaceport's command center, which hummed with activity. Several of the OVKK's pilots were waiting—Runaki among them—and already wearing their flightsuits. Major Sochek promptly handed him a computer. “These were pulled based on your assessment. What does your model say about whether they can still be used?"

The collie mix looked over the reasons each Boreas had been withdrawn from service, and the maintenance history, and how long it would take to return them to operation. “These three are fine for a few more missions. This one… no. This one should be scrapped completely."

Sochek nodded. “That's eleven, sir."

She spoke to a tiger, whose uniform said 'Kochid.' Tarashir had never seen him before, but he recognized the name of the Kashkin Air Force's commander. General Kochid took the news thoughtfully. “Our stocks of KDR-2s?"

The major looked towards Tarashir, who kept most such figures in his head as a matter of course. KDRs were designed to penetrate 'hardened targets,' in military parlance. Reinforced landing pads, or earthworks—or protected bunkers, underground. “Thirty or so," he said quietly.

“It'll do," someone spoke.

Kochid's face tightened; the tiger had the look of someone troubled by the weight of judgments he was being called upon to make. “Agreed. Where are we on intel?"

The previous speaker—another stranger; Tarashir had never seen the husky before—stepped forward to hold up a computer. “The latest sachek coverage is twenty hours old, sir. The Kennel says all drones are occupied in the east. It'll be another twelve hours before we can get one aloft in that sector."

“Orbital?"

She shook her head. “No, sir. Nothing with decent resolution."

“We'll need aerial data, then. Do we have capacity for a reconnaissance flight?"

“I'll fly it. Sir," Runaki added, when General Kochid turned to look at her. “I can fly it, sir. I was a Boreas scout pilot before I came here, and my plane's standing by."

“I appreciate the initiative, captain, but you can't do that by yourself." One of the other pilots raised his own paw immediately. “Alright. We have surveillance pods, don't we? I know we've used them before."

Tarashir was still trying to process the swiftness with which Runaki had volunteered, and with which the offer had been accepted. He stammered, briefly considering what might happen if he disagreed. “Yes. Six. Uh, all of them… all of them were checked out last week and returned to storage. Equipment Bunker C, I think."

“Get them installed, Major Sochek. And antiradiation missiles on the second plane. Captain Runaki, I want a mission plan ready for my approval by the time the new equipment's installed. Shohalas will give you whatever information we have."

“Of course, sir."

Runaki and the husky left immediately; Major Sochek headed for the flightline along with the second pilot. General Kochid lingered for a moment, alone in the corner of the room with Tarashir. “How are we on supplies?"

Tarashir stared in the direction Runaki had gone. “Ah—general?"

“Dekakos said you were the civilian in charge of our logistical miracle. I didn't mean to speak so bluntly, as if I was giving you orders. What's your name, comrade?"

“Kalanja Tarashir, inana Kochid," he introduced himself. “My company has been helping, yes. Trying to, anyway. For supplies…" Tarashir shut his eyes. If Runaki could volunteer for such a mission, surely he could make himself focus on his own work. “As of this morning, we've used eight percent of our fuel reserves and forty percent of our stocks of the Shalat missile. We have about two hundred left, and another sixty of the original 9M660 we first purchased."

“Forty percent? That hurts to hear." Kochid's sigh was deceptively soft for the muscular tiger's massive bulk. “At least we've made good use of them. You should know how thankful I am for the work you've done—how thankful we all are. It's made this so much easier."

And, with a heavy pat to Tarashir's shoulder, Kochid went off after Captains Runaki and Shohalas, presumably to help them plan the sortie. He could not let himself think about how dangerous it would be. Instead he set himself to analyzing the numbers that had been coming in and matching them against his models.

Runaki poked her head through the office door, and stepped the rest of the way inside. “General Kochid's approved the plan for this mission. So, you know… I guess I'm flying this cycle, after all. Nice change of pace."

The standby pilots weren't expected to fly, not unless there were extenuating circumstances. Tarashir's ears splayed at her attempt to play it off. “I've heard about… I know what you're going to be doing," he settled on saying. “Just… be careful, Runaki."

“You know me," she replied.

He hugged the wolf, and gave her cheek a nuzzle. “That's why I said it. Promise me?"

“I can't. But I'll try my best to make it back so you don't have to worry, Kala. Your ears look better when you're not worried."

Tarashir let her go—he had no choice, after all. But the numbers in his models couldn't hold his attention. He tried, at least, to put his unease to good use. When—definitely when—the reconnaissance flight returned, the air force would start planning for another operation.

A larger one, obviously: eleven Kosturja would be the biggest single mission they'd flown. Clearly, the Sanganese were the target. What could he do to help? Check to see which of their countermeasure pods would be most suitable, and they had enough to equip all eleven aircraft. Minimize the time spent turning the Kosturja around, in case they needed to be thrown quickly into action against the other Jericho militias.

When he was ready, and the quiet of his office became too oppressive, he sought out the armoring team. Lieutenant Norris, a leopard whose thickly accented Rukhat betrayed his corporate origins, was in charge of the current shift. They were hard at work getting the planes ready, but he pulled one of his sergeants over and let Tarashir explain what would be needed.

“The next mission they're flying is with KDR-2s. We'll need all three of the chijun-class tractors for that, so I'd recommend you stage them forward."

Lieutenant Norris clicked his tongue. “The staging bunker doesn't have power lines rated for lifts that big, and we're not supposed to store any vehicles where they're not being charged."

That had been one of his recommendations, to minimize the time any of the field's equipment spent out of commission. Tarashir nodded. “I understand. Take it as a recommendation, though."

“Sir?" Norris looked to the young retriever, prompting her to keep talking. “What if we brought up the spare batteries, too? Those are charged already, and it's less than half a minute to hot-swap them."

“Perhaps, Sergeant Charral. Depending on inana Tarashir's advice…"

“It's a good idea." The soldiers' willingness to adapt to his proposals—and then, as they learned more about them, to come up with their own—had made streamlining immeasurably easier. “How long do you need to program the fuzes on the KDR-2?"

“I don't know. Nobody on my team has ever tried. For the most part, we only use these." Norris pointed to the rack of light missiles waiting to be taken to their aircraft. “We're qualled on the Shalat, and on the Type 24 rocket pods. We've never ever trained on the KDR-2."

The collie mix wasn't especially surprised: the Air Force only owned a few dozen of them, after all. He brought up the manual on his computer and set it down so they could all take a look at the parameters that would need to be programmed into the missiles.

“Is this right?" Sergeant Charral pointed to the data on the warhead. “Seven hundred kilograms?"

“Yes. It's designed for fortified targets."

“And we're using all of them? What are we attacking, sir?"

She asked Norris instead of Tarashir; the leopard shook his head. “Not our business to ask. We'll have to—"

The sound of his radio cut him off. “Operations to Lieutenant Norris." The voice belonged to Major Sochek herself.

“Speaking."

“I need your team in place to prep the next ready-element. Immediately—is that understood?"

“Yes, ma'am." Norris glanced at the computer, then to Sergeant Charral. “The current element won't time out for another three hours. Are we sortieing?"

On cue, the external speakers activated, beginning with the rising alarm tone that still gave Tarashir chills. “Ground crew, switch to contingency flight operation checklists and prepare the ready-element for departure. Search and rescue team, stand by for your launch hold release."

Norris flattened his ears. “Yassuja. We must've lost another plane. Charral, get to the hangar. I'll find the others."

“What about transferring these over to staging?" the retriever asked, gesturing to the missile racks.

“I can do that." Tarashir spoke impulsively, because it kept him from dwelling on what Norris had just said. “I drew up the guidelines, remember? I know where they're going. These, and the batteries, and the oxygen cartridges. All of it."

Lieutenant Norris paused only long enough to consider, and dispense with, protest at handing over his responsibilities to a civilian. “It'll have to do. Charral—move."

The loudspeaker announced that aircraft were being made ready for departure; he could hear their engines coming online. The collie mix knew the flight schedule, and he knew that with General Kochid preparing them for a big sortie there were only two planes currently aloft. At most.

He shoved the thought away. Get the tractor started. Good. Nothing looks wrong on the control panel. These twelve Shalat missiles go from here to the staging bunker. Simple. He could do nothing about what might or might not have happened to the reconnaissance flight.

He could check the magnetic locks that held the missile rack fixed to the front of the tractor. He could put it in drive and pull from the armory out onto the well-marked pathways that criss-crossed the field's buildings. He could focus on remembering which route led to the bunkers nearest the flightline, and ignore the sudden buzz of activity.

The search and rescue craft was a modified dropship, stripped of its orbital capacity in favor of more powerful atmospheric engines and new electronics to help locate downed crew and deflect any incoming fire. It still looked enough like a light transport that he managed, briefly, to pretend it was one when its bulky shape lifted off, headed northwest.

Both Kosturja followed shortly afterwards, engines at full, deafening throttle. Tarashir pulled to a stop in front of the bunker's closed blast doors, waiting. He recognized the soldier who approached—and, by the way her head canted, the corgi recognized him, too. “Where's Charral?"

“Given new orders. I offered to help out while they were busy."

And, even if she was surprised, the corgi could easily review the ordnance manifest and see that Shalat missiles were part of it. She tapped a small device on her wrist and the blast doors parted for him to enter. The soldiers inside, harried and focused on their own tasks, didn't bat an eye at the civilian's presence: as soon as he released the hold on the missile rack they had it removed and on its way to the staging zone.

The manifest called for fresh oxygen canisters, and enough spare battery packs to replace any that were below-spec when the warplanes were checked for the final time. Tarashir knew where those were kept; as soon as she heard that the corgi opened the doors again and sent him on his way.

As he scanned the serial numbers of the parts he loaded onto his tractor, Tarashir was briefly struck by the absurdity of it. He'd be reviewing a report on the Air Force's supply consumption that evening, or the following morning at latest. Somewhere in that list would be his own minuscule effort. Somewhere else would be the line items reflecting a lost Boreas. How many Kosturja did they have now?

How many pilots?

Scan the cartridge. Put it on the tractor. There. Two left. There wasn't enough room to carry the oxygen and the spare batteries in one trip, not safely. He drove back to the staging bunker, checked the items off on the corgi's manifest. Heard the speakers announce incoming aircraft. Left again.

He was handing over the batteries when Base Operations ordered Kostur 62's ground crew to the Boreas landing pads. And: “—short," said by one of the soldiers to the corgi who was coordinating activity in the bunker.

“Really?"

“By eight."

Tarashir didn't know who flew airframe 6662. Runaki still used frame 6658. The corgi was growling; tilting the manifest in his direction. “We miscalculated on the Shalats. We're eight short right now for the plan."

“Nan'tag," he heard himself say, without intending to. It will be done.

He drove to the armory in a daze, and stared at a pallet of missiles dumbly while the implications sank in. Each Shalat weighed ninety kilograms. Maybe someone will come help me. No—no, they won't. The maintenance crews are busy with the returning aircraft. He heard the sound of its approach. Only one: a Boreas, presumably Kostur 62; there was no sign of the SAR dropship or its escorts.

The tractor's crane was rated for three hundred kilograms. Tarashir had selected the model for that reason—before they hired his firm, the OVKK used an assortment of vehicles, all requiring different spare parts and maintenance cycles. The KMZ-70 had enough torque that it could be used to tow a Boreas, and power a winch capable of moving nearly all the munitions and equipment the OVKK used, while being suitably compact for the tight confines of the bunkers and storage facilities.

He remembered writing the proposal, a year before. The Air Force had been more excited about all the new pilots that needed training. Tarashir couldn't have guessed that one would catch his eye, too. Certainly, for all his forecasting and analysis, he couldn't have guessed what else would eventually come to pass.

He locked the tractor's wheels and switched the gravity compensator over so that it added rather than reduced effective mass, anchoring the machine in place and keeping the crane steady. Pushing away everything swirling in his head, he forced himself to make sense of the controls for the block, and the straps needed to secure the Shalat for movement.

Maneuvering the missile into place required precise control of the crane, concentration that he managed in spite of himself. By the time he was fixing the fifth missile to its transportation rack on the front of the tractor, that precision was starting to become routine. His thoughts nearly began to wander.

Footsteps, followed by Major Sochek's voice, spared him. “Moving those is a two-person job, according to the regulations. Your regulations, I might add, comrade Tarashir."

“Perhaps that's how I know it can be done alone."

“Dangerously, Tarrich. You know what we use these for, right?"

Tarashir laughed mirthlessly. “Yes. But this part's not dangerous. Not before they're fuzed—there's not a single record of a 9M660 going off just from being mishandled."

“Even still." The Rottweiler put her paw over his, guiding it away from the crane's controls and switching the tractor off. “The search and rescue team picked up Captain Runaki. She's at the hospital in Chadagh."

His tongue felt suddenly thick. “How is she?"

“Conscious and talking when the SAR team found her. Injured—shrapnel, I believe—but I don't know more than that, now. You should go."

“To Chadagh?"

“I told them you'd be on your way. And that Runaki would be happier to see you than anyone from the Hasskit."

The mutt lowered his ears. “Was it that obvious?"

“From you? No. But Hannich has a tendency to brag. Borrow one of the speeders from our motor pool, if you want. Consider it an approved use of our equipment—after all, perhaps Captain Runaki will be able to come back with you."

“I…" He swallowed a few times, though words were no easier to find. “They're expecting eight more Shalatja at staging. The plan came up short. I'm not sure why, but—"

“It was changed," she corrected him. “Based on preliminary intel from the flight."

“Well… they need eight more, then."

“That means there's only three left to load, right, comrade? And, apparently, it can be done with only one person. Don't make me a liar to the hospital staff, Tarrich."

When he found an available vehicle, he sat at the controls for several minutes until he had to admit he didn't trust himself to handle it in his current state. Even the walk to the maglev proved difficult; swirling emotions brooked a sense of vertigo in his step.

Chadagh General Hospital, unlike the rest of the city, thronged with ominous activity. Tarashir realized he didn't know how many casualties the OVKK as a whole had taken—the Air Force had been largely spared. It must've amounted to hundreds, and if they required more serious treatment Chadagh was the only facility equipped to handle them.

Captain Runaki was undergoing surgery when he arrived, or perhaps just out of it, or perhaps still waiting—the answers were conflicting, and nobody knew more about how she was faring. Whatever information the staff had, either they weren't worried or they didn't betray any of it to him.

So, he decided. So she's alive. I'll be able to see her again, and I'll tell her how terrified I was, how I couldn't even admit it to myself, how I should've spoken up—shouldn't have let her get away with just a joke about how she couldn't promise to take care of herself…

Eventually, when he was too exhausted to worry himself further, a uniformed nurse tapped him on the shoulder to summon his attention and directed the dog to a room on the hospital's third floor. It was, he noted, not one of the floors the elevator specified as reserved for critical care.

Runaki was alone, resting with her eyes closed. The wolf opened one halfway and then, catching sight of the collie, widened both. “Oh—Kala. It's good to see you…"

“It's very good to see you, too." He couldn't tell anything about her condition, or about the machine humming at her bedside, or the tubes and wires that snaked from it to the wolf's frame. He approached carefully, and pulled a chair up on the far side of the machine. “How do you feel?"

“Drugged," she answered. “So don't listen to me if I say I feel good. But I do."

“Dekakos didn't know anything about your condition. She just… thought I should visit. Well… ordered me to, really, but I would've gone anyway. Are you… will you be alright?"

“What I saw of my leg wasn't great." She tapped her left thigh; winced. “But it could be worse. The armor kept anything from spalling. I'll be up and walking in a day or so. What about the strike mission? Are they flying it?"

“Yes, I think. We were getting the planes ready when I left."

“Damnit. Do you know when it's scheduled for? I should be there."

“I'm not sure exactly, but I imagine it's probably sooner than 'a day or so.' You should stay here and recuperate."

Runaki curled her lip. “I should be with the—doctor," she raised her voice, and a passing white shepherd leaned in to the room. “When can I be discharged? The squadron is going to be short on manpower. Time is critical."

“You're in no condition to fly, ma'am. Ma'am," he repeated more insistently, to counter her muzzle when it opened to argue with him. “You came here unconscious. with a piece of shrapnel six millimeters from your femoral artery. We won't know if we got all the pieces out until the imagery comes back this evening. You're grounded."

“Get your supervisor," she growled. The shepherd sighed, shook his head in frustration, and left them. “These doctors, you know…"

“Up and walking in a day or so?" Tarashir swallowed heavily. He found that his ears were pinned; her growl had sounded muffled and muddy. “Runaki, please. If they say you can't fly, maybe the risk isn't…"

“Isn't what? Worth it?" Runaki stared at him through narrowed eyes. “Of course it is, Kala. What's at stake is more important than any one of us. I can't just abandon the squadron when they need me."

“They need you alive, though. I need you alive."

“You knew what was going to happen," the wolf pointed out. “You knew I was a fighter pilot, and something like this was inevitable. Or… you should've known. It's my risk to take, Kala."

He couldn't bring himself to look at her, staring past at the blank wall. “I knew where you were going. I'd seen some of the reports, and when you volunteered I… I wanted to say something. But I didn't. That is your risk to take. I know. I told myself I would be able to accept whatever happened. But…"

“But?"

“I thought, when they sent the search plane out, that I wouldn't see you again. I didn't realize I was trying to make peace with that until I came here. Or… or, maybe, I didn't realize I couldn't make peace with that until I knew I didn't have to. I…"

“Kala. Sacrifices are part of this…"

“I know." He met her eyes, which had softened—though not by much. “I won't stop you. But I also won't lie if you ask whether I wish I could stop you."

“Captain Runaki?" another doctor—this one human, he was surprised to see—entered the room. “I'm told you wanted to speak to me?"

“I need a reevaluation. When can I return to flying?"

“We don't know. Weeks, perhaps. I understand you might desire something different, but there's no way any of us can sign off on sending you back without violating our professional duty. In this case, that happens to outweigh yours. I'm sorry."

“I can't just watch my country fight from a hospital bed."

“I'm sorry," he repeated. The answer hung for several long seconds. “Is this your mate?" the doctor finally asked.

“Yes," Runaki said, while Tarashir was still absorbing the question.

“You've got your work cut out for you," the human told him. “But if you want to help us, keep her from doing anything reckless until it's actually part of her job again."

“She can be… willful."

“Pilots often are. And their judgment is… questionable. That's why we need to look out for them. I'll let you know when we have the test results back, Captain Runaki," he finished. “Take care, both of you."

“I guess I should…" the wolf began at last, after an uncomfortable silence when the doctor had left them alone. “I don't know. 'Admit'? 'Say out loud'? I can't really my use my leg. I don't know if it's the drugs, or the surgery, or what. But I suppose they're right."

“For now."

“The only time that matters. I guess you must've felt as helpless back at base as I do now, huh?"

“I think so."

“How did you manage?"

“Told myself that I trusted you. And that I'd live with trusting you, whatever the consequences turned out to be."

“I was ready for other consequences." She went silent again, and sighed. “Do you need to go back to work, Kala?"

“Maybe."

“You can."

“I need to look out for you. Doctor's orders," he reminded the wolf.

She took one of his paws in hers, and squeezed. “I'll be here. Don't worry."

---

FOB Hannover bus station
Torstenberg suburbs, BBKI, Tycho
29.11.2560

The news in the transit station at Hannover was moderately upbeat: after months of intense fighting, the Galton National Movement wanted to come to the table. Negotiations could begin within days, according to the anchor. Some of the people waiting seemed to be paying attention, although Anders couldn’t gauge their mood.

He did, though, know that it wasn’t true. The battalion’s political officer had briefed them only a few days earlier on the topic: that the GNM was buying time while they looked for more powerful outside supporters to supply them with materiel and legitimacy. Task Force Whiskey 7-2 would, therefore, remain in orbit. CODA was still conducting operations against the Galtonians, after all.

But Anders was not. Removed from the flight roster, the husky had stewed for a few orbits and then decided to put in for leave; now he was on the surface, with a ticket for the bus that would take him from Hannover to Torstenberg, twenty kilometers away. Ambassador Enadun Rualishad lived there, and said that she’d be happy to see him.

All the same, he checked in at FOB Hannover, a Yucatec outpost in Kupferthaler territory, and confirmed that the base had temporary housing available. Much as he looked forward to seeing the white shepherd again, Anders had his doubts. Lishad was no doubt busy, and the husky would be just one more bit of stress she didn’t need.

When he got to her apartment, though, she showed none of it. Lishad smiled warmly, and wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug. “I’ve missed you, Kettich,” the shepherd said, before burying her nose in the fluff of his neck.

She was the only one to use his Rukhat name—Ralketilla Khaskolja. Hearing it no longer sounded strange to him; he nuzzled her between the ears, and gave one a soft lap. “Same to you, Lishad. I don’t know how to politely say that I’m sure you must be… busy.”

“Like that.” She let him go with a final lick to his nose. “It’s true, of course, though it’s just as true that I benefit from the distraction of company. What brings you to the surface, anyway, Kettich? You were here only last month.”

“The same thing that distracts you. I’ve been grounded, as of yesterday.”

“Was it because of your association with me?”

He shook his head. “I thought so, at first, but it’s not so limited. Every moreau in the task force was removed from active duty. Just in case,” he added, without bothering to hide his bitterness. He used the human word, moreau, rather than the Rukhat term. “Nobody is certain how long it’ll be for.”

“You surmise that they don’t trust you.”

It hardly required any surmising when they’d been so blunt about it, though. Lishad stroked his side gently at that explanation, and excused herself briefly following a whistling from elsewhere in her apartment. She returned, setting a teapot aside to steep. “And… with you? Your trust…”

“I trust you.” The shepherdess patted the sofa next to her, bidding him to take a seat. As soon as he’d settled in, she leaned against the husky. “I know that isn’t what you meant. The Kashkin’s decision has made my life more difficult in some ways. But only some. The BBKI was not especially surprised, but… it put them in an awkward position.”

Lishad served officially only as ambassador to the Kupferthal Coalition, but he understood what she was implying. The declaration of war he’d seen came via the BBKI, because the Kashkin still lacked any formal ties with its Yucatec ancestors. The BBKI—itself home to any number of mining outposts—now had to explain why its ally was threatening assets belonging to half the Alliance’s largest companies.

That burden fell on Lishad and her assistant, a young Border Collie named Rukalkolja Nakhota. He’d missed seeing her on his last few visits, but he managed to draw her name from memory easily when she made an unexpected appearance at Lishad’s door, interrupting the pair’s conversation. “You look well, Nakhota.”

If slightly older, perhaps, for her youthful exuberance had been tempered either by circumstance or tiredness. She hugged him anyway. “You also, Kechka. I scarcely believed it when the ambassador told me you’d be visiting.”

“A bit of luck, I guess,” he offered, by way of weak explanation.

“Very much so. I’m sorry I had to disturb you two.”

“Do you have news, Kolyushku?” Lishad asked. Nakhota’s name took an unusual diminutive—Russian, Anders thought, rather than the traditional Rukhat form. Many of the Kashkin’s habits were mysterious to the husky.

Back to business, the collie nodded quickly. “Yes. It’s about your meeting tomorrow, with the transportation guild. They say they’re not certain it’s a good idea, not until the ‘complexities’ have been resolved. They have concerns.”

“Did they name any?”

“No, comrade. Not to me, at least.”

“I need to call them, then. Comrade Peterson must be under pressure from…” Lishad trailed off, her ears swinging back and her expression briefly open in its exhaustion. “I don’t know. I don’t know where from. I just know we can’t really afford to lose our contacts with the guild. I’m sorry, Anders—I need to attend to—”

He nosed her firmly. “Of course. Take all the time you need.”

Nakhota gave the ambassador a computer with the details she’d require, and the shepherd excused herself. The other room’s door slid shut with a solid thump, and Anders saw that the glass glittered with isolation circuitry. “Do you know how long she might be, comrade? I can give you space to work.”

“I can’t do much, Kechka,” she admitted. “We’re just waiting, and I’d… honestly, I’d rather not be alone.”

“You must be under a lot of stress…”

“Maybe. I’m trying to keep busy, or distracted. I don’t really know how to interpret the information coming from the Observatory. About the war. It’s worrying.”

Anders nodded. “I haven’t really heard any news, to be honest. I was told only that a large-scale attack was underway. I know that… ah…” the husky didn’t finish the sentence, debating how much he should tell the young dog.

Lishad hinted often that Anders’ talents would be useful in the Kashkin, and he would be among his own kind. And so, humoring her, he’d set out to learn everything he could about her homeland, and their human neighbors. CODA’s information proved to be fragmentary—after decades supporting the human colonies, they’d finally given up.

Eventually he pieced enough together, though. If Lishad had suggested he give up flying and immigrate simply to enjoy his newfound citizenship, the argument might’ve been more persuasive. From the perspective of his own utility, though… from that perspective, it seemed all but futile.

Arcadia’s military, in total, outnumbered what the Kashkin could field four or five times over. The Hasskit—Kashkin’s air force—flew only Soviet fighter-bombers, not dropships, and he wasn’t qualified for those. “I know the OVKK has been preparing, and also that your foes are… well-equipped. Nothing more about what that means.”

“But you’re smart. You know how military tactics work, right?”

“I suppose. A little bit, at least.”

The collie girl swallowed, licking her muzzle nervously. “So you could give me your opinion, if I asked? I mean, the dispatches are… lightly classified, but you’re one of us, aren’t you?” She pulled a tablet from her purse and handed it to him before he could answer. “The Observatory warned us that there was a counterattack, towards the east. I’m from Shadesh, you know?”

Nakhota indicated the town in the southeastern Kashkin. Anders knew it had been the site of a major battle in the war for independence, one that ended with the near-complete annihilation of Shadesh’s defenders and the leveling of the town itself. “It’s under attack again?”

“I don’t know. The dispatches say we stopped the attack, but I haven’t been able to get in touch with my family, or any of my packmates in the OVKK. So maybe they’re just saying that so we look stronger than we are.”

He was looking at a set of messages spaced three hours apart, transmitted in batches from the Foreign Ministry. As Nakhota explained, light commentary had been appended to each explaining the state of the conflict in its broadest strokes. Major attack towards Dun Valley underway, and then: attack by Arcadian irregulars contained.

The more he switched from one dispatch to the next, though, the more little details emerged. Airstrikes directed not against the ‘irregulars’ but further north, behind enemy lines. Supply caches being shifted forward, and what he took to be the OVKK’s reserve occupying new positions in the hills well to the east of Shadesh.

“Oh, my God,” he breathed. Nakhota spoke English only as a second or third language; he tried to force himself back into Rukhat. “Yassuja—ilkoratasa ninat, saldazananag…”

The collie’s ears pinned. “What? What can’t you believe?”

Her expression lay halfway between panicked and pleading. Anders found he was still struggling for words, not merely to reassure her but to explain what he was looking at. “It says that the attack was ‘contained.’ But that’s not it. Bridging equipment… mobile infantry… these suppression strikes being assessed from last night? This note here, about a forward logistics base?”

He had to use English for some of the more technical terms, instead of Rukhat, and Nakhota had difficulty following. “I don’t—”

“They’re planning an invasion.”

“Who is?”

“The Kashkin. Arcadia’s military has been obliterated on your side of the Alph River. If they cross it, there’s nothing stopping them from pushing all the way into the eastern highlands. Do you know…” Anders stared at the Rukhat letters. “Elhasar—mother? ‘Pack-mother’ Sanuk Kara?”

“Marshal tankovykh voysk Sanuk. Um—‘general,’” she finally managed the English word. “General Sanuk. Comrade Sanuk was the commander at Shadesh in the independence war. Is she… did something…”

The husky had to wonder if that history explained Sanuk’s aggressiveness. “She’s trying to get into position to hit Silver City. I don’t see how they’ll hold out more than a day or two once that starts.”

Nakhota licked at her muzzle again—clearly still not quite understanding. “Then… Shadesh is safe?”

“Yes. I can say that for certain.”

The collie took her computer back from him, staring at the screen. She didn’t seem to be reading it; her paws were trembling. Presently the tablet fell from her grasp. She choked out a few Rukhat words her state made unintelligible and began to sob in quiet, uneven gasps.

“Nakhota? What’s the matter?”

She shook her head. When she closed her eyes, a moment later, Anders put an arm around her carefully. Nakhota collapsed against his side, and muffled herself with her muzzle buried in his shoulder.

Several minutes went by like that, until at last her shoulders stopped hitching and she brought her breathing back under some semblance of control. He nosed the collie’s folded ear gently. “Kolyushku?”

“I… it’s just… my family, and… and they haven’t told us anything, and…”

And instead of news, she’d had only the need to carry out her duties to the Commonwealth. Anders knew from experience how chaotic the front must’ve been, given how quickly everything developed. The collie girl did not have that experience. He hugged her gently. “It’ll be alright. General Sanuk is doing a good job of keeping you safe.”

“She would.” Nakhota sniffled. “Comrade Sanuk is a hero to me. To all of us ha’Shadeshja.”

“Then you can trust her.” He got only a weak nod in response, but she seemed to have calmed down from her relieved outburst. Anders squeezed the collie’s side and said nothing, waiting for Nakhota to speak.

She did not. Lishad returned, fifteen or twenty minutes later, to find Nakhota leaning heavily on the husky, eyes closed. The ambassador cocked her head. “What happened?”

“She asked for my opinion on the fighting. Particularly the eastern front.”

The shepherdess knew what had happened immediately. “Ah. Her family lives in Shadesh. They work closely with the farmers in that valley.”

“I know. I remember she mentioned it, when we first met.”

Lishad nodded. “She’s been understandably concerned. I’m sorry if she imposed. Nakhota, you can’t expect Anders to have answers for everything.”

Nakhota didn’t speak. “She might have fallen asleep. And… it wasn’t an imposition. I did what I could to reassure her.”

“Kolyushku?” Lishad tried again. Her voice softened. “I see. Perhaps if you…”

When she motioned for him to rise, Anders carefully extracted himself from the collie. Nakhota stirred, but as he guided her down onto the sofa she only mumbled wordlessly, and that stopped when she was flat on her back.

Lishad draped a blanket over her aide, and patted her forearm gently. “She hasn’t slept in a few days. It was more difficult for her than… it should’ve been.” The shepherdess indicated her bedroom with a jerk of her muzzle, and Anders followed along.

“Than it should’ve been?”

“Than it was reasonable to expect for someone in her position. Arcadia had two days to respond to the ultimatum we gave them. We knew that they wouldn’t do so, but the details of their own preparations aren’t clear to me. And we’re not strategists, either; it’s difficult to interpret those dispatches. All I know is that we were told to expect retaliation in the southeast, and that everyone from Shadesh to the border might need to be evacuated.”

“Was Nakhota’s pack informed? Or do you not know?”

“I’m sure they weren’t. That would have revealed what we were planning.”

“I hope…” Any way of phrasing it sounded trite; meaningless. “I hope that her family is safe. I’m sorry that you’ve been put in this position.”

Lishad squeezed his arm. “I’m sorry you’ve been put in yours.”

“Part of the territory, I guess.” Abruptly he sighed. “Should I… should I be there? Do you think I should be there—helping you? Fighting for you? Instead of wondering whether CODA will even let me back in the cockpit?”

“They will. They’ll apologize to you, too.”

“Somehow, I doubt that.”

The shepherdess smiled, and leaned into him. “I don’t. Anders, I’ve said before, and I’ll say again, that there’s always a place for you in the Kashkin… if you want it. But you don’t have to be an ambassador for us. The Alkosh is not an obligation. If it doesn’t call to you, it doesn’t call to you.”

The Alkosh was a mythological, metaphorical song—it was said all moreaus could hear it, beckoning them to the Kashkin. Anders had always been skeptical. He wished her blunt conclusion was easier to internalize—that the politics of the Commonwealth didn’t seem so alien and distant to him, and that the distance didn’t seem like such a condemnation.

He intended to press the question, but it would have to wait. Lishad had a few hours of work to do, she said; Anders took the bus back to Hannover rather than taking in the sights in Torstenberg.

Tourism was something best enjoyed with company. Without that, he needed something familiar, and the district surrounding the spaceport was as good a shot as any. He glanced at neon lights, and picked the sign that called out most to him.

The right kind of bar, he decided as soon as he’d entered: the food was cheap, and the music was mid-century punk: not the Alkosh, perhaps, but whatever its equivalent was for CODA veterans. The rear hatch of a Jackal adorned one wall—he saw signatures on it, although not clearly enough to read them. Anders ordered himself a tonic water and a hamburger that proved reassuringly greasy.

“Where’re you in from?” the bartender asked—speaking fluent, unaccented English, not German; there were more Yucatec than Kupferthalers around the spaceport, Anders surmised. It was still early in the evening, and the bar was only half-full. “Came into Hannover, I’m sure, but you ain’t from here…”

“I landed in Hannover, yeah. Ordinarily I’m from… wherever, I guess.” He pointed towards the ceiling with his finger, waving to hint at the orbital track of the task force.

“Ah, Whiskey 7-2. You’re with the good guys, huh?”

“Well, we like to think so.”

The answer satisfied the bartender, although he didn’t seem interested in making further conversation with a dog. When his food arrived, the husky ate slowly, enjoying… yeah, you are enjoying yourself, he decided. It’s relaxing to have an afternoon to yourself without being shot at, or yelled at, or stared at, or…

A big screen behind the bar was tuned, for the moment, to the local news for their sector. The weather was forecast to be seasonally pleasant; extra autobusses were being added to the route between Torstenberg and a nearby lake. Torstenberg’s football team had advanced to the semifinals that would decide who represented Tycho in the sector’s championship.

Briefly, an interview with someone from the BBKI’s government followed, expressing guarded optimism that Galtonian peace overtures would bear fruit. Anders shook his head dismissively, and barely caught the anchorwoman’s transition: —here, but elsewhere tensions have more than reached a breaking point.

The screen showed a city at night, with intermittent strobes bursting to one side. Some of the lights flickered too eerily to be natural: fires, burning out of control on the town’s outskirts. You’re looking at Silver City, on Jericho—where, three days ago, a secessionist enclave of moreaus declared war on neighboring Arcadia. Hundreds are dead, and countless thousands have been displaced.

At ‘displaced,’ the news presented a road crowded past the point of immobility with passenger vehicles and trucks. For most of today, the Arcadian government denied rumors that Silver City and its 160,000 residents had become vulnerable. As night fell, though, a broadcast declared the town to be an ‘open city,’ provoking a mass exodus as panicked Arcadians sought shelter further north.

Officials for the autonomous commonwealth, calling itself the ‘Kashkin,’ insist that they were left no other choice. He recognized the inside of Lishad’s apartment. The white shepherdess spoke calmly, her expression level and her eyes soft. “Of course: we all desire peace. This has come as the consequence of years of undeclared conflict—threats to our lives and livelihoods.” A brief cut. “Desiring peace can’t mean surrending our right to defend ourselves.”

That, the newswoman took back over, was Enadun Rualishad, ambassador to the BBKI from the Kashkin. Within the Yucatec, though, were expressions of skepticism and solidarity with the besieged Arcadians. Some—

“Hey. Mutt.”

The man who’d suddenly appeared, leaning on the bar next to him, was clearly drunk. “Anders,” the dog said. “My name is Anders.”

“You a soldier? Attack dog?” The man bared his teeth—or tried to.

He couldn’t tell how belligerent the newcomer was, but in his current state Anders felt he could take the man on no matter how aggressive he became. That made him willing to rise to the bait. “Guard dog.”

“Hear you’re good at that.” He looked towards the screen, now showing footage from earlier in the day: burnt wrecks that only Anders’ training let him identify as the remains of Denel-built mechs. Jackals, like the one that had contributed its hatch to the bar’s decor. “You good at it?”

“I try. Before I get too old to learn new tricks.”

The man chuckled thickly. “CODA? I bet you got a hell of a growl on ya. Don’t you?”

He did not feel like growling. He did, however, curl his lip. Baring teeth, he found, could sometimes be persuasive on its own when the disorderly felt like causing trouble. Many of them feared uplifted animals as a threat, while simultaneously believing them to be incapable by design of violence—as, he knew, did more than a few moreaus. A glint of canines dispensed with that contradiction, and sometimes they’d back off.

But this case, the drunk roared with laughter. “I knew it. Yes. Must be a good attack dog, sure enough. And you fuck those Galton bastards up, don’t you? Christ, what I wouldn’t give to see you…” he stumbled over his words and tried again. “See y’all get sic’ed on ‘em. You the only one?”

“The only moreau? There’s a few others. Not in my unit, though.”

“You bite ‘em? Bite any gnomes?”

That was the colloquial shorthand for members of the Galton Nationalist Movement. Not one, Anders expected, that came from the GNM itself. “I’m a pilot.”

“You bite any, you tell ‘em they can complain to me.” He tapped his chest unsteadily. “Tell ‘em I said you should. And I think—I think that…”

When he swiveled to point towards the viewscreen, he nearly lost his balance. Another human caught him. “Go sit down, Jörg.”

“I’m making friends!”

“I bet you’re not. Sit down,” the man repeated. Jörg took the hint in his stronger tone and stumbled back to the booth where an abandoned jacket hinted he’d been lurking. “He works an earlier shift at the cosmodrome—if he gets bored, sometimes he’s been here drinking for four or five hours before anybody else shows up. Jörg’s harmless, though. Mostly.”

Anders shrugged. “I’ve heard worse.”

“I haven’t seen you before, though. Are you new in town? From the shipping company or something, I guess.” He shrugged, too, at the sideways look Anders gave him. “It’s just logical. Them and the Defense Authority are the only big Yucatec employers, and like I said—haven’t you before.”

“You’re with CODA?” The man gestured to a few people—his friends, probably, drinking further down the bar—and then to the Jackal hatch mounted to the wall. Anders weighed his choices, slipped a paw into his jacket pocket, and let the heavy way it dropped, and the clink of metal hitting the bar before he pulled his paw back, serve as his next move.

“Oh, fuck. Fuck me. Jane?” he called towards the group. “Jane, I need help.”

The rest, four in total, followed her when she made her way over. A lanky woman with pale skin, her intense eyes flashed when she saw what was going on, and even fangless she grinned with nearly the same kind of danger that Anders could manage. “You’re out of luck this time, Flint. Coin check!”

Jane—and Flint’s other companions—produced tokens. When the bartender was summoned, Anders briefly considered another tonic water before ordering a beer instead. Grunting in resigned frustration, Flint handed over a payment chip and then turned to examine the husky’s coin. “Anzio? I didn’t know they were even here.”

“They’re not. I’m with the 61st Spaceborne now, on the Tassafaronga. This was two years back,” he explained. “The Porto thing.”

“Porto?” Another soldier leaned in where Anders could see him. “Before or after?”

“After. Just after. The 61st was in for replenishment at Chimali, and sector command pulled all the dropships they could—packed a fleet carrier full, jumped us in, and parceled us out across the task force.”

“You’re a pilot?”

He nodded. “Peregrines. I flew resupply into Porto for about two weeks, until the Saratoga showed up. I got this here”—he held up the coin, and then slid it back into his pocket—“when they sent us back to the 61st. You, too? You were on the Anzio?”

“Not that lucky. Maintenance battalion, in the 4th Division—back then, at least. We were on loan to the depot, patching Jackals… joking about how the mortar attacks were getting more intense. Y’know, ‘better finish up quick and get outta here.’ Two days before we rotated, that lighter got crashed into the field. I have to say,” he added, looking to the others. “If you’re gonna declare you’re ‘exterminating every foreign invader’ at a base, that’s a dramatic way to get things started.”

The bartender had returned; Flint distributed the beers and used the opportunity to ask a question. “Couldn’t you have just glassed ‘em from orbit?”

“It was supposed to be quiet. That’s why they had to scramble to pull a task force together. Those supply drops… shit, I thought those were something before I knew they were using dogsled teams.” He held out his hand to the husky. “My name’s Miguel. Thanks for saving our asses. It must’ve sucked.”

“Anders,” he said in kind, and took the offered handshake. “It was not the most fun I’ve had, trust me. But I’m sure you had it worse.”

Jane swallowed quickly, clearing her throat so she could speak up. “He’s lying, Miguel. He loved it. You loved it,” she accused the dog directly, fixing him in a sharp stare. “Dropship pilots are all batshit crazy. I don’t know who let marines fly, but it was a bad idea.”

“Ain’t you a pilot, too, Jane?” Flint asked.

“Yeah, so what? I fly Mackinaws. They’re not as exciting as a Peregrine, but you know what they can do?” Her glare deepened, though Anders caught the glint in it—the rivalry was old, and mostly fond. “Carry fifteen times the cargo without being on fire while they do it.” The CHS-18 was a larger transport: one of the largest embarked vehicles CODA operated—often more practical, and decidedly more sedate.

“If you’re willing to wait,” Anders teased. “Are all of you stationed here?”

They were, it turned out: all of them served in the same logistics battalion, which handled CODA’s operations in Hannover. They were interested to hear from someone in the 61st Spaceborne—someone who had direct experience in the fighting on Tycho. Someone who could confirm, with a shake of his head, that it wouldn’t get better any time soon.

None of them asked about Jericho, or the Kashkin—if they even knew the name. He waited, but the question never came. Jane got the closest, towards the end of another conversation about flying dropships. “So… you know. Question. You’re a dog, right? I’ve been wondering for, like… years.” She paused before settling on that, and Anders suspected the exact length of time had gone fuzzy with the evening’s progression of alcohol. “About y’all.”

He leaned against the bar, giving her the benefit of the doubt and confining his reaction to a blank, dry expression. “Go on…”

“How… how much dog are you? You started out as a dog.”

“Yeah. As long as I can remember.”

“But I mean… physically?” He stared at her until she explained further. “In flight school, there was a dog. I heard the instructor say that she wouldn’t train him because they don’t see so good? So I wondered, like… do you hear dog whistles? I wanted to ask, but he washed out for other reasons and it didn’t seem polite.”

That was not really the direction Anders had envisioned her line of inquiry taking. He shrugged, and softened his features. “Some of the older dogs didn’t have great visual acuity, but AGMC changed that… decades back, now. Just a stereotype, that’s all. I’m not colorblind, either.”

“Huh. Well, that makes sense. They wouldn’t let you fly Peregrines otherwise.” She downed the rest of her beer. “Wait—one more question. I don’t want to be racist or whatever, but we don’t have any 2130s in the unit. And you’re being patient.”

“I figured it would be good to be patient around a lighter jockey. You Mackinaw captains probably need things a little slow…”

Jane rolled her eyes. “Anyway. Were they assholes about the shedding in basic? I could definitely see your DI deciding to be an asshole about making sure your uniform didn’t have any hair on it.”

“I never let it happen,” he lied—quickly enough that she caught the lie, as he’d intended. “So I wouldn’t know.”

“And you’re one of us now, right?”

“Right.” Anders laughed. “I’m one of you.”

And he found that he believed it. When he returned to Lishad’s apartment, she noticed the change in his mood immediately. The shepherdess smiled when he related the encounter in the bar. “You enjoyed their company,” she said.

“Yes.” Anders paused. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

“Why do you seem so hesitant now?”

“Because… even if I enjoyed it, it doesn’t change what you’re dealing with, does it? It doesn’t make the humans on Jericho any less hostile to you. They’d be hostile to me, too.”

“Yes,” Lishad agreed. “But they’re also hostile to one another. As we are, sometimes. I know it’s a little different, but that part isn’t a unique burden.”

“You said that perhaps the Alkosh might not call to me. If it doesn’t, though… if it doesn’t, then what does that make me?”

“Your own person, with your own destiny. You will always be nakath, Kettich, whether you live in the Kashkin or not. You don’t need to prove that to me. You don’t need to prove that to anyone.” He opened his muzzle to argue and she rapped his nose sharply. “Tomorrow. Tomorrow, Kettich. For now, come to bed. It’s late.”

He woke to the sound of his communicator going off. The bed was empty, although he dimly heard Ambassador Lishad’s voice from her den. He answered the page, lapping sleep from his muzzle so he could speak clearly. “Go ahead?”

“Mr. Anders,” the deep voice asked. “You’re a Peregrine pilot, right?”

“Ah. Yes?”

“You’re to report to FOB Hannover immediately. We’ve sent a vehicle for you.”

He shut his eyes and forced himself to concentrate. “I don’t even have my flightsuit.”

“It’ll be provided. The car’s already waiting.”

Anders signed off; he couldn’t imagine what would be so incredibly pressing, but if they were paging him… well. Figure it out on the way, he decided, and went to at least tell the driver he needed a minute to grab his belongings before they knocked and disturbed Lishad’s work.

With his feet jammed hastily into his boots, he made his way to the front door of the complex, where he could see the CODA-badged scout car at the curb just outside. He was fastening his coat when the door slid open, and the husky found himself blinking in surprise. “Emily?”

Sergeant Multani grinned. “Morning. How’s it going?”

“I’m not sure anymore.”

“Mr. Anders, I have to inform you…” It was the same deep baritone as the one on the communicator. Jonas Walden, his Peregrine’s assistant gunner, appearing from behind Multani, coughed and switched back into his normal voice. “Sergeant Multani put me up to it.”

“What are you two doing here?”

“Checking in on you. This is a nice neighborhood. The transient barracks at Hannover are kind of… well, you remember—we’ve stayed here before. One of the locals said a Peregrine pilot was down at the bar last night, though.”

“Yeah… I’m not hungover or anything. I’m guess they don’t really need a pilot, do they? Any word on when I might get reinstated?”

Emily exchanged glances with Corporal Walden, then snickered. “You missed out, my friend. You’ve been back on flight status since about thirty minutes after your transport took off. Major Kinsey just thought you should enjoy your leave.”

“What happened?”

“Lieutenant Frazee,” Walden said. “For one, that happened.”

He finished buttoning his jacket. “What’d the LT do?”

From Sergeant Multani’s laugh, it must’ve been something to witness. “Petitioned Planning Ops for an emergency reevaluation of the platoon’s ATAQ. That got us scrubbed. And did you know ATAQ reclassifications go to the XO with the battalion commander already on copy?”

“Wade must’ve been unhappy. Who with? Me? Frazee?”

“Wade was unhappy,” Emily confirmed. “Frazee, on the other hand, was fucking pissed. Like, your-mom-is-too-angry-to-even-yell-at-you pissed. Kucharski and I watched her go to the XO when he called her down. We couldn’t hear anything—but two minutes later Major Kinsey leaves, looking like if he can’t find somebody to shove into a torpedo tube he’ll take the out himself.”

“The way we heard it,” Walden added. “There was a conference call between Wade, the PISS-OFF, the task force ops officer, and somebody from the sector S3 department. They wanted to know about the operational impact of losing thirty qualified marines and sailors throughout Whiskey 7-2. Sherman wound up being… very unpopular.”

“Nobody told me any of this.”

“Like I said: Major Kinsey thought you’d want the time off. And since we’re scrubbed, too, I figured maybe we’d see how you were doing. Morning, ambassador,” Multani said, nodding politely; the shepherdess had joined them, trying to figure out what was going on. “Ambassador Lishad, this is Corporal Jonas Walden. We fly with Anders here.”

“A pleasure. Are you well, Sergeant Multani?”

Emily laughed. “Surprised you remembered my name. We’re doing good, yeah. Thought we might borrow him for a bit, one of these days.”

Anders cocked his head. “I thought you were off-duty.”

“Yeah. But there’s a RPA ’58 tournament this afternoon, down at the base. They were bragging about some trophy or another, so Walden told ‘em I was the best player in the platoon.”

“Pointed out,” Corporal Walden added. “I just pointed out what’s true.”

“Only if I have the right partner. That’s you—spec into support and we’re unstoppable; you know that. And Jonas and I, we thought… well…” Emily turned towards Lishad. “But not if you already have plans.”

“It does sound important,” the ambassador said, smiling. “And the afternoon is busy for me already. I’m sure Anders has told you that my life has become more exciting, lately. Nearly as exciting as yours. You might consider their offer, Kettich.”

“It’s just a game.” Although, even as he said it, Anders realized the likelihood that Multani had wagered something on the outcome. She could be highly competitive. “It is just a game, right, sergeant?”

“And honor,” Emily countered. “The honor of the Tassafaronga is at stake.”

“So it is important. Besides which: they’re your pack, Anders.” Lishad had switched from English into Rukhat for that further explanation, and stuck with it when she patted his arm affectionately. “You have to stick with your pack—what else would it mean to have one, otherwise?”

“‘Important’ is a matter of degree,” he answered, in her own language.

“I know. And personal. So, too, is understanding where one belongs. As you keep asking.”

He tried to listen for the Alkosh and realized he was already hearing it. Lishad had been trying to tell him that. “Alright, alright. I’m in.”