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In this interstitial chapter, the Kashkin Commonwealth picks up the pieces from the brief, fierce opening battles of their struggle for independence. A fragile peace holds as they try to figure out what will come next...

Things are quieter in this chapter, which are intended to set the stage for the final part of the novel--which was originally just one chapter, but I've now split into two. I'll post those fairly close together, like I did the first two chapters. Thanks for your support, and I hope you enjoy it.

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

Aux Armes, by Rob Baird — Ch. 3, "For the Love of One's Country"

***

Come, all ye young rebels, and list' while I sing

For the love of one's country is a terrible thing

It banishes fear with the speed of a flame

And it makes us all part of the patriot game

— Dominic Behan, “The Patriot Game"

Chadagh, Kashkin

8/11/2537

Around two-thirds of the staff at Chadagh General Hospital were humans. Altalanuk had been surprised at first, but Khalizai provided the explanation: plenty of corporations owned moreaus, and those moreaus needed to be maintained by experts with knowledge of their unique physiology.

For obvious reasons, most of those experts were human beings like their employers. And many of them, having been trained as healers, were inclined to take a dim view of moreau ownership. Working in the Kashkin served as a sort of penance. Not all of them would stay when they were no longer needed, and almost none spoke more than a few words in Rukhat.

But they did their job with effective, efficient professionalism. “You're General Altalanuk?" the human asked, using her Kashkin-given title. “She's awake, but her level of awareness is still rather erratic. Please try to avoid stressing her."

“Of course."

She hadn't been 'warned,' exactly, but that was the closest word for the summary the Ibizan received on Lieutenant Colonel Sanuk Kara's condition. The samoyed had lost most of her right arm, and beneath the dressing on her skull, the eye was gone too. Her free left ear twitched at the sound of the door opening.

“Good morning," Alta said, gently.

“Good morning, ma'am." Kara's voice came out as a muffled slur. She blinked her remaining eye a few times, trying to clear it. “I'm in… Chadagh, is that right?"

“That's right." The Ibizan took a seat on her left side, where the samoyed wouldn't have to move to keep her in view. “I came down from Corsini when they told me you'd regained consciousness."

“How… how bad are things? Not me, I… I don't mean with me. I know about that already. They told me."

“They did?"

“I'll get a replacement eye and the arm… nothing to be done about my ear… I think…" She shut her eye, taking a few slow breaths to gather strength. “I think they said I can start physical therapy in a few days. I can manage. When I asked about anything else, they said… the doctor said it was a military question, not one he could answer…"

“Probably." Alta didn't know how to answer the question she was about to be asked; she lowered her ears and preempted it. “The battalion is gone."

“Combat ineffective?"

“Gone. There were twenty-three survivors from the two companies in Shadesh, including yourself. I committed the remaining soldiers and equipment to supporting the northern front."

Sanuk Kara swallowed hard. “I… knew what you were asking us to do. That doesn't make it any easier to hear, ma'am. My apologies."

“No. None of those. You and your battalion fought extremely bravely, colonel. You did what was needed. You bought us time to act. The cost was… I don't know what it means for something to be 'worth it' when we're discussing lives, yours and the others. But the consequences of not holding out would have been catastrophic."

“The fighting is… stable?"

“Over. We agreed to a ceasefire four days ago, and a withdrawal to our original borders. We held our own, colonel. Ishiri made it as far as Port George Moody; Colonel Genakhot reversed the attack at Encha. The ceasefire came from a human request, not from us."

The samoyed swallowed again, and licked at her muzzle through a handful of attempts at speech. “Over… forever?"

“I don't know. Probably not."

“Shadesh… my home, my men… we didn't keep going? Why didn't we keep going?"

General Altalanuk thought of the morning report on her desk. This, the fourth day of the ceasefire, was the first on which they hadn't lost more of the OVKK's wounded. The death toll stood at 361, plus twenty-five still missing. “We couldn't," she said.

“And what are we doing now? If not fighting."

“Paying for what we did. Addressing the consequences."

“Next time…"

Next time. The samoyed had to stop, collecting her thoughts, but Alta already heard the worst of it in just those words. Sanuk Kara was at least coherent enough to have meant what she said.

“Next time, we need to do more. More than just… just 'holding our own'… I saw what that got me."

“You saved the Kashkin. You, and the others in the OVKK."

“May I… may I be open, ma'am? We didn't save the Kashkin. We just…" She swallowed heavily, and closed her eye to gather her strength. “We only bought it time."

Altalanuk was sympathetic to the position—not least because the lieutenant colonel had paid dearly for the right to say it. She was less certain how it translated into action, even now. By charter they were a self-defense force, and even managing that took the sacrifice of more than a hundred citizens for every day of the brief war.

Major Kalasos, she thought, might have ideas. The intelligence officer was working on her summary of the conflict, explaining what they'd done well and where they'd failed. Of course, her answers would almost certainly be clinical, couched in models and theory. The Ibizan knew at least one other person she could go to for advice.

Khalizai had been spending time at her apartment. The two had not entirely reconciled, but they needed to work closely together anyway and it made things easier. His sheep were in the hands of a caretaker; he'd found a new flock in organizing the Kashkin's medical infrastructure and supplies.

But it was another two days before the opportunity presented itself; she'd been spending her free time writing up hypotheticals and trying to decide which of the plans had any real merit. There wasn't much free time: work intervened constantly.

Khalizai interrupted a long spell of silence, catching something in the twitch of her ears. “Is everything alright, Talla?"

“Do you know what I never thought I'd have to do?"

The husky tilted his head. He was trying to read the expression on her face; trying to see how unsettled the Ibizan really was. “I don't. Not the letters, right?"

“I've notified packmates before," she said. “So have you."

Corporate propaganda instilled in moreaus a general apathy towards death: better to keep them from viewing it as something to be avoided or feared. Emancipation hadn't done much to change that; they'd gained no belief in an afterlife, nor rituals surrounding the deceased.

A few clans were given to sky burials, leaving the corpses of their kin exposed for animals to consume—part of the same tradition of bringing them closer to nature that made so many of them gravitate to farming. Alta thought of this as odd, perhaps, but harmless. In any case most still cremated their dead.

“What did you not think you'd have to do, then?"

Alta cleared her throat. “President Alishat Hass-Kodja of the Commonwealth and General Altalanuk, commander of the OVKK, present with utmost respect and honor the Azure Petal to Inanu Captain Curnow for her service to the Kashkin."

“Azure Petal?"

“Minister Levin's husband designed it on short notice. It resembles the blossom of some flower or another—he explained it better than I could. A mountain flower, growing under the most difficult of conditions. I never thought I'd be looking at medals."

“Whose idea was it? Kodja's?"

She shook her head, and then put her signature to the details of the citation, so that it could be forwarded to the president for his approval. “No. Minister Shenkiy came up with it. He feels that, at the same time as we're counting our dead, we should recognize the uncommon service that—as he put it—kept the Kashkin in one piece. I suppose he isn't wrong."

The cremations took place at night, where she couldn't see the smoke unless she strained her eyes. Her nose was a different matter; her muzzle had been filled for three days with the smell. She kept telling herself that death was nothing to be mourned. The lie kept getting harder.

“We have a greater and a lesser commendation than the Azure Petal. And one for injuries sustained. Plenty of those." Hundreds. Not all of them would make a full recovery. Some, like Sanuk Kara, would be permanently marked. Some, the worst cases, wouldn't even manage that. “How is your project going?"

“The next freighter will bring our stockpiles back up to reasonable levels. I've stopped trying to examine every request from the doctors—it becomes depressing. I just approve it, as you told me to."

“The budget won't be an issue, no."

“I hear you've been around to the facilities…"

“In Chadagh, mostly. The trauma unit in Aless Ha'kin, too."

“In between the medals? Does Shenkiy understand what they cost?"

“Shenkiy came with me to Aless Ha'kin. He knows," the Ibizan said, her voice becoming gentle to let Khalizai read the subtext of what she hadn't made explicit. On the drive back from Aless Ha'kin, Shenkiy pulled off to the side of the road. He was inconsolable: for half an hour, the whining in the dog's voice threatened to break into open, mournful howling. She stayed quiet, until he was able to drive again, and she said nothing to him, either.

“And you figure we'll have opportunity to use the supplies."

Alta canted her head. “What do you mean?"

The husky reached out, and gently brushed the fur of her paw. “I've been looking over your shoulder. You have plans for the OVKK—for what you want to do with them."

“Pragmatism, yes."

“Doubling the number of battalions."

“We came too close, Kha'zai. We held our own, but every time it mattered…"

They hadn't talked as much about that; in the limited amount of time the Ibizan spent outside the headquarters complex she was mostly sleeping. Nor, she thought, was Khalizai interested in strategy. The husky was comfortable in his self-appointed role managing the casualties.

But she made it explicit, anyway, at least in brief. The OVKK had too few men, and too limited resources, to stage effective operations. With one exception, in Shadesh, they hadn't been able to exploit opportunities for a counterattack. And in some sense this was fine—it wasn't her responsibility to wage a war of aggression.

But it meant the conflict dragged on, far more than she wanted. And that, in the long run, cost lives. More than striking a decisive blow would cost. Khalizai's brow furrowed. “How decisive do you mean by that?"

“We cross the border—like we mean it. Encha is still too limited of a chokepoint. It was irresponsible to think we could fight the important battle there. If we pushed as far as Marleyville, we could threaten everything to the east and south, including the spaceport."

“Didn't you say the Colonial Defense Authority considered Marleyville untouchable?"

“We'd be gambling, I wouldn't say otherwise. But if we hit the northern plains hard, and it looks like we could make it as far as Brooks without being stopped? As a neutral observer, intervention might look like delaying the inevitable."

“Or it might look like posing a threat that has to be checked."

“It might. But I'm not certain anymore that we have another choice in the matter. I was going to ask you."

“What were you going to ask?"

“You stepped down from the Defense Committee after we cleared the last settlements west of the Little Falls River. At the time, I didn't understand. Now I wonder if you…"

The Ibizan stopped. Her latest proposal for rebuilding the army came to mind, every detail of the manpower and the equipment and the organizational structure. What would be required for the battle plan she had in mind; how many fallen they could expect to suffer.

“I wonder," she started again, “if you felt you had created something that betrayed its own purpose. When the DC started evicting human settlers, it was beyond what you envisioned. I don't know if I should be thinking the same thing now."

Khalizai rested his paw on hers again. His answer was oblique, and his voice stayed quiet. “You'll do what you have to, Talla. Nothing more. I know you."

***

Supreme Command, Alliance Forces Jericho

Ford City, Yucatec Jericho

9/11/2537

Two computer screens sat, face up, on Max Kastner's desk. The leftmost one had been on continuously for five days; the battery was starting to run low. Every so often it chimed, announcing a new message from one of the field commanders. The latest update was a revised estimate of how many Rooijakkals had been irreparably damaged, noting that one marked as unsalvageable could actually be returned to service.

The rightmost computer contained a letter of resignation. He had decided to keep things as simple as possible. This memo serves as confirmation that I am resigning my position as commander, Alliance Forces Jericho, effective November 10th, 2537 at 0600 local time.

No point going into the details. It had been barely a week since West Jericho's declaration of independence, but their best chance of reversing the secession had escaped. Max had successfully insulated himself from the political discussions taking place throughout the constituent companies of the Jericho Business Council.

Although, truthfully, he found imagining those conversations darkly humorous. He wondered if there were graphs, and presentations with copywritten headlines spinning what had transpired. The graphs would have titles like 'Resource Utilization,' with different lines for 'predicted' and 'actual.'

The 'actual' line would be much higher.

His update had no graphs. The section headlined 'Losses' contained an appendix with a list of four hundred and thirty-four names. After seeing the first draft, Elodie Mott asked for a breakdown of the monetary costs. He'd told her to fuck off, and when she didn't protest he realized she was only channeling her superiors.

The ones above her in the hierarchy, at least. Max wasn't certain what counted as a 'superior' in the whole goddamn mess. Dr. Walburn was one of them, surely: stony-faced in the room when Kastner went through his report. His unrumpled suit clung to him smartly when he leaned forward.

“How do you intend to correct these failings?"

“In what sense?"

“You highlighted defects in your communications, your command structure, your engineering resources, your training. What's the plan to fix them?"

It wasn't the reaction he'd expected. And the longer Max had to consider why, the more unsettled he became. The logical course was clear: get him to accept blame for their defeat, let the business council berate him so they could all save face, and extract a resignation to save them the trouble of paying his salary.

He'd had the letter ready, and his political responses. I understand and concur with your concerns. I agree that this particular detail is troubling. I believe it is unacceptable, too, sir. But Dr. Walburn asked instead how he intended to repair the damage, and nobody else on the council dared to object.

First he thought they were worried that if they challenged Max, he might expose how complicit the JBC had been in what amounted to a minor disaster for Jericho. That they wanted him to go quietly, and thought subjecting him to humiliation would be too dangerous.

Max had no answer for Walburn's question; he'd figured rebuilding would be left up to his successor. It hit him in the lobby of the administrative office, and he let out a reflexive curse. They know it was their fault.

“And they want to try again. As soon as possible."

“Yes," Elodie Mott admitted at once. She didn't smirk as much, and it seemed less powerful than once it had been. When he asked to meet with her, Elodie showed up almost immediately—like she'd been expecting it.

“You know that for certain?"

“Conversations in break-rooms and rumors about rumors. But in a way, Max, it's very simple. They—we?—Christ, I don't know. They. They want all of Jericho. Originally they thought they could take credit for capturing the wayward colony, but they want the land more than they want to look good. Right now they're all blaming each other for meddling."

“Do you know what the timeline is?"

“No, I don't. I hear through gossip that the middle managers are starting to wake up. Realizing that they're missing quotas or having their headcounts denied, and it's because of the resources being used for the security operations. Eventually, they won't be able to push the blame around."

“And then what?"

“They'll either give up, or they'll give you what you want. Sunk-cost fallacy."

He looked at the computer with his letter of resignation on it. “Do you want a drink?"

“At…" She glanced at the wall clock. “God, is it already eight o'clock? Well, why not?"

He let her pick the bar. First, she probably had decent taste. Second, maybe it would leave her more inclined to cover the bill. Third, and most important, Max trusted her to find a place where her colleagues wouldn't follow.

They wound up in a speakeasy. He didn't know the name—the buzzer only said 'Travis Supply Co.'—but nobody else was wearing a suit, and Max figured that was a good sign. From the snippets of conversation he overheard, they were mostly system engineers for one of Ford City's accounting firms. Profane, but smart.

Despite the disheveled appearance, the joint had modern amenities: the press of a button dulled the music and conversation beyond their small table to muffled white noise. He allowed himself a small bit of rum—an hours' pay had been poured into the glass—and thought of where to begin. In the end he settled on simplicity: “What the fuck are they doing?"

Elodie's drink was eerily self-luminescent; flashes of light followed the stick as she slowly stirred the blue liquid. “That's a loaded question. What do you mean? What is who doing?"

“The council. They still have their eye on the real estate."

“It hasn't become any less valuable," she pointed out. Sparks clung like dying embers, accenting her lips, when she took a sip of her cocktail. “Other than the mess in that eastern town, there wasn't even much property damage."

“And they want it."

“You're asking the wrong question, Max," the woman said. A few months before and her smile would've been knowing; superior. Now it seemed more empathetically cynical. “Don't ask about the council."

“Why not?"

“Honeywell used to have a campus here. They'll have a good claim on twenty hectares of urban property. ETaN is close enough that when we take the dam, they'll be able to save ten million obols a year on power for their complex. Union has good results from their remote mining surveys and they're so optimistic about getting into the hills it's almost arousal. Simard Industrie looks at the river delta and thinks they could move their chip fab there. Dallas-Courtright thinks the water makes it a good place for a spaceport. They can't both have it, Max, but do you get the picture?"

“Maybe." Enough that, when she took another drink, he followed her lead and was more generous with the rum. “A lot of competing interests."

“Keep going. We never got to the point of figuring out how we're going to divide up the spoils, but every business in the council thinks about it. So Union and ETaN and Marley and the others send their representatives, all of them thinking: how do we pull it off? There's no one council here. Everyone wants something, and it starts with seizing West Jericho, and that's blinding them."

The rum was already halfway gone. “So today, I told them that we could've won, but they fucked it up, and what they heard was that we could've won, and it was somebody else's fault."

“Exactly."

“Do you know what will happen when I ask for money? Will that be a reality check?"

“Honestly?" Elodie laughed quietly and took a healthy drink. Her cocktail had started to dim; the few sparks that remained looked nothing so much as faint, fading stars. “Honestly, Max, I don't. What would you ask for?"

“Ballpark figure? Hundreds of millions. We're down a hundred fuckin' mechs. A lot of salvaged parts, and we can sell those to defray some of the costs, but… fuck me, Elodie. It wouldn't be cheap. Would they fund it?"

“Maybe. It would be easier without… well. This is secret, okay, Max?"

“Fine?" She finished off her drink anyway, though, and left to get a new one. On a whim he checked the menu—half the cocktail was vodka, and another quarter was Rockwood indigo liqueur.

So it was pretty stiff, and she'd ordered a second helping. “Where were we?"

“You were telling me secrets."

Elodie jabbed the stirring stick into her glass, sending a flare of light through the ice cubes. “My college roommate is friends with one of the Moody family's servants. The way she heard it, there was a fight."

“There's been a lot of fighting," Max said.

“Not that kind. Shaeffer thinks you stabbed her in the back, and apparently, her father is egging her on behind the scenes. Saying that it wasn't just you, that a lot of the militias just broke down and ran, but… the NPL got hit the worst, along with the Rangers protecting the mining claim."

“And?"

“And they talked about 'payback.' Partly, it's a matter of personal pride, and partly they see an opportunity to depose the JBC and take control of Jericho. The Moody family has big dreams and a lot of money."

“They want to make up for being embarrassed."

Elodie nodded, lifted her glass in a toast to the idiocy of it all, and took a long drink. “I heard in the first place because they're already looking at paying their own mercenaries. Rearming using the black market, that sort of thing. So the guy I was talking to, he said we're worried they might get to the point where they could act first."

And, Max realized, if the JBC showed any sign of backing away from their commitment to annexing West Jericho, it would be an open invitation for Moody's insurrection. And a clock was ticking.

He left the bar more unsettled than he'd even feared was possible. Back in his apartment, Luna was sitting with her legs crossed on the floor, reading quietly. She went still when he entered.

“It's fine. You don't have to do that."

Her stance relaxed. “Thank you, sir."

“You've been following the news, right?"

Luna tilted her head, like she was trying to tease out an ulterior motive in the question, expecting him to judge her for giving the wrong answer. “I have been doing so to the extent required by my tasks, sir."

“The ceasefire agreement includes a complete ban on importing new weapons."

“As I understand it, yes."

“West Jericho obviously isn't going to respect that. Right?"

“I cannot really speculate."

Max didn't allow himself to be distracted by the moment of frustration. “I wouldn't, if I were them. They'll want to replace their losses, if nothing else. And they have an unregulated spaceport they can use to land cargo…"

He'd asked no question, and though the moreau was becoming slightly less skittish Luna clearly wasn't comfortable enough to volunteer an opinion on her own. Max walked his way through the rest of his reasoning. There were no cargo facilities in Jericho besides Noel McKeever Spaceport.

“So if the militias want to bring in contraband, it has to be through McKeever. Right? How would you do it, Luna?"

“Smuggle weapons, sir?"

“Yes."

“May I research this topic first?"

He poured himself a glass of whiskey and waited. It was a question he was going to have to answer himself, soon enough. If the business council expected him to get the JMA back into fighting shape, he'd need to find a way around the official embargo.

Elodie Mott had, for the most part, dashed his hopes that there might be limits on the council's stupidity. Replacing a division's worth of materiel losses on short notice was, after all, extremely expensive. It should've been the kind of expenditure that would force Jericho to the negotiating table.

But if the JBC saw their power being usurped by upstarts like Shaeffer Moody, they wouldn't be inclined to compromise. He was getting ready to ask Luna about her estimates on the militia's discretionary budget when there was a knock on the door.

It was nearly midnight, and Max didn't have many regular callers. He set the whiskey aside and opened the door. Colonel Bob Singer was on the other side.

“Good evening, sir."

“Bob," Max replied, acknowledging Singer warily. “Can I help you?"

“I heard they called you onto the carpet over in the boardroom today," Singer began. But then his shoulders slumped, and he glanced briefly downwards before looking Max in the eye again. “No, I don't know why I even said that. This won't take long. Here."

He held out a flexible computer, which he'd had folded in his palm. Max knew before Singer said it that he was looking at the man's resignation. The letter offered no details. “I guess I can't really blame you."

“Somebody from internal affairs in the Business Operations unit came and talked to me this morning. They said they were going to investigate me."

“For?"

Singer tensed. Max realized that Singer assumed he knew—maybe even that it had been Max's idea to start with. “Multiple violations of protocol. They said. Misuse of military resources. They asked about the engineering battalion we… misplaced."

“That was covered in my summary."

Wrapped in layers of obfuscation, of course. Their engineering battalion owned its heavy equipment, including stationary generators. In peacetime, the battalion commander loaned the hardware out to a corporate arcology under construction. Bob's signature was on the transfer order.

Max genuinely believed that he'd approved it as a matter of routine—most of the PMCs pulled a little extra cash in that way. The vehicles and generators were supposed to have been returned; somewhere the message had been lost. That was all simple bureaucracy, though, not malfeasance.

“It wasn't the only thing. Dereliction of duty. Failure to fulfill the terms of my employment contract."

Kastner was still holding the man's resignation. He worried the flexible screen between his fingers. “It wasn't right. I didn't know they did this. If you want me to go to bat for you, Bob, I will. I hope you know I will."

Singer shook his head, though. “Honestly, Max, I just want to be done with it."

“I won't stop you." His chief of staff had also resigned; he'd been compelled to promote a relative newcomer as a replacement. The newcomer, Colonel Thabane, was well-liked by his men—Max was all-too-aware that he needed to preserve whatever goodwill remained with the troops on the line. But it went for his direct reports, too: “Is there anything I can do? With the paperwork? Your paycheck…"

“Hell with the paycheck. I just…"

He looked up. Elsewhere in Jericho it was raining; the weather modifiers over Ford City gave the night sky a strange, shimmering texture. It was as though the heavens were trying to break through, and the strain of holding back the inevitable had turned into visible tension.

“I just want to get out of here. I'll see you around, Max."

“Sure," he said. He held out his hand, because it was expected. And because they had history; because they went back far enough that he knew Singer would understand there were no hard feelings when the other man simply nodded, and turned away.

***

Commonwealth Capitol Building

City of Davis, Kashkin

19/11/2537

Two weeks. In two weeks, Kodja's world had gone from utter chaos to a state of precarious, deceptive balance. For two weeks the cease-fire remained unbroken; some ordinary trade had even resumed at the spaceport in Aless Ha'kin.

And yet somehow they all knew it was nothing but illusion. Soon enough talks would break down. Soon enough the retriever would be listening to the sound of distant gunfire, and the cold enumeration of everything independence had cost the Khasarvikhot hakh al-Kashkin.

At least Kodja now thought of it only as al-Khasarvikhot, the name on all their diplomatic communications. It was the Chartered Colony no longer: too much blood had been spilt for him to countenance referring to it any other way. Khasarvikhot meant “for the benefit of the pack"—a commonwealth.

The first moreau government on Jericho, fifty years before, had called itself the Commonwealth of the Enlightened; they kept the name when they moved off-world to Dawa. But the Ruhkat translation, Kununvalt hakh al-Ursohan, was taken straight from English. Khasarvikhot was Minister Shenkiy's invention.

Kodja allowed him the conceit of a neologism. They were different from the previous government, after all. They'd taken their independence rather than begging for it. And now they were gathered in the cabinet's meeting room, as if for any other session, except that the topic was the means by which they'd taken it.

Grey Palmer, the human woman, had volunteered to serve as the cabinet's clerk. Her Rukhat improved by the day; she used it whenever possible, though the cabinet conducted business in English as often as not. “The next item is from the Defense Ministry. Inanu Altalanuk, you said your final report is ready?"

“Yes, ma'am."

“Then you have the floor."

The Ibizan nodded politely, then stood. “The full report will be entered into the permanent record. I will summarize briefly. And to preface that summary, I want to be absolutely clear that, in my opinion, the OVKK performed exceptionally. Nothing I say is to diminish that."

Kodja briefly glanced around the table: there were, of course, no objections.

“We count, in total, five hundred and thirty-one dead, three hundred and ninety-three of them from the OVKK. Another six hundred injured, again, four hundred and twelve from the OVKK. In total, just over one and one-half percent of every citizen in the Kashkin. Most of these, particularly the civilian losses, were sustained at Shadesh. Inanu Sanuk Kara's defense of that town prevented far worse—but that is, in human parlance, cold comfort. I know."

“Kaled kanvert?" someone asked.

“Chesh g'al-haranezhja," Alta translated the Rukhat equivalent: 'food for those who have starved to death.' The phrase came from barracks moreaus, and while Kodja had never been in a corporate barracks he harbored no illusions that it had ever been purely metaphorical.

Shadesh was already a rallying cry for the Kashkin. There'd still been active fighting when Shenkiy first approached the retriever with his budget for rebuilding the town. Holographic images of the rubble served as recruiting posters for the Hashida in almost every shop Kodja passed.

But, much as it sickened him, he believed Alta: it could have been worse. They'd saved thousands of lives. And the Ibizan did what she could to end on a positive note. Costly as the fighting had been, they'd done their job. And their foe was, at the very least, licking their own wounds just as painfully.

Stara Koshath, the Minister of Labor, raised her paw. “What if they invade now?"

“It depends on what you are asking, inanu," Alta responded cautiously. “The JMA, the human military, must also be badly depleted. If they attacked now, with what they have now, the lines might not change much."

“But they'll be rearming, of course. They have the advantage of numbers, equipment, funding—what's your plan?" The Rottweiler was a brutal pragmatist, Kodja had long since learned. The Ministry viewed warily the continued deployment of Alta's reservists, who sapped the Kashkin's labor pool badly.

“Of the OVKK's seven official battalions, I've reconstituted five. We can conduct limited operations. Supplies of ammunition remain tight—the domestic factories aren't enough to keep pace with what we used."

Stara Koshath looked down at a computer grasped in her paw. “We produced nine hundred mortar shells, thirty-four thousand cartridges, five hundred and fifty command-triggered mines, four hundred battery packs—shall I go on? Minister, if that's not enough, what would be? Do we need to convert every last workshop to producing armaments?"

“I'm not impugning the work of our engineers, inanu Stara."

“I know—I'm not impugning your work, either. I'm saying that we have strained our industrial capacity to the limit. For a few months, we can absorb that—but not forever. The Kashkin's businesses are keenly aware of your military needs, but our workers need to eat, too. Every shell we make has an opportunity cost."

And Kodja knew that, too; he'd seen the figures. “General Altalanuk, what would you need?"

“The full details are in the report. But, let me be frank. We need to acquire another forty tanks just to replace our losses. Practically, that number should be doubled. The OVKK has critical vulnerabilities in anti-armor weapons and in artillery. Our logistical framework is shaky. Casualties overwhelmed our medical infrastructure within the first day. The regular army is too small by half."

Stara Koshath was taking notes. When Alta finished, she looked up. “You propose to put two percent of the Kashkin into permanent service? Where do we get these soldiers, general?"

“In the long term, over the next few years, our population growth will be enough to cover this. Before then, I am investigating our other options. Please, do not take this to mean I'm taking the reserve for granted."

Alta claimed, and Kodja believed, that some of the matter boiled down to resolve. The Kashkin had underestimated what would be required to defend the country; they had not seen fit to train enough soldiers, though there had always been plenty of recruits.

But the retriever remained troubled. They couldn't count on years of peace. Probably they could not even count on months. When Altalanuk finished talking, Kodja asked for an update on the discussions taking place aboard the diplomatic vessel Malinche.

Their foreign minister, handling the talks herself, wasn't present. Deputy Foreign Minister Satek Elhasav stood in for her. “Minister Halinchi reports that negotiations continue, with limited progress. There is the same matter as in her previous communication, about which she requests an update."

Grey Palmer, failing to appreciate the subtlety of the phrasing, asked for explicit clarification. “The reports of war crimes during the Hashida attack on Morris?"

Palmer's grammar was off. She'd used uhar salot which, while also not proper Rukhat, was closer to 'fighting crimes.' “The Hashida would say that, certainly," Shenkiy muttered. Kodja heard someone else chuckle darkly.

“We knew what she meant," the retriever said, raising his voice. “Minister Zahanish, have there been any new developments?"

“Of course not," Samuli Zahanish, head of the Justice Ministry, answered immediately. “Morris is in hostile territory. We have no access. I remind the president that, with the reorganization of the Security Ministry into the Defense Ministry, local authorities are now responsible for their own policing and investigation."

“I don't need to be reminded."

“And that we have not yet had the opportunity to staff any of those positions. They've been busy with other things. Rather than… 'fighting crimes.'"

Kodja sighed. “General Altalanuk, I know it hasn't been your priority…"

“More than that, Mr. President, I have no capability."

Satek Elhasav's sigh showed the difficult position they'd put him in. “We have trouble in negotiating with the humans while those accusations remain unaddressed. If we have no information, is it possible that we reply that way? We could say that we know nothing about the allegations, and we don't believe them."

“But I do," Alta said. “I find them credible."

Shenkiy snorted. “Really? You believe this… this human slander? Why?"

“Because the Hashida lost kin in Shadesh, Shenkiy, and I know what happened there. I know what we found when we retook the town, and I've heard rumors worse than what made it into the official reports. Reprisal hardly strains belief. I doubt the magnitude—if there were truly hundreds of massacred humans, they'd have a dozen propaganda films out by now. But I don't doubt the essential truth."

Clearly it hadn't been the answer Satek wanted. “Shall we say that we are still investigating?"

“Say what you like. I doubt you'll say what we're all thinking: if any of us thought the humans had given one damned thought to investigating what they did in Shadesh, we might be more inclined to repay the favor. I'm sorry—inana Kodja, inana Zahanish, I'm sorry. I don't have the resources to commit to this right now."

Shenkiy grunted. “Maybe you should ask the Hashida to run the investigation." The barks of bitter laughter from around the table suggested slightly less than serious objection.

Who could blame them?

***

Kashkin Self-Defense Forces Headquarters Complex

Corsini, Kashkin

20/11/2537

The OVKK's victory, limited as it was, could be attributed to four causes. Kalasos went through them one at a time, watching the expressions on the officers gathered in the room. Altalanuk, Colonels Genakhot and Ishiri, every battalion commander except Sanuk Kara, and a handful of their senior staff.

First, the Type 450s had overperformed, as had the engineering crews that kept them in the fight. In three days of fighting, the OVKK lost only four tanks to maintenance problems, and two of them had been back at the front within twelve hours.

The Khalitsaja were well-built, tough, and reliable. According to the models her staff had put together, the survivability of the Type 450 saved the lives of a hundred crew when their vehicles had taken direct hits. The same could not be said for their 'armored personnel carriers,' modified cargo hoverdynes: a full seven of those had been lost with all aboard.

Second, their ability to jam the JMA's targeting sensors paid off, halving the expected accuracy of the enemy Jackals. Unfortunately, Kalasos explained, they'd lacked an effective counter to the missiles used by human IFVs and dismounted infantry. Sixty-eight percent of the Type 450s lost or disabled had fallen victim to those.

Third, they'd been able to create or take advantage of three major opportunities. A company-sized tank force disrupted the JMA's offensive at Encha long enough for Colonel Genakhot to regroup. Genakhot's decision to commit the sector reserve cost the JMA enough mechs that they lost numerical superiority. And Altalanuk's order to cut off the human retreat from Shadesh had broken the back of the human militia.

“We'll come back to that," Kalasos promised.

Fourth, and most importantly, their enemy was badly fractured. In this regard, the mixed-breed no longer believed there was any other way her evidence could be read. The Kashkin had not faced one coherent attack: it had faced two independent ones, lacking coordination and the desire—let alone ability—to provide mutual support.

Studying aerial data from the Soviet freighter Den Pobedy confirmed, to the Intelligence Group, the human operational plan. They intended to smash the Na'hosh Line and use the mobility and firepower of their mechanized infantry to break out before they could be contained.

Instead, major resources had been shifted to the assault on Shadesh, depriving the main thrust of support and requiring the mechanized infantry to be used from the very beginning of the fighting. And when Ishiri's counteroffensive pushed the militia all the way back to Port George Moody, any remaining forces had been needed to prevent the eastern front from collapsing.

It could have been much, much worse. A competent assault with proper support could have overwhelmed the Na'hosh Line—certainly it would've been costly enough to preclude a counterattack. Had the JMA not been worried about supporting their other troops, they might have sent their own reserve to check Genakhot's attack, bringing it to a bloody halt. There was no sign that the eventual encirclement of Terr Chanat was detected before it was well underway.

“In short," Kalasos said, “even a below-average performance would have been sufficient to halt a completely incompetent one. And they were completely incompetent."

Colonel Genakhot leaned forward in his chair. “Were we, then, below-average?"

“We weren't above. Strategically, there are few missed opportunities. We were too slow in getting to the Little Falls River—I believe we could have completely cut the militia off. The continued attacks on Terr Chanat after the hill was no longer strategically significant might have been costly if the JMA had been able to take advantage, but they weren't, or didn't. Below that…"

The dog licked at her muzzle. Some of her department's conclusions would be problematic, and she didn't want to make unnecessary enemies. General Altalanuk cleared her throat: “speak openly, major."

“Below the strategic level, it's a very mixed bag. Tactically, our company and platoon commanders recognized and responded appropriately to changing conditions. That does not mean we were effective. In general, we didn't have enough firepower when, and where, it counted."

She saw Altalanuk nod, without appearing to notice she'd done so, and write something down in her computer. Already the story in the street was that the OVKK had fought well to every last citizen—suggesting they'd simply been overwhelmed was palatable.

But they couldn't rest on their laurels. “Where we did, discipline was mixed and accuracy was… questionable. It took twenty percent more shots than predicted for a 450 to disable its target. Thirty percent more than expected for our recoilless rifles. We transitioned most of the mortar batteries to fire guided shells, which landed with about twenty percent effectiveness. Of the unguided shells, it is not clear from the evidence that a single one hit its intended target."

“We were under a lot of pressure," Lieutenant Colonel Adarkin spoke up. “Our troops could hardly be expected to perform like elite soldiers in their first encounters. Many of them had never seen active combat before."

There was a difference between 'elite soldiers' and what had been reflected in the gap between enthusiasm and effectiveness. She would not publicly speak about the defense of Shadesh—valiant but deeply flawed. After Sanuk Kara's incapacitation, her successors had tried to hold on to far too much territory when dispersal allowed them to be overwhelmed even by the amateurs they faced.

Saying that aloud wouldn't do, not so soon after the battle. It would be in her report to Altalanuk. Even before that, the general came to her aid. “She's not disputing the pressure we were under. She's saying we can't be overconfident. We didn't really win, Colonel Adarkin: they lost."

That was a good way of putting it, political correctness aside. Alta asked Kalasos to stay behind after the meeting ended. The mixed-breed stood quietly until the room was empty, and the general joined her at the podium.

“Good work." And she was as perceptive as Kalasos herself: “There's more in the full report."

“Yes, ma'am."

“And in our threat analysis?"

“The lines are stable. Our resources are stable." Kalasos considered if there was anything she might perhaps have been missing. “The Hashida remain a wildcard. I believe they're restive, certainly, but I don't have any signs that they're planning any operations."

“Or threatening the arms embargo."

“Or that."

The Ibizan nodded. “I have a delicate question. Off the record, if you don't mind."

“I can be discreet, ma'am."

“Lieutenant Colonel Marel. What would your analysts say?"

The question was not only 'delicate,' but broad enough to be extremely dangerous. “The operation to encircle Terr Chanat could certainly have gone better, but I don't think it was his fault. By that point the sector was already depleted. With more support, and with more artillery, he could've pulled it off."

“But we didn't have those."

“No," Kalasos agreed. “My sense, ma'am, is that he attacks as if far stronger than reality indicates. The subsequent assaults on the hill were… ill-advised. Justifiable, given what we knew, but ultimately unnecessary."

“And Genakhot?" The mixed-breed cocked her head, wondering where the line of questioning was headed. Alta smiled at the quizzical sharpness. “Pragmatic? Too hesitant?"

“Considered. Definitely aware of the risks."

“If we needed to get to McKeever, who would you ask to do it?"

Kalasos splayed her ears. The question rested on numerous, dangerous hypotheticals. “Do you intend to ask that?"

“A thought exercise."

In other contexts it might well have been called a nightmare, instead. “Inana Genakhot would ask the same thing I just did, ma'am. Perhaps that is the answer."

***

OVKK Base Zaket k'Shunza

North of Corsini, Kashkin

31/11/2537

Curnow ran her fingers over the smooth paint of the Type 450. It was a fresh coat, covering the nicks and heat scarring of battle, and the welds of a hasty field repair job. The tank's engine had been shut down; without power the paint had dimmed to the soft grey of rain clouds, a perfect mirror to the late-afternoon sky above the maintenance outpost at Zaket kona-Shunza, northwest of Terr Chanat.

Spring in the Kashkin had plenty of rain. The Rottweiler felt, in the weight of the air, that more would be coming soon. Enough to wash the roads clean again, and to confine the citizens of the Kashkin to their cafés and their offices. She would go inside, too.

“Again, ma'am?"

Curnow looked over, though she recognized the voice well: Yohal Koshana, an old husky who worked in the logistics company. Like her, he was a veteran of Kashkin militias since before the Defense Committee. “Just getting some air, starshun-shadan."

“And then you'll be getting whatever air's inside the Khalitsa," the husky said, pointing to the open hatch of the tank. “You've been sleeping there."

“I haven't."

Yohal Koshana pulled himself up and onto the tank, sitting next to her. “Is that so?"

“The honest truth."

He nodded. “Haven't been inside the tank, or haven't been sleeping?" And, of course, he read her answer plain in the silence. “It's been almost a month. Have you spoken to a doctor, comrade?"

“About what? What would I say?"

The doctors were still overwhelmed. And they were only equipped to deal with physical trauma; Curnow's injuries had never been severe. By now they were hardly visible. Not like the serious cases still in Chadagh, or the ones now being discharged. The furless ones—or more jarringly the ones whose replacement limbs had fur, which ended abruptly at shaved, bare skin.

“I think it's still just… waiting. I'm waiting. I think."

Yohal Koshana asked what she was waiting for, and Curnow couldn't articulate an answer. Waiting for the humans to attack again? Yes. But I'm not afraid of it, am I? It's not fear I'm feeling. Fear—terror, even—was what jolted her full of adrenaline when she heard the whine of a turbine starting, sounding so much like the incoming-fire alarm…

That was not what kept her awake. What kept her awake was the odd sense that nothing before the battles really existed. That they were some strange, naive fiction; some other dog's life that she'd heard about in passing. The three days that followed, inside the Type 450, those were clear, and sharp—and what came after them?

“Do you mind, ma'am?" Yohal Koshana asked. He was holding up a cigarette.

She shook her head. “Go ahead."

“Hopefully, we keep waiting," he suggested.

“I don't know. It's hard to say even what I'm waiting for." At last his cigarette caught. She watched the curling smoke when he exhaled, just a shade lighter than the paint and the clouds. Camouflaged. “Is it—how is it in—how is…" She gave up, paused, and tried again. “How have you been?"

“We've been fine. Busy."

“In a good way?"

“Corsini came down with new orders to stock supplies forward, rather than at the spaceport. Figuring out what should go where, how it should get there, when… that's a lot of work. It's complex." He took another pull, shrugging as he held it. “Politics, I think. Putting the teamsters to work."

“I heard the OVKK might absorb the Aless Ha'kin dock crew into the logistics command."

“Not if Minister Stara has anything to say about it." He looked up, at the clouds. Looks like rain, she expected him to say. “It gets better. Never all the way."

“Does it?"

“Yes."

“You know?"

The husky took a long, slow drag. “Remember when we met? Kenir had the CSO doing patrols for unexploded ordnance out in the west—remember that? It was me, you, and Soche-Khinuja."

“And Khalizai, right?"

“He was still with Atashå's group," the old dog corrected her with a shake of his head. “You're thinking of me. I'd just joined the CSO; just immigrated. I said I came from an insurance company. I didn't want a desk job. You made fun of me for being in love with the great outdoors."

“It was pretty… cliché." Curnow didn't recall what she'd said exactly, but it didn't surprise her. Emancipated nakathja were always going on about the beauty of nature, and how nice it smelled, and how all they needed to be happy was birdsong and petrichor. “You were from an arco."

Yohal finished his cigarette. “That was the last place I lived, not where I was born. It was a data center job—cleaning and polishing; paid enough to cover life support. I teased you for your name. Asked what your real one was."

'Curnow' was her human moniker, derived from the Rottweiler's model number. She'd never been comfortable with any Rukhat name the pack tried to give her. “Yeah. I pegged you for a revolutionary."

“I worked for Marquette-Wheeling, at a satellite campus on Carthage. When they acquired Burton, we heard through the rumor mill that we were going to be transferred to some Burton complex in a different system. Rumors," he muttered, and tapped out another cigarette.

“Your handler told you?"

“She didn't say anything. We learned that they, uh… Well." It was still difficult for him, she saw. “Burton also has moreaus, but their interstellar division was using Trimurti cats. Just as efficient, but since Burton had an exclusive contract, buying it out—well." He laughed, grimly. Or perhaps it was a cough; smoke slipped from between his teeth. “I worked in insurance. The numbers pointed only one way. They made us redundant."

“Happened to me, too. Me and my team were end-of-lifed, so GeneMark wouldn't pay for retraining. We just got dumped for the tax credit, I guess."

“When?"

“The year? 2510. Standard June—I say 'standard,' but I was on Earth, so..."

“Yeah. They bought Burton the year before that. They put a couple shipments out an airlock. Then—this is more rumor—somebody figured it was dangerous, in case we found out about it and tried to do something crazy, so they stopped. I was already on a ship, me and twenty others with no room in the cargo bay. We stayed in medical. They put down fifteen of us before they ran out of chemicals. And. So. So." The husky shuddered. “There were only six left, so they freed up a cabin. And the six of us waited there for three weeks for them to… finish the job."

Curnow didn't know what to say. Didn't know how to comfort him, or if he even wanted comfort. She nodded. “They didn't."

“Word got out about spacing the others, and to avoid the publicity they just dumped us at the nearest arco. Bad publicity's probably why you were released, too."

She nodded again. Her voice took a moment to find. “I never knew that…"

“Nah." The husky sounded neither surprised, nor bitter. “When you get to the colony, they don't want you to talk about stuff like that too much. Better to leave the past behind—don't scare the pups, you know?"

“Still…"

“Sure. Me, I know I got lucky, with that job I mentioned… the others were gone by the time I found out how to get us to Jericho. Anyway. Three weeks. Three weeks in that cabin. It's been almost thirty years. I still can't be in small rooms for very long. But I don't have the dreams anymore. I can sleep indoors, if there's a window open. It gets better… just not all the way. Like I said."

“I'm sorry for teasing you."

“That wasn't my point," the husky said, and patted her shoulder. “But if I made you feel guilty just now, let me undo that and tell you something else. You made it up to me. I saw. Uh. About—about the medal. I saw you got some award."

“What about it?"

“Your company, tank for tank, had more kills than any other. When I enlisted—when I joined the DC after the CSO—I listed myself as a conscientious objector. I don't trust myself to be able to pull the trigger. Or I think if I… if I got over that, I don't trust that I could stop. But I'm glad there are people who can, because…"

He stopped. A few drops of rain sprinkled them, glistening like dew on the grey skin of the tank beneath them. “Because?"

“I'd burn every building and salt the earth from here to the eastern plains. Sometimes I dreamed that I was back in the medical bay. They had me strapped down. I could feel the needle. Sometimes I dreamed that it was me in the white coat. That they were the ones waiting for someone to remember how to kill them…"

“'Death is not…' how does it go?" She dragged the quote from somewhere deep in her memory. “'Death is not the worst crime they've done'?"

Sergeant Yohal chuckled, having managed to work his way free of the mood that had obviously gripped him. “Khalizai lent you that pamphlet, too? I knew somebody who knew him."

“Was he really a dog?"

“Eddie Forster? Yes, 392G—Menlo, I believe. Yes. I believe he was from the Menlo foundry. 'How many times have they said: “do not fear death"? But the greatest injustice man has visited on us is not death. It is the denial of life, compared to which simple murder is inconsequential.' I heard echoes of his work in our declaration of independence."

“So did I. I think."

Yohal lapsed into silence again, and the rain began to pick up. “I do fear death," he finally said. “But not as much as I fear forgetting it's in our power, too."

***

City of Davis, Kashkin

2/12/2537

Levin patted his old friend's shoulder. “I'll tell you the bad news before you can ask me, Kodja: our hard currency reserves don't look good. And without normalized trade, we're not doing much to replenish them."

“How worried are you?"

“I'm not. There will be plenty of time to worry, later. For now, we can get by."

“Doing better than 'getting by,'" Shenkiy said. He was the third member of their group, who had settled down for lunch at a café a block away from the capitol building. “Can you two keep a secret?"

Finally, with a month and a half of peace, everything had started to calm down again. Shenkiy looked like he was in a genuinely good mood, and in response to his question Kodja made a show of slowly closing his own muzzle between thumb and forefinger.

“I'll have the monthly numbers ready in time for the next regular session, but we've had eighteen hundred new immigrants in the last three weeks. Eighteen hundred!"

“There's room for them?" Kodja asked.

Levin still saw darkness in the retriever's eyes. He was thinking about all the housing their losses had freed up. And he was thinking about Shadesh, which had yet to be completely cleared and probably wouldn't be completely rebuilt for years.

Shenkiy said that there was. They weren't nearly at capacity, and many of the new immigrants were corporate refugees, used to living in communal housing. They had room for the newcomers, and for the thirty-three hundred he said were scheduled to arrive in the next two weeks.

“And those are only the ones we know about."

Levin cocked his head. “What do you mean?"

“Not everyone who transits through Karlself comes through the official channels. They don't necessarily talk to onboarding ahead of time—might be a few hundred more, even."

Many of them wanted to volunteer for the OVKK, either because they'd had experience in the Alliance militaries or because they hoped their skills would be valuable to the self-defense forces. Shenkiy allowed that Alta wasn't optimistic about training them on short notice.

“It could at least free up some of the soldiers in the reserves?" Kodja suggested.

“It might." Of course, Shenkiy went on, Labor Minister Stara Koshath said the same thing as General Altalanuk: it took time to train factory-workers, too. “My point remains. Our family is growing."

Kodja smiled to himself. Perhaps, he thought. Perhaps all will be well.

***

Kashkin Spaceport

Aless Ha'kin, Central Kashkin

14/12/2537

Approaching freighter. Red Team, report to stations. Landing Ops, confirm FOD check clear and ready ground power at Alva-Three. The port is now at condition two.

Håsen Chakeshja and Joe were already at their intended station, in the loading yard. The mid-day sun could be unpleasantly hot; getting to the yard an hour earlier gave the teamsters an excuse to run the climate control on their truck. “Ready?" Håsen asked.

The mountain lion in the passenger seat scowled, and turned off the gameboard between them. “You got lucky—I'll get you back next time."

“Sure you will." He jumped down and activated the comms terminal for their bay. “Red leader, this is Tarvos Four. Håsen Chakeshja and Joe. We're at bay Eight Alva and our check code is…" Håsen turned and looked at the computer Joe was holding up. “Yondin-2-1-dalat."

“Copy, J21D. Tarvos Four, stand by for orders."

The link went dead. Joe leaned out the window, grinning. “We get orders this time?"

“Must be important."

She started to answer when the sound of a chime from within the cockpit caught her attention. Her voice, called through the open window over her shoulder, was muffled. “Well, I don't know about that… but we're moving."

The shepherd pulled himself back into the cabin. “Where to?" Their destination, according to the computer, was Chadagh, a large industrial town a little over thirty kilometers away. Not a particularly interesting journey, and complicated only because the road running directly to Chadagh was too small for their truck.

“I told ops we had the orders. Manifest says… hm. Irrigation equipment. We're carrying three palettes of irrigation equipment to an agricultural workshop on the southern edge of town." Joe scanned the route; the mountain lion's purr was an irritated growl. “Have to take the A7, probably."

“Well, at least it's a change of scenery."

“Sure," Joe said. “And plenty of time to take it in. Driving at ten percent throttle is one of my favorite parts of the job."

FOD check clear. Approach boss, stand by for final cues. Three minutes.

Joe was the first to spot the freighter, coming down on the standard approach path for orbital traffic. “It's a Bremerhaven, I think," she said, when it was close enough to perceive detail. “Yeah. It has to be, with those water-landing skirts."

“Double-sawbuck?"

“Yep. And they pack 'em to the gills." Joe had worked as a station-master before her company let her go; she retained an encyclopedic knowledge of all the different starships in service. “This one's coming in underweight, though."

“It is?"

She nodded. “I keep trying to teach you, shep. The load-light cue on the port side has three green stripes. Watch. They won't flare with the AG compensators before they land." Sure enough, the freighter didn't slow its descent, drifting to a smooth halt on the landing pad. “It's a bit odd, but what do I know? We're just teamsters."

Joe went on to explain that the freighter was designed for bulky agricultural cargo, and the engines were designed to be at their most efficient when it was fully loaded. It suggested to her that the ship must've been the only one available on short notice for some kind of special charter.

They pulled their Tarvos up to the landing pad, waiting for the ship to cool off. Rashun Chani, a senior inspector for the spaceport, joined them. Presently the freighter's boarding ramp dropped, and a human woman made her way down it. Her stride was cautious and ungainly; the ship must not have had artificial gravity.

“Ma nam Simcox—eg esta erst-offizant el bato. Stromsprak? Engelsk?"

“Engelsk awa elag Russisk," Inspector Rashun replied. “Nos ne parlos Stromsprak. Eg apologa."

“Huh. Well, I'm Chief Simcox, then," she started over. “No pidgin?"

“Most of our international traffic came from the Alliance," the Border Collie explained. “We're learning, but slowly. What've you got for us?"

“Agricultural goods and three tons of dunnage. Your cargo is in these containers here."

Inspector Rashun held his paw up to the scanner on the container's side. The scanner was designed for human hands, and it took a few extra seconds for the Border Collie's authorization to be registered. “Irrigation pipes," he read aloud.

The irrigation pipes in question took up nearly the full length of the three meter long container they'd been packed in, surrounded by cushioning foam. They were too heavy to lift, but Håsen could see inside the opening. There were two metal tracks inside, and the pipe around them was marked with coolant coils and electrical fittings. “Looks like it," Simcox said.

“Four in each crate, six containers in total?"

“Yep. Seventy-two meters of irrigation pipes."

“Nothing valuable or restricted?" This didn't really matter. Being new—and recognized only by the Orion Soviet—the Kashkin wasn't obligated to follow interstellar shipping conventions. Transportation Minister Korden, though, hoped that they could salvage some goodwill by continuing to act the part of good citizens.

Despite the obviousness of the charade. Chief Simcox played along. “Not that I know of," she said. “Agricultural law isn't my specialty, though."

Rashun closed the container, signed off on the paperwork, and handed the computer back. “Fair enough. I trust you." The Border Collie turned to the truck drivers. “You know where this is going, right? There's an agricultural supply workshop in south Chadagh—Kitlu Jahatha will take them off your hands."

“Kitlu Jahatha," Joe echoed, confirming the name on the computer that held their orders. “Sure thing." Rashun escorted Chief Simcox back to her ship, and Håsen helped Joe get the containers into the back of their Tarvos.

The loaded crates weighed a ton each, uncompensated. They were Yucatec-style, though, with antigravity plating along the walls. Between the two, they were able to slide all six into the hoverdyne. Joe used the AG plating to lock the crates to the metal of the cargo bay, then nodded curtly.

“Everything looks good. We can head out whenever you want, shep."

“Six thousand kilograms of containerized machinery," Håsen mused. “In an agricultural transport designed to carry three times that."

“Like I said, I'm sure it was just the only tramp ship handy." Joe flashed him a grin before tossing her computer into the cockpit of the Tarvos and pulling herself up and into the truck. “Beggars can't be choosers, as the humans say."

The shepherd followed suit, getting into the driver's seat and closing the door behind him. “I'm sure that was it. Twenty-four three-meter irrigation pipes."

“So it seems."

“Didn't they land a dozen tractors the day before last?"

Joe arched an eyebrow. “More agricultural machinery, you mean?"

The frames, parked over in a vehicle yard, were genuine farm equipment—still painted their original yellow, with worn lettering on the side that identified them as coming from the Narodnyy Rapsovyy Institut Krasnopesky. “Can't the Khalitsa tank be upgraded with electronically stabilized barrels for its main turret?"

“If you thought something was amiss, you should've told inana Rashun."

“I was just asking." He returned the sharp-fanged grin the mountain lion flashed at him. “Controls standing by. What's the word?"

“Systems all check out. Ready final startup."

“Secure the APU."

“Securing. Five second to lock. Three. APU… secure. Starboard and port bus are clean, aux is clean. Voltages—eh. Primary's nominal, backup is down two volts. Same gripe I filed last week."

“Worried about it?"

She shook her head. “Nah. It's out of spec, that's all. The reactor can handle it." They shared engineering resources with the OVKK, who had first priority—little mechanical problems were going unfixed as a matter of routine. “Rest checks out. NAVCAS powered and aligned. Zero-zero."

The light on his control panel for the navigational and control augmentation system clicked over to a steady green. “Good. Energizing the main drive. Tactical check. Standby command sync."

“Self-test complete. Code A3," Joe reported back. “But just in case, we're heavy and down on power, so maybe don't fire the laser unless we really have to."

“Yeah," he said, laughing. “I'll be careful. A3 confirmed." The Tarvos had an x-ray laser to sweep minor debris from the road in front of them—they'd yet to use it even once. There weren't any other gripes; he checked the radio and clicked the transmit switch. “Control, Tarvos Four. We're outbound for Chadagh via the A10 and the A7. Weight check, eleven point five."

“Tarvos Four, control. Your papers are in order. You need weather?"

Håsen looked through the canopy glass up at a clear, scorchingly blue sky. “Control, negative. We're good."

“Tarvos Four, copy. You're—what? Yes. Yes. Ah—stand by, Tarvos Four." Something must've interrupted the controller; things were often hectic in their office.

“Standing by." After a minute had gone by, Håsen disconnected the drive motor and let the Tarvos settle back to the ground. “Think they went looking for an agricultural expert to certify those pipes?"

Joe snickered, saying nothing, and leaned back in her seat.

Approaching freighter. The pair perked up at the sound of the spaceport-wide speakers coming to life. Gold Team, report to stations. Landing Ops, confirm FOD check clear and ready ground power at Alva-Six. An outbound flight hold is now in effect. Active teams, check control for radiation and zone guidance.

“There's no other ship on the manifest. I checked before I left." Joe pulled the ceiling-mounted visor down so she could peer through it, and Håsen heard whirring servomotors turning the sensor array to face the approach pattern.

“Gold Team doesn't even have a full complement right now—the second truck is in the shop until the afternoon." Håsen didn't know any more about the new ship, although they weren't sounding an emergency so somebody must've been waiting. “Control, Tarvos Four. We're standing by to depart, please advise."

“We're going clean, Tarvos Four. Shut down your emitters."

The shepherd sighed and killed the Tarvos's electrical systems. Next to him, Joe grumbled as her visor went dark. “My roommate would've told me if they had undeclared inbound. Maybe somebody had to divert, though…"

“From where?"

The ship came in low, fast, and from the south. Joe described it as a 'bantam,' stevedore slang for the little ships that couldn't make orbit and were used to shuttle freight between surface docks. She couldn't tell the type.

Aless Ha'kin's harbor crews swarmed the ship immediately, without waiting for it to cool down. From what Håsen could tell, nobody even bothered to shut off the main reactor: heat shimmered from the radiator panels, twisting the mountains behind the vessel into eerie mirage.

His first thought had been that it was a diplomatic ship, carrying important passengers, but the crates being unloaded were standard cargo containers, not equipped for live transport. In twenty minutes the freighter was completely emptied. Five minutes after that her thrusters fired, and the mysterious transport lifted off and sped away back to the south.

Håsen looked to Joe, but the mountain lion shared his baffled expression. And then she grunted. “Maybe we'll find out?" Someone from the ground crew was running over towards them.

“Tarvos Four?"

“Yeah."

“We need to get you unloaded. Come on." The stevedore's tone did not imply time for questions. With his help they pulled the six crates out, and he pointed them over towards the now-vacant landing pad where Gold Team's one operational hoverdyne was already being loaded.

Inspector Rashun nodded his greetings to the Tarvos crew. “Sorry for the last-minute change of plans, but we need your help."

Without asking Joe, or Håsen for that matter, moreaus had opened the truck's cargo hatch and started fitting the remaining crates in place. “Help with what?" the mountain lion asked, glancing between Rashun and the bustling crew.

“It was need-to-know. Gold Team was supposed to have their other Tarvos working by now, but… oh well. So much for plans. I'll have another truck take your machinery to Chadagh when Gold Team gets in. These are going to the depot at Kir."

“What are they?"

Rashun tapped the latch of one of the remaining crates, which swung open promptly. Inside, row after row of ammunition was neatly nestled into protective foam. The shells were the size of Håsen's arm, and came to a pointy tip. “Recoilless rifle rounds for the PG92. Boosted, with anti-armor penetrators. At least, that's what I'm told."

The shepherd wondered how it had been declared on the manifest. What was the cover story? Fireworks? 'Spare parts'? “Agricultural equipment? Scrap metal?"

“No. There's no manifest at all. That's why this needs to move now."

“Yassuja," Joe breathed. “The orbital task force is out of sight, isn't it?"

“For another forty minutes," Rashun confirmed. Three stevedores were waiting impatiently; as soon as the Border Collie closed the crate again they swung it into the back of the Tarvos. That was the last of them, and one of the crew slammed the hatch shut. Rashun glanced to make sure nothing had been forgotten, double-checked the manifest computer—then dropped it to the tarmac and crushed it under his boot. “Get to Kir Kodaw. You know the way, I'm sure."

“What are we carrying?" Håsen asked. “We unloaded our assigned cargo."

Rashun ground the computer beneath his heel, staring blankly at the shepherd. “What are you carrying? You should know, after all."

“Nothing," Joe answered. “We're empty. Just going for a test drive. We've been having a gripe with the backup power generator on Tarvos Four… "

“Sounds right. There wasn't anything to transport, anyway. The only ship is that double-sawbuck over there, and she's already spoken for. Håsen?" the inspector prompted.

“I didn't see anything. Joe's the ex-stationmaster—I can't tell a freighter from a folding chair. I just drive these things. Speaking of which, Joe, I guess we should probably get started if we want to figure out that generator…"

***

Kashkin Self-Defense Forces Headquarters

Corsini, Kashkin

13/2/2538

Halinchi, who had asked for the briefing from General Altalanuk, qualified it by saying: tell me only what I need to know. The Defense Minister smiled darkly, for it was a dangerous question and they both knew it.

“Fine," the badger corrected herself. “At least tell me what I can plausibly deny."

“No maps," Alta said; Major Kalasos, the third figure in the room, gave a subtle nod. “Officially, the army remains unchanged since the truce. That constrains our planning, since we assume that any preparations we make along the border will be detected."

The Ibizan spoke from memory on the unofficial numbers. The OVKK now amounted to ten battalions, up from seven; she intended to increase that by another three. They had enough volunteers, but not enough equipment, and training continued to pose challenges. “What's the gap between theoretical numbers and your actual strength?" Halinchi asked.

“As it stands, about six hundred. Between now and the plan I suggested to President Kodja, the gap is about three times that."

“But you have enough recruits?"

Alta gestured with her paw for Major Kalasos to explain. “Immigration is up since the ceasefire across the board. Of them, about twenty percent express some interest in enlistment—courtesy of recruiting drives we've been conducting. Half of those have existing experience, which makes integrating them much easier."

“The ha'janangja," Altalanuk said.

“Right." Kalasos said at once. “Our relations with the Orion Soviet have opened the door to immigration from some of their worlds. Many of those volunteers are veterans. They don't speak Rukhat, but they do have training and they're familiar with the equipment we're using. By last count, there are around three hundred ha'janangja in various stages of integration."

“I imagine you're still pessimistic about our performance in actual combat."

“There's no way around that, ma'am. We're outnumbered and undersupplied, and we can't replace our losses in either as quickly as the JMA can. And growing larger causes its own problems. We've never had to coordinate this many moving pieces before. If fighting resumes, it will be a dramatic way to learn."

Halinchi nodded, but she thought about everything she'd seen. And, in truth, it didn't look so bad. “But it seems like you've done a decent job of getting us back up to strength. I'm impressed. Even with the arms embargo, you've been able to bring in this much equipment…"

“Exigent circumstances, Minister Halinchi. We had to gain experience in smuggling when they shut down our access to McKeever Spaceport, and everyone knows what's at stake. We'll use every day you can buy us to build up strength."

The badger didn't know, and couldn't say, how long she could buy them. The shuttle that would take her back to orbit left directly from Aless Ha'kin, and that at least gave her the opportunity to reflect on what Altalanuk said. A freighter had recently landed; dockworkers buzzed around it with precise urgency.

She feared it would be that way on the human side of the border, at McKeever Spaceport. But it was impossible to say for sure. It counted as something of an open secret—nobody had even dared mention it. Halinchi wasn't about to be the first.

She looked over the agenda for the day's session. JRA to discuss amendment to proposed joint recommendation on border; it was the first item listed and Halinchi stopped reading, because she already knew it would take the entire day to settle.

Nobody had attached the amendment itself; she could still guess at the contents. The working draft of a treaty that would guarantee an autonomous moreau colony under the administration of the Jericho Business Council established the eastern border at the Little Falls River.

Whether the area in between was neutral territory or owned outright by the council was a matter of dispute, as was the question of restitution for displaced moreau settlers. One of those, Halinchi figured, would be the subject of the amendment from the Jericho Representative Alliance.

They had come to establish themselves as a separate group from the Jericho Business Council, whose liaison—a slight, dark-complected man who'd lived on Jericho his entire life—had been looking increasingly frazzled. Wayne Mattie never raised his voice, but Halinchi couldn't help noticing the way he fidgeted with his note-taking computer.

The Jericho Representative Alliance spoke for the settlers and wildcat mining companies of the Dun Gap and its eastern highlands. Shaeffer Moody clearly saw them as being Jericho's true heirs—her resentment with the JBC was why native-born Mattie replaced the previous negotiator.

That hadn't really helped. Janet Allenby, mediating on behalf of the sector government, was frustrated, too. “Maybe we can make progress today?" They were waiting for Moody to arrive.

“Hopefully," Wayne answered. “I never thought it would take this long—swear to God, if it wasn't for the per diem…"

Janet nodded. “I'm missing my daughter's birthday… second in a row. I promised my husband I'd be back last month." She sighed. “What about you, Ms. Halinchi? You don't have any family, right?"

She shook her head; her job had never allowed for it. Too much work to do, too many late nights—and there weren't many other badgers on Jericho to begin with. Halinchi did regret missing yet another summer planetside in the Kashkin. Evenings along the waterfront in Ikashta were some of her favorite memories.

“It wasn't that nice in Almakyh?"

He meant Novy Almakyhstan, the nearest colony loyal to the Orion Soviet. Janet looked over sharply. “That's not necessary, Mr. Mattie."

Shaeffer Moody came through the door a minute later, with the tension still high in the room. “Sorry I was late," she said, tossing her jacket over one of the chairs. “Delay in clearing our ship for docking. I guess."

“Understandable," Janet Allenby said, though it really wasn't. Everyone knew the orbital schedules, and built any needed buffer into the transit times so they could begin on schedule. “But we can get right down to business. You submitted a request for a joint amendment, but we haven't seen the text, yet."

“Yes. Right, right." Moody brushed her hair back, pulled a computer from her purse, and connected it to a holographic display in the table so everyone else could follow along. “We'll amend section three as follows. The entire section is struck, and replaced with the following line: 'Border security and inspection will be administered by the JRA following a six-month transitional period. The Jericho Business Council will appoint a committee to oversee the transition.'"

Allenby, listening carefully, nodded. “Anything else?"

“We've agreed to pay ten percent over market rates for the equipment from the JMA, and to handle all necessary transport and setup costs. If JMA engineers are required, we'll also pay time and a half in addition to their usual salary."

Wayne had slid the battery compartment of his computer open and was rolling the power cylinders around in their slot. “Can you go over what happens during the 'transitional period'?"

“Training on the weapons and equipment, and moving any necessary equipment to JRA outposts. Colonel Robert Singer will manage the transitional team."

“Didn't he resign?"

“He'll stay on with a one-time six thousand obol bonus, to be paid by the JMA."

Mattie turned the computer over, and his fingers brushed the screen while he reviewed his own notes. “I have no record to this effect. Did the JMA agree to that?"

“They will."

“No they won't—not with the after-action summary where he's blamed for most of what went wrong. The JBC won't agree to it, either."

Moody shrugged. “It's six grand. We can finance it, then."

“You're not listening to me. We won't agree to this. Singer is toxic. So is… what's his name, Rodriguez? The one who was running things at Port George Moody. They're both off the table."

“Well, somebody has to run it."

Mattie was beginning to build up steam, though. “That's assuming we even consent to selling you two thousand tons of military hardware. That has to go through business planning and finance, and—as you know—we'll request an audit from the Colonial Defense Authority on transfer policy for anything in Class C or above."

“You'll have to expedite it, then," Moody insisted. “Look, we're not going to stand around and let you hang us out to dry again.“

Janet Allenby held up her hand. “Point of order. Mr. Mattie, was this not agreed beforehand? I thought this was a joint proposal."

“First I've seen it."

“Ms. Moody, did you send this to the Jericho Business Council for review?"

“Not yet. It's all self-explanatory."

Allenby looked to gauge Wayne Mattie's expression. “I would disagree. Let's take a short break, while you two get an actual joint proposal together. If it's unacceptable to the JBC, there's no point in even putting it in the document."

“It won't be unacceptable," Moody insisted. “That should be obvious."

“But it doesn't seem to be. Get their approval," Allenby ordered. She watched the two depart, then eyed her coffee mug as if a measure of reinforcing whiskey could be added telepathically. “They didn't even discuss it… unbelievable."

“They seem to disagree on many things. That makes things complicated."

Allenby snorted. “And what about you? Do you have comments, Ms. Halinchi?"

“I'll wait to see the final proposal."

“Really? You have no comments?"

“Not before the final proposal, no. It would be pointless to speculate."

The human woman started to object before sighing heavily. “And then you'll need to ask for your government's feedback before replying to me. Correct? Because, you're going to tell me, you can't speak on your own about security matters."

Halinchi knew where Allenby was going; it had been unavoidable. But she stayed quiet, letting the human actually say the words.

“If you're not going to negotiate with us in good faith, then what's the point? We might as well give up now. You're just as bad as they are—and we're all just wasting everyone's time. Pretending that we'll accomplish anything. Pretending you're even willing to compromise." She waited. “Do you have anything to say?"

“What are we supposed to compromise on?"

“Anything? Do you think I'm blind? Do you think we don't know you're in violation of the arms embargo?"

“As far as the embargo is concerned, I would expect there are substantial transgressions on behalf of the two Jericho groups."

“You won't even admit it! Why am I here?"

And Halinchi knew the human was in a difficult position. She liked Allenby, even; she didn't like having to make her life more complicated. Sometimes there was no way of avoiding that. “You know what those two want, even if they disagree on methods. They want our land. They want us gone."

“The sector ecclesia is willing to grant concessions, you know—we talked about it. We can help."

“If their demand is our annihilation, Ms. Allenby, I can't meet it halfway. I can't even imagine what it would mean to do so. Suppose we agree to disarm and trust them with our security. Next year they impose new tariffs on our goods. The year after that, they expropriate a few hundred hectares of farmland. You'll help? The Colonial Defense Authority will come back, with peacekeepers? Can you promise that?"

“Would it matter if I did?" She took up her coffee mug, staring dismally into the contents. “Without revealing anything, just answer me one question. When you talk to your government, do you tell the truth about what's happening here?"

“My truth, yes," Halinchi said. “I tell them that I think the Jericho factions will never consent to an autonomous colony, and they won't consent to an independent colony. I tell President Kodja that I think the Alliance itself is not evil, but that he's right to fear entrusting the sector ecclesia with our safety when so much of our neighbors' intent is already well-known. I tell him that you do not mean to harm us, and General Mazzanti does not mean to harm us, but that you'll seek the path of least resistance."

“That was a long answer to a simple question."

“Your question was hardly simple," the badger replied. “Do you want to know if I'm buying time?"

“I want to know if you think this can succeed."

“That isn't simple, either. Do you think it can? Do you see an outcome where, in five years' time, you and I could sit on this ship, in this room, and talk about the progress we've made since a treaty? An outcome where, in five years, there is a Foreign Minister Korteran Halinchi to have that talk with you? Do you think Moody and Dr. Walburn or his deputies would allow that?"

Janet rose and went to fill her coffee. And when she sat back down, she let the cup cool for several minutes while the both of them remained silent. “Perhaps," she finally said. “Perhaps I don't, but I'm not happy with the alternatives. Telling the Gemini ecclesia these talks were a failure puts new pressure on me. It makes it harder to avoid transferring weapons to the JMA, at least."

“You would?"

“I wouldn't want to. I told you we had a moreau growing up, a housekeeper."

“I looked into it," Halinchi admitted.

The story came up in idle discussion, a month earlier. Like many humans who wanted to be sympathetic, Allenby professed a fondness for her family's servant. She emphasized how well he'd been treated; how her father set the moreau free when the last of the children had left for college.

Janet had wanted to know where he might've gone, to assuage her conscience. Halinchi had no answer, and she'd kept her true feelings to herself—that she was not in the business of offering benediction. Curiosity finally bade her look up Allenby's family history. Intuition helped with the research.

“Then you know he was a badger. You don't remind me of him." Allenby stopped, chuckling quietly. “Does that make it better or worse? It's easy for me to wish you the best, Ms. Halinchi; I don't live here. I don't have to see the outcome one way or the other."

“But you're frustrated. With me, too."

“Yes."

They were all just buying time. Treading water, and fearing that the first to admit it might drown them all. Halinchi knew she had disappointed Allenby, and regretted it. But her world was full of necessary sacrifices.

“He wound up living in a mixed, non-aligned colony out towards the Spur. The address was current as of about five years ago—it might still be current, but their records aren't very good. He worked at a spaceport."

“Family?"

“I don't know."

“Is it strange if I hope so?"

She didn't know the answer to that, either.

***

al-Hashida cell A den

Irjakh, Kashkin

7/5/2538

Darwin didn't know much about the ongoing negotiations; the Hashida didn't have many contacts in the Foreign Ministry to start with and they hadn't encountered much luck in finding more.

And, for the previous week, the Border Collie had been dealing with politics of his own. Five months into the cease-fire was enough to agitate the more restless—and snappish—of the Hashida. Their numbers were steady, the stockpiles were in good order, and they had nothing to use them on.

“There hasn't been much of a threat," Darwin pointed out. “And the OVKK doesn't want to look aggressive."

“Of course not," Tacherat said, and the tiger bared his teeth in a grin. “But you have an odd way of pronouncing 'competent.' Is that Kashkin dialect?"

His second-in-command had been honing that thesis for most of the year. The OVKK, having just barely eked out a victory—with unacknowledged help from the Hashida—was content to rest on their laurels rather than doing anything that might risk having to prove their worth a second time.

Tacherat pointed out, consistently, that none of the Kashkin's true objectives had actually been achieved. Numerous strategic weaknesses compromised the border, their enemies were still powerful, their allies were hesitant, and the civilian government remained unrecognized.

If the sessions were late enough at night, and the tempers ran high, the tiger would add a growling and beyond that…

Beyond that, the brief fighting aroused the question of moreau rights elsewhere in the Alliance and failed completely to answer it. Observers watching the behavior of small moreau enclaves could speculate about whether the time had finally come to demand equal rights—but the Kashkin offered no solution.

Obviously some felt that change was coming. Immigration into the Kashkin had increased the whole year, well beyond the poorly enforced limits imposed according to the terms of the ceasefire. By some accounts they were a hundred thousand strong. What are we doing to set a good example? Tacherat would ask.

Darwin felt the tiger hinted at subtext he would not say aloud. Immigration had gone up, but the Hashida's volunteers came largely from existing citizens of the Commonwealth. New residents joined the OVKK, if they volunteered for combat service at all.

And so, Darwin believed, Tacherat feared irrelevance. The Hashida had been instrumental in securing the Kashkin's independence. Their direct action had forced the conversation to take place, and they'd been willing to meet human incursion with force where General Altalanuk's overcautiousness prevented an official response.

This much, the Border Collie could accept. Sometimes, though, the tiger's invective carried with it the scent of injured pride. Now, for instance. “It is absolutely imperative that we remind the Kashkin who, exactly, they have to thank for what they've earned. And we do that by reminding our enemies who, exactly, they have to fear."

“And do they need reminding?"

“I'm surprised you have to ask. They're getting too comfortable, Darwin. Talking about reopening their mining operations, even at Morris Camp."

Given the mineral wealth at stake, he wasn't surprised. “Clearing the debris would take years. It's a long-term threat."

“And a short-term provocation," Tacherat replied.

Kita Hadaran cleared her throat. “There would even be ways to show our presence without striking the construction works again. Intelligence has been tracking regular supply convoys. To be honest, their very regularity means they think they have nothing to fear. They should."

Tacherat grinned; Darwin saw the tiger's tail lashing behind his back. “I was worried about you, Kita. I thought your maternal instinct might—"

“Maternal instinct doesn't mean cowardice," she snapped, cutting him off. “A limited operation wouldn't expose us to much reprisal, but it would teach a lesson."

“How limited?"

Kita had the convoy schedule ready. “One of these two. Six-vehicle convoys, with only a limited escort and no cover. If we disabled the armored trucks, everything else would be easy prey."

“Less than an hour to strike and escape back to friendly territory," Tacherat continued. Darwin wondered if they'd come up with the plan together. “If we positioned ourselves in the heights, here and here, we'd be hidden from detection until it was too late. And we'd leave no survivors."

“The scales are still imbalanced." Kita Hadaran looked at the wall of their planning office, where a memorial hung: a bit of scrap metal from Shadesh, inscribed with the names of the Hashida fallen. “And they shouldn't be there to begin with."

Darwin couldn't think of Shadesh without a flash of anger making its presence known, but he did what he could to calm down. “We at least need to consider what might happen if we attack."

“You sound like the general." Tacherat's voice was mocking, but subtly so. Enough that if he were called on it, the tiger would play the accusation off as an obvious joke. “We know what happens: they stop running the convoys for a few days, and start spending money on escorts."

“Making the operation unprofitable," Kita concluded. “Right now, there's no way it's valuable enough to justify counterattacking. If we wait, they start to invest more… eventually it will be worth defending. But not if we strike now."

“Let me think about it for a day, at least. Until then, we stay quiet. Don't let our cells think that we're gearing up to start fighting again before we know that we are." He pointed to the memorial. “Remember, we've already proven ourselves."

Tacherat raised his eyebrow drily. “To a Kashkin barely a week old. Now it's almost half a year. What have we proven since?"

***

Northern Front HQ

West of Encha, Kashkin

8/5/2538

Marel had the noise cancellation turned on medium-strength in his earpiece, but it wasn't enough to mute the sounds of gunfire. He tried to concentrate on what they knew, not on what came through the chaos on the radio.

“Satar requests an update," the radioman announced. “It's General Alta herself."

The fennec nodded and gestured to his ear, indicating the link should be patched through directly to him. “Satar, Chizukh actual. The border guard at Encha is being engaged. We're taking direct light-weapons fire."

“From?"

“I don't know, ma'am. Signals indicate around a platoon, probably dismounted. Nothing heavy yet. We can hold out."

“Understood. Keep the border secure, then. We'll have a new threat picture for you in five minutes. Satar, out."

His battalion had been cycled in to take over border security two weeks before. They were still reasonably well-rested, and reasonably well-equipped. Marel believed he could trust them. While he waited for the intelligence update, he moved one of armor companies closer, to act as a reserve if the JMA decided to attack with anything more serious than plasma cannons.

It seemed like harassing fire. The fennec's intuition told him that the humans weren't looking to attack. Or, if they were, Encha wasn't their goal—apparently they were focusing on the southeastern border. Why?

“Lieutenant Alishi."

The shepherd looked up from her computer. “Sir?"

“You live in the dinal-shadesh, don't you?"

“Yes, sir." Kitenja Alishi was a young computer operator; she'd been detached with the other survivors of Sanuk Kara's battalion after the fall of Shadesh. “My pack lives in Nahan Degh, a few kilometers south of the city. What… was the city, anyway."

“Have they said anything about human activity? Even rumors?"

She shook her head. “No, colonel. But maybe something happened beyond the river?" Four months into the cease-fire, some citizens had returned to rebuild Shadesh and a few more were resettling the dinal-shadesh—'around Shadesh,'—the town's outlying hills and farms. Not very many, though; the last strategic report Marel saw said there was still two OVKK soldiers for every civilian.

Still, they were citizens, and those needed to be protected as any other packmate. “I hope they're safe. Can I get a signals update? What's the enemy's disposition?"

“We have eighty percent disambiguation on thirty—three-zero—radiators. No cloaking devices, no targeting scanners, but comms and man-portable rangefinders. It could be as many as thirty-five or forty, but…"

The radioman spoke up. “Ulak Company has casualties, sir. Two wounded from a direct hit on a 450. They're asking for fire support or to pull back to new positions."

Secure the border. “Give the battery permission to return fire. Only on what Ulak can see, and only what's necessary to suppress our opponents. One mission at a time."

“Yes, sir."

“Satar to all units. Call for new picture."

With the radio message, Marel focused his attention on the tactical computer and turned the noise-cancellation to full power. The outside world dropped away.

“Threat picture is current at 1400. An enemy attack is underway in response to the destruction of a convoy in the Jackson Gap. By all indications, their reaction is uncoordinated and erratic: two companies of light infantry in the Shadesh sector, with an equal number around Encha. They have no armor or indirect support. We believe their objective is to prevent or contain an incursion into human territory.

“The Kashkin government is in contact with the diplomatic mission in orbit to resolve this situation as quickly and painlessly as we can. Until we know more, your orders are to keep your respective sectors secure. Don't let them cross the border. Don't cross the border yourselves. Is that clear?"

'The destruction of a convoy.' Even the absence of detail was telling. If the OVKK had been responsible for it, Marel knew Alta would've told them. So it was the Hashida, instead, busy playing soldier and stirring up trouble. Marel growled. Rash and aggressive as Alta might've thought the fennec, at least he'd never stooped to their level.

Marel acknowledged the instructions and checked the position of his battalion again. They were in a good place to contain anything coming through the Encha border crossing. What about the north?

We're vulnerable there. If I was the JMA, I'd only be probing the area around the Na'hosh Line enough to make sure most of my enemy's strength was still there. The OVKK didn't have a proper defense in depth, not with the reserve stood down. A human assault from north of Terr Chanat wouldn't meet much in the way of resistance.

That was where they'd attacked before, while the colony was still officially part of the Alliance. They'd leveled Tascat Degh; Marel himself had been the one to force them back across the border. Perhaps they intended to try again, to finish the job…

What were the odds? He had to trust headquarters. The humans didn't want to fight. Everyone was reacting on instinct. They were acting defensively. They were just trying to make sure the OVKK didn't—

“Shanik Company requests orders, sir. They're picking up an aerial contact."

Aerial? “Signals."

“I can confirm the contact," Lieutenant Alishi said, “but no details. It's small, moving relatively quickly. Fifteen hundred meters in altitude. I think I can grab a visual..."

The blurry silhouette sharpened as the computers had time to do their work. Marel didn't recognize the vehicle. It was small enough to be a private transport—but those had no business in a combat zone, and if he squinted… “Are those hardpoints under the wings?"

“I don't know, sir."

Sure look like it. Most of his battalion's 450s were converted civilian tractors. Their crude antimissile defenses wouldn't be able to respond in time to a quick pass from a ground-attack aircraft. How many missiles would the enemy craft have? Twelve? Sixteen?

“Shanik Company has a firing solution," someone told him.

They wanted to know what to do with it. So did he. The aircraft wasn't taking evasive action. And, though it was coming straight towards them, for the moment it was still on the human side of the border.

A bluff? Maybe they're trying to bait us into revealing our defense systems? That could be the precursor to a larger attack. Maybe they were just scouting—their altitude let them see most of the Kashkin. Trying to size us up…

He would wait, the fennec decided. Hold off until they crossed the border. If they didn't do that, then—

“Signals. Active scanners—we're being lit up. It's—it's that ship, sir," Lieutenant Alishi reported.

Yassuja. “Tell Shanik to engage," he said, reflexively. “Take it out before it gets any closer. And get Satar on the line."

***

Commonwealth Capitol Building

City of Davis, Kashkin

8/5/2537

“Two dead, both in the south. Five wounded, none seriously, and two damaged 450s, both of them repairable." Altalanuk flicked her thumb, scrolling the report down a few lines. “Inanu Halinchi tells me the humans are reporting seven dead on the spy plane."

“Transport ship," Halinchi said, over the remote hololink. “They're calling it a transport."

There would be time enough for self-judgment over what had happened; the Ibizan was in no mood to do so unnecessarily. “A converted light transport equipped with weapons and surveillance equipment. It was a warplane, my men were engaged, and they shot it down."

“Inside Jericho territory," the badger pressed. “I'm not blaming you, general, but that is what they're going to say. And they're right. We fired on a human ship, on their side of the border."

“With cause. Now," Alta continued, lest they become caught up on that point. “We've stood down, and our intel confirms that they have, too. Nothing more needs to happen at gunpoint."

President Kodja nodded, and gestured with his paw for her to take her seat. “Thank you, general. As far as the provocation is concerned: it was the Hashida?"

“Yes. There hasn't been an official claim yet, but it's their territory and their mode of operation." The Ibizan thought, briefly, over how much truly needed revealing. Then she realized it didn't matter. “We may not have clear answers immediately, Mr. President."

“Why not?"

“Domestic surveillance didn't give any advanced warning, and they didn't inform our operations center. Combined with their silence on taking responsibility, it may be that the attack wasn't officially sanctioned."

Kodja sighed heavily. So, after a momentary delay caused by the distance, did Halinchi. “Hashida splinter groups? Mr. President, we need a show of good faith immediately."

“What would that take?"

“I'm not sure. I don't yet know how far they'll want to push this. The Jericho Business Council's relationship with the settlers' groups is complex. I'm sure the settlers will be calling for military reprisals. The JBC won't be inclined to grant favors to them, but there is the matter of the plane we shot down."

Altalanuk had a file labeled 'contingencies'—all the worst-case scenarios the Ibizan could think of. She told herself it helped her stay prepared. “What if we disarmed the Hashida and offered restitution?"

“I don't know at this point, general. It can't hurt. They'll probably also demand we turn over the perpetrators of the original attack for trial. I guess we don't know who those are yet, though, do we?"

They didn't, and murmurs around the conference table told Alta the rest of the story. Extraditing a citizen—even under the circumstances—made everyone uncomfortable. She could only content herself with the fact that, for the moment, the fighting had stopped and didn't seem likely to resume.

For the most part.

Kodja dismissed the regular session, keeping behind a few of his cabinet. For once, she wasn't among them: it was Levin, Shenkiy, and Stara Koshath. Probably a question over the budget, or employment numbers. The retriever was doing the same thing as she—pretending everything would work out and planning for the future.

Alta shut her eyes, taking deep breaths of the warm evening air outside the capitol building. She sent a quick message back to Corsini, putting the OVKK reserve on alert. Her finger stayed, hovering over the transmit button on her communicator. “Shanun. It's Talla."

“Al-hakhnan goru, jananga."

“Ko sonan. Al-sark nalkozhkillu."

“Al-tak rukha, jankito?" 'Time calls for it, sister?' Rukhat had no passive voice; when a task needed doing, 'time' was said to call for its completion.

She wondered if he'd understand her dismal laugh: it was far too late to be using the present tense. Time had long since called. “Rålrukhit, janhata. Kattan Genakhot zada inanu Joshika ghanhasaru."

“Nan'tag, jankito." Shanun, whose name she had first encountered in the Starlight Faction decades before, switched to English before signing off: “I'm sorry."

Too late for that, too, old friend. She wanted to drive to Kodajuk, to see what Khalizai might have been making for dinner. She wanted to keep her eyes closed, and feel his paw on her shoulder, and to catch the smell of tea sneaking through his bungalow.

But her transport was waiting. The driver who took her back to the OVKK's headquarters complex said nothing, though she could see that he wanted to. He read something in the Ibizan's expression. He saw the way her eyes had aged.

Shanun was good. Trustworthy. The retriever's ears had been damaged when a starship depressurized; he'd spent three lifetimes' pay on the replacements. Shanun said he could hear the future when it weighed its options.

She hoped he was right.

Two hours later, the stars had come out, somewhere on the far side of the bunker's armored ceiling. Alta ignored them; she was trying to hear what options the future might have been considering.

Instead she heard the radio traffic from the operations center, and curt orders. And, finally, booted footfalls. She stood to meet Colonel Genakhot, coming to attention in the open doorway. “At ease, colonel."

“It's done."

“Casualties?" Genakhot silently passed her a computer. She scanned it quickly. Fifteen. No bystanders. “Better than it could've been. Darwin?"

Darwin had been handcuffed to the table, and two armed guards waited outside the door, but the Border Collie didn't look like he was in the mood to escape. When Alta entered the room, he met her gaze with only a nod of acknowledgment.

“Where shall we begin?"

“That's up to you, general."

She set the computer Genakhot had given her upright, where the Border Collie could read it. In conjunction with his own arrest, she hoped Darwin would get the message. “It's over."

“The Hashida are more than just me, Altalanuk," he said.

“We've arrested another two dozen of you. The ones I know. And the supply depots. Probably not all of those, either, not more than we know all of your senior leadership. But the one in Irjakh, and in Sedi Ha'chaga, and Kidrin, and south of the border in the unoccupied territories. It's over."

He listened carefully, without betraying any emotion. “We have others, yes. And the will—and the financing. It's not as simple as capturing a few workshops."

Alta laid her paw over his and squeezed down to get his attention. The longer she held it, the more his mood seemed to shift. “It's as simple as telling you that the Hashida are now a proscribed organization in our country. If you don't disband, I'll arrest every last one of them. And if they resist, I'll have them shot."

“That's where you want to spend your ammunition?"

Her claws dug in, and Darwin flinched. “The army defends the borders of our country, Darwin. Its authority, and my authority, comes from the civilian government—not you radicals deciding to make your own policy. I should've realized that a long time ago. I'm stopping it now before it gets any worse."

“By shooting us?"

“No. By offering you a deal." She relaxed her grip on his paw. “I don't think you ordered the attack on the convoy. Probably you realize your control over the Hashida is more tenuous than you believed at first."

“We act with the best interests of the Kashkin in mind…"

“You provoked the first attack on our borders since the ceasefire. So, at best, you didn't do a very good job of promoting our 'best interests.' The Foreign Ministry says that human Jericho will demand a response. That means turning the perpetrators over for trial."

“I think the word in English is 'lynching.'" The fierce shake of his head finally animated him from complacency. “We won't give up our own."

“You will. I'll demand that they be tried by the Alliance, not by Jericho or their militias. I'm not naive enough to think that will make it fair, or that they might be released. But it's the best I can do."

“As far as you're concerned, then, it was my responsibility. I gave the orders."

“Fine. Who executed them? Who was on the ground?"

“I was. It was just me."

“Not good enough. Come up with the guilty parties and I'll offer a general amnesty for the others in al-Hashida. Some of them are probably fit for the OVKK. The rest can go back home to their families and their workplaces. If you don't, I'll have to start taking more serious measures. Minister Zahanish isn't unsympathetic to you, but he knows what has to be done. He agrees we can make a charge of treason against your pack hold water."

Darwin was slowly beginning to realize she had moved beyond simple bluster. His ears twitched. “These are fellow citizens…"

“Citizens putting the entirety of Commonwealth in jeopardy. Do you understand the meaning of that word, Darwin? Commonwealth?" She pulled up a chair and sat down, on the opposite side of the table from the Border Collie, waiting until he was ready to talk. “Speak."

“It means that… we… we work together for a shared goal. And we have. We have, general."

“Forget everything else. What did that attack on the convoy accomplish for us? How did it help us get closer to our goal, Darwin?"

“It showed that we weren't going to let them get away with provoking us. We weren't going to stay quiet..."

“Why not? Why wouldn't we? What's wrong with quiet, comrade? They know we'll fight them. Four thousand tons of scrap metal in the Encha Valley says we'll fight them, if we have to. Fighting when we have a choice, though? Why would we do that? To show that we're like them? Aggressive, mercurial…"

“What?"

She'd said mercurial, in a Rukhat accent. “Yaharshinkot," she clarified. Shinkot was a muzzle; yaharshinkot meant someone who intermittently required muzzling. The word shin, 'to bite,' was right in the Hashida's name. “We cannot be that way, Darwin."

“We can't give in, either, general. Even if it's easier."

“I order the flights into Aless Ha'kin. The ones that bring in contraband, in violation of the embargo. We have weapons trained on every incoming freighter. If they were intercepted—if the humans showed incontrovertible evidence of what we were doing, and demanded action—I'd order our air-defense teams to shoot those freighters down."

“Why?"

“Because otherwise our complicity becomes public. The air-defense commanders understand. The freighter captains know the stake. I pay them, and well. But they know it could happen. They choose to make the flight anyway."

“And you'll shoot us down, too."

She nodded. “If you make me, yes. Now: will you?"

***

Ford City, Yucatec Jericho

21/5/2538

“I'm… a little surprised."

“Not disappointed, though." Elodie Mott looked down at him, biting her lip gently to take the edge off her smile.

Max worked his finger's up the woman's side. She closed her eyes, and a little push was enough to topple her onto her back. “Not disappointed. It wasn't what I expected when you asked me over."

The message—text only—said that she had something to discuss. And for half an hour, they'd gone over the state of what was now being called the Jericho Coalition Army, which superseded the Jericho Military Authority and the centralized militia command headed by Shaeffer Moody.

For now, Max Kastner commanded the Coalition and Shaeffer Moody reported to him. In practice that meant he saw nothing of her, and he'd appointed his own liaison to pass orders down to the militia. He dreaded the thought of having to rely on them, and on having to rely on that particular chain of command.

He probably would, though. The militia had equipment. Somehow they'd acquired brand-new Denel Rooijakkals—the modern model 65E, certified for 'civilian' export. Barely three companies' worth of mechs, but in good condition, and more capable than his own.

The JBC approved most of his budget; acquisitions had gone haywire as soon as it became obvious that importing new munitions would take creative thinking. Some of the council saw violating the cease-fire as inherently problematic. Most of them saw it as profitable, and they wanted a share of brokering effective smugglers.

This had, thus far, only meant that very little smuggling happened at all. Generous reuse of spare parts and salvaged components left him with eighty Jackals, a hundred Pucara APCs and ninety LMAL-103 IFVs.

What's going to happen, he'd said, is when the ceasefire ends, that's when I'll be able to start bringing in new supplies.

Elodie Mott had nodded sympathetically. How long will that delay you? Two weeks, he'd said. You'll be able to manage. And that was when he'd felt her hand atop his, and the conversation began to wander…

And now, an hour later, she was pressed up against his side. “I'm taking a new job." That was how she finally broke the silence. “Figured you should know."

“Oh? When?"

“Soon as I can. I want to try and find somebody halfway decent to replace me." She laughed, her breath soft on his skin. “As you can imagine, the talent pool leaves something to be desired. But I'll try. I won't let them do you."

“No? Keeping that for yourself?"

“Oh, we earned a break." Elodie sighed. One of her fingers rubbed at his chest, tracing the outlines of a scar. It came from an accident—he'd been on his back under a truck, in college, and dropped a hot welder. The kind of thing that happened when you were young, and extremely stupid.

He wondered if she thought he'd gotten it in battle, perhaps. “Maybe we did. Are you going someplace in particular?"

“Sure am. Lined up a job on Rocono. You ever been to Rocono? The bay?"

“I've seen pictures of the moons setting over the bay, at least."

“Gorgeous. I'm going to work for Atlas."

“The astrocartography group?"

She shook her head, tilting back to look at him with a knowing smile. “The one that makes the exercise bikes. They're looking for a head of sales for the Rocono area. About half of the Pollux sector, in the end… last year they had seventy million in revenue for Pollux. I think I can get to seventy-four."

“Regional sales for a bike company? Bit of a step down," he suggested.

Her smile widened. “Is it?" And when he didn't answer she rolled onto him, straddling his hips, and repeated the question. He didn't answer then, either.

When he was alone, later, he could admit that he didn't really know. He'd wished her luck, and probably meant it. But really, she's not leaving because she realizes this is a bad idea, it's because she realizes the longer she stays, the more she has to face the consequences.

Was it hopeless? It might've been hopeless. Elodie was right: having told Max to put the Coalition together, they went back to divvying up the spoils of his inevitable conquest. Most of them listened when he warned that the militia was making a power play. A small but growing number seemed to think that might be the best outcome, anyway—that they might be able to annex West Jericho and pass the cost on to Moody.

A quarter of the Jericho Business Council still believed their defeat was a fluke and no additional work was required. The rest acknowledged the need to fix something, but not what. And to the extent that it suggested profit, the JBC debated the fix endlessly. Who could take a cut of the 'processing' fees for the smugglers? What percent? Could they at least get Moody to pay rent for warehousing her equipment?

Max wasn't smart enough to play the political game. When he'd admitted that to Elodie, she rolled her eyes. Her hand had been wandering. Forget that, she'd said, with her fingers giving his crotch a squeeze.

His mistake, Max decided, had been in assuming that Elodie Mott was able to play the game. She'd been smart enough—obviously, since she'd folded—but not connected enough. He lacked both connections and political expertise.

He opened the door to his apartment, where the lights were all a dim red, just enough to see shadows by. Luna had raised her head to greet him. I could ask the dog, he thought. I should ask the dog. 'Is it hopeless? Is this whole fucking thing futile?'

“Where would you go, if I freed you?"

“Sir?"

“If I told you I didn't need you anymore, or didn't want you anymore… where would you go? To West Jericho? Off-world?"

“I… do not have the ability to—"

“Say that money's no object. Where would you escape to?"

Her head canted. “Escape?"

He didn't realize the word he'd used until he heard it echoed back to him. “Sure."

“I do not know, sir."

That made two of them.

***

Karlself, Mutually Guaranteed Neutral Zone

3/6/2538

Runokja Nikankata's name meant 'her eyes always look worried'; it was as true for her now as it had been when the collie mix was a pup. More charitably, she had been an inquisitive youth, never given to rashness—but her packmates saw the abundance of caution as idiosyncratic, and the name stuck.

It served her in good stead as Deputy Minister for Local Transit. When they'd opened the spaceport at Aless Ha'kin, Runokja was the one to ask if the secondhand guidance systems were compatible with non-Alliance computer protocols in case foreign merchants wanted to land. She'd told Minister Korden that the fuel reserve estimates were too optimistic for resupplying suborbital trading ships. She'd fought to add another crew shift, fearing that they wouldn't be able to handle continuous traffic.

In those cases, it had all paid off. Now she was worried again, looking at the uniformed guard checking their identification. Sol Solte, a colonel in the OVKK—officially in charge of the mission to Karlself, in the planetary neutral zone—didn't know the meaning of her name but picked up on her mood nonetheless.

“You don't need to be so stressed," the tiger told her. “Your ears keep twitching. I'm not worried, am I?"

“It's our first real test of these, wouldn't you say?"

“Indeed. And I'm not worried."

Sol Solte was split off into a different line; she tapped her foot nervously as the checkpoint drew closer, until at last it was her turn. “Good morning, sir," she said, starting in English to set the tone. His nametag said 'Turani,' and the badge on his arm had the seal of the Imperium, but she didn't speak any Farsi.

English worked well enough. “Documents."

She held out the ID chip, programmed to the standard format specified by the Interstellar Trade Commission. It looked ordinary; in any case, they'd used leftover Alliance hardware.

“Commonwealth of Kashkin," the guard read aloud, his accent not thick enough to mask his skepticism. “Local?"

“Yes, sir."

“Staying in Karlself for six hours?"

Runokja took out a second computer from her jacket pocket, unfolding it and switching the screen on. “The details of my return flight, and my local contact."

“Business?" He took the ticket, and his eyes flicked between the documents.

“Yes, sir. Meeting an agricultural supplier to arrange further travel to the… Commonwealth."

He held his finger against her ID chip and frowned. “Not valid. No let you through."

The mixed-breed felt her fuzzy ears splaying. Don't panic. She left the computers on the desk when he shoved them in her direction. “It's valid documentation. Under ITC-300 Part 18-C."

“Says it is not valid," he repeated. But, as if to humor her, he tried again. “No. Country not found."

“A Part 18 identity certificate can be sponsored by a non-state entity. Believe me."

The guard rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath, and spoke into his radio. The answer came inaudibly in his earpiece; he waved her to the side of the desk. “Wait." A few more people—humans, of course—crossed without problems.

Sol Solte was two desks down. Runokja watched the guard take his ID, then look better than two meters of tiger up and down… then jerk his head to let man through. Runokja suppressed her urge to sigh.

Eventually a second guard came over. She had no idea where this one was from; instead of a national flag, her badge showed only the United Nations emblem and the UN hardly counted as a government, properly speaking. The Mutually Guaranteed Neutral Zone, like most of its kind, purposefully employed as diverse a range of cultures as possible—she might even have been on rotation from some other port.

“Das canin vuxo enteri, ab vo seho das? Was esto? El identitypaper esto de Kashkin Commonwealth. En ne reggistero damel komputer. Vo horo Kashkin bevor?"

“Kashkin esto nuva."

“Payas?"

“Nu."

He looked from the new guard over to Runokja. “She says it's no country. Not good."

“Part 18," she repeated. “Under ITC-300, Part 18-C, an identification—"

“Was esto Part 18?"

The guard manning the booth immediately to their left looked over. “Part 18? We see those all the time. Anybody traveling from a church has one. What's the problem?" He was speaking English, with a Yucatec accent, but like the woman he had no country emblem on his uniform.

“It says 'Kashkin Commonwealth,' but no country in the list."

“So? Run it like an NGO."

“But—"

“You're holding up traffic. Is it Part 18 compliant, or not?" The first guard took another look at her papers, then shrugged and handed them back to her before opening the gate. “Welcome to international relations, dog."

Colonel Sol Solte had seen the whole exchange. “They gave you trouble?"

“They were confused by using the NGO exemption but formatting everything else like a country. I told Korden it was a bad idea to start registering our ships that way…"

“Better than pretending they're still Alliance, isn't it?"

Maybe. Minister Korden was a bigger proponent of the Kashkin's independence than Runokja had been. Until everything was settled, the dog personally felt it was easier to keep things moving without causing needless trouble.

And this was particularly true given that she had no idea how much trouble they were causing in Karlself. Her briefing had been extremely limited, and Sol Solte declined to reveal much more information. All Runokja knew for sure was that they were supposed to meet with a pair of other moreaus.

Their contacts found them first: a clean-cut white shepherd and a black feline draped in lackadaisically ill-fitting robes. “Well, I was told to be on the lookout for two strikingly handsome individuals," the cat exclaimed, grinning. “And those have to be you."

Based on his companion's put-upon expression, the white shepherd obviously knew the other man reasonably well. “Calm down, or they won't be the only ones striking you. This is Mara, he's a broker. We've worked with you before."

“I believe so, yes," Sol said. “Colonel Sol Solte."

“Runokja Nikankata." They exchanged handshakes, in human fashion—no point in drawing even more attention to a meeting of non-humans in a public square.

“It's good to meet you both. I'm Major-General Benjamin Hakhana, from the Black Hills Free State. It's my first time on Jericho… Mara's visited before, but we've been kept quite busy at home. And neither of us have gotten all the way to the Kashkin."

“Your happy homeland has a reputation," Mara explained. “It raises questions on the transit paperwork. I'm happy that you were willing to make the journey to see us. I presume Runokja Nikankata speaks for Korden. She's the Deputy Minister for Local Transit, Benny."

“You know me?" Runokja asked, slightly confused.

“I try to stay informed. There are too many surprises, these days. Do you know why you're here? We have been discussing a proposal with General Altalanuk for a few months now. Right this way…"

Mara, less taciturn or discreet than Colonel Sol Solte, explained a few more details of the 'proposal' as they walked to one of the enclosed landing bays. It involved equipment, and questions over how the Kashkin's transportation infrastructure worked. When Runokja asked what kind of equipment, though, the black cat demurred: you'll see.

He opened the landing bay door. Lights came on automatically, revealing a small aircraft. Clearly not a passenger vehicle; the cockpit looked like it had room for only two people. Its short, raked wings and sharp nose hinted at speed and agility. Runokja's job mostly involved 'bantams'—light, suborbital freighters with bulging hulls and high-efficiency engines.

This thing had a falcon's lines. “It looks like a warplane," she said.

Mara coughed. “You're a combat pilot, now? Figures you Kashkin types would see everything as a weapon. Even the innocent stuff. Benny, set her straight."

The white shepherd motioned them into the hangar bay and locked the door behind them. “It's an ArkMash Boreas: a light utility vehicle. Flexible. Top speed of around fourteen hundred kilometers per hour with a carrying capacity of three thousand kilograms. The Koptev M-3 engine on these variants has the standard thrust vectoring, so it's capable of short or vertical takeoff. It was designed to operate in unimproved areas."

“What kind of operations?"

“Cropdusting," Mara answered. “They're also used on Middendorp-Friedrichsthal for aerial surveys of the cattle herds. As Benny just said, the design is quite adaptable."

“It belongs to the Free State?"

“To the aerial defense forces, yes, ma'am. We retired them from front-line service, but the Boreas is still our primary trainer before orbital qualifications. Back home, more than a few people have suggested that the Kashkin could benefit from having some."

Sol Solte spoke up. “We had investigated purchasing six. The money is available, with complications about routing the transfers. General Altalanuk assures me that you can handle those procedures, Mara. Beyond that, the problem is really that we're short on pilots."

“I know. We're not." Hakhana glanced behind him to the door, like he was waiting for someone to catch them in the act. “The latest directive from my boss is to permit volunteers. There were more than enough with… farming expertise."

“Farming?" Runokja sensed it was not the truth; Sol Solte wouldn't be needed for a discussion of agriculture. “What sort of farming?"

“This is, of course, 'need to know,'" Mara said. “But I like you. The proposal is for two stages. In the first stage, you will use the scanning equipment on these vehicles to identify and tag any debris or rocks that might need to be removed before cultivating the southern slope. In the second, our highly trained pilots will be on call to plant seeds from the air, carry out precision drops of fertilizer, and immediately lay down pesticides if a threat emerges to your farms."

Runokja nodded. The Boreas looked well-used to her—patch plates in the fuselage edged in primer, and panels replaced wholesale. It must've been equipped with a chameleon paint scheme, but with the skin powered off the contrast between those panels was obvious. Well-used, but in decent condition.

She wasn't a pilot, combat or otherwise, but the collie mix had seen enough bantams in her day to know what regular cycles did to a freighter. Somebody's been maintaining this, she thought. And it still looks like it's seen its fair share of stress. “You seem pensive, friend," Benjamin said.

“Seventy percent odds say she's noting the low visibility and wondering how you accurately survey with such a small cockpit. These all have the VK spherical augmentation monitor equipped. The two sensor pods in the nose and tail provide a—hold on, let me recall—a mixed-spectrum high-resolution all-aspect visualization. You look in any direction and you can see clear as day. Benny says our pilots only need a few seconds to identify, analyze, and eradicate a weed moving at thirty meters per second from five kilometers up."

“You're not helping, Mara," the shepherd growled.

“It's fine. My curiosity is satisfied."

“Minister Korden is supposed to report back on whether we can operate these vehicles. We explained to Mara and General Hakhana that Aless Ha'kin isn't really equipped to refuel or maintain the model."

“We can," she allowed. “If it's true about the short-field operations. I'm sure they use standard fuel, don't they? LSC-8 or maybe VC-7?"

“The Soviet equivalent of VC-7, but close enough," Hakhana confirmed. “It's a matter of fuel burn rate. They're not very efficient."

“I'm sure that, per-flight, it's still less than a freighter."

Practically speaking, Runokja could think of other objections—'not very efficient' meant they probably dumped chemicals that would need to be cleaned up. They were likely to be noisy. They might be sensitive to the elements in ways that more robust cargo ships were not.

Of course, it didn't matter because they couldn't accept the offer to begin with. “But we can't fly them, anyway. Light utility aircraft are explicitly banned from import or operation under the ceasefire. I guess they're a little too flexible."

“Somebody really hates farmers," Mara deadpanned. “Now, to be fair, there have been some other questionable imports. We can get them into the spaceport—the wings fold. They can go in a cargo bay."

“That isn't what I mean, sir. There's a lot that I'm sure can be covered up. Mislabeled components or incomplete manifests, buying disassembled equipment from different brokers… I don't know everything; I'm not a smuggler. But it does seem to me that a plane either exists or it doesn't. If somebody sees us flying them, we're obviously in violation, but it's pretty much the same if someone notices them parked. And they will notice."

“That's a good point." Mara's smile dropped. “Regular orbital surveys… there's no covered hangars that would be suitable—are there? Maybe there are."

“Maintenance and flight testing, though—that would get complicated if they can't see the light of day, Mara. We could keep them here, or back home. 'Here' shortens the deployment time. 'Back home' makes everything else simpler, if we don't need to keep up appearances."

“'Simple' was too much to ask for, alas," the black cat said.

“So it was," Benny agreed. “Welcome to international relations, eh?"