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It's Christmas, and you know what that means: *dogs*. Dogs being cold, and then getting warm again.

2019's Christmas story marks a return to the moreauverse and to less subtle themes of peace on earth when a dropship pilot is tasked with escorting a diplomat and her overenthusiastic assistant. You know what to expect :P Thanks to :iconSpudz: for being a very good dog, and a good shepherd consultant, and a source of good cheer! Patreon subscribers, this should also be live for you with notes and maps and stuff.

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

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"And to You Your Wassail," by Rob Baird

Anders, who doubted very much that there truly was any emergency requiring the husky's attention, nonetheless reported dutifully to Major Kinsey's office. To his faint surprise, Kinsey wasn't alone: with him was Lieutenant Commander Sherman, the political officer.

“Take a seat, Mr. Anders," Kinsey said, gesturing. “And thank you for coming. You and Sergeant Multani are up. We need someone to transport a VIP from Hannover to Pressman, and the regular ship is grounded. The circumstances are a little bit… extenuating."

But then, they would have to be, for the garrison at Hannover to be requesting a transport from the task force orbiting Tycho. The husky tilted his head. “What do you mean?"

“The VIP in question is a diplomat, from an embassy in Torstenberg," Lieutenant Commander Sherman explained. “She made it as far as Hannover before weather grounded the transports. There are four-party talks scheduled in Pressman three days from now, and the sector ecclesia believes them to be extremely important."

“I've explained that you're our most qualified pilot, in these circumstances," Major Kinsey said.

Out of the corner of his eye, Anders saw Sherman tense, and the husky became increasingly apprehensive. “Circumstances, sir?"

“It's an important meeting," the lieutenant commander reiterated.

“But the inbound flight might be challenging, considering the storm. I want somebody who can handle a Peregrine." And he would say nothing further—certainly nothing that would explain the look Sherman had given him.

Probably it was nothing. Anders was the only moreau pilot on the LCS Tassafaronga, and one of the only moreaus—“other-than-humans," in CODA parlance—in the battalion. Major Kinsey was used to it, and Sherman was not. If he dwelled on every minor slight, the husky would never have been able to get any work done.

And time was, apparently, of the essence. He found Sergeant Emily Multani in the mess hall, and together they went to get their suits on. There wasn't enough time to catch the next launch window, so they had to wait an orbit; two hours later the CLS-51 was well on its way down from the carrier ship, with Tycho growing ever-larger beyond their windscreen.

“Weather," Multani announced. “Heavy snow, winds from the northwest at thirty knots, gusting to sixty-five. Visibility is under a kilometer at the spaceport."

Anders scanned the report and shook his head. “When they said 'important,' they meant that State didn't want to fly under these conditions."

“Probably," she agreed. “They don't get paid for it, either, though."

Their transport was, in any case, more than a match for the weather. Its older forebear, the CLS-37 Strix, could be a bit unwieldy—but between the Peregrine's powerful engines and modern control systems the storm alone wouldn't be a problem. “That's the last orbital beacon. We're out of echo-class control. Where's the port? I don't see a port."

“Yeah. I have a link to the cosmodrome, but it's intermittent. Signal must be attenuating. I'll have it cleared up in a couple seconds."

“Would be appreciated…"

“Hey. Beats being shot at," she decided; approach cues lit up on the HUD in front of them. “What do you say?"

“Marginal. You?"

“I don't want to hang out in orbit for six hours if we abort. And we've left cat-E on worse terms."

“True. Let's go for it." Anders sighed, taking tighter hold of the control column. “Junkers control, CODA 514 is leaving echo paths, inbound to Hannover via bravo-seven, bravo-niner with condition tango."

“CODA 514, I have you on radar. Adjust your approach via beacon charlie-four to bravo-niner and continue your descent. You're cleared to twenty kilometers."

Anders glanced over at his co-pilot, who was changing the navigational parameters. The new beacon required a turn of nearly twenty degrees. She gave him a thumbs-up, though, and he banked the Peregrine over to match.

“Twenty kilometers via charlie-four to bravo-niner, CODA 514." When they leveled off, the husky took a second look at the map. “They don't trust us, eh? Bringing us in away from the city?"

“Maybe it's noise abatement? Gotta care about those things, y'know. Tradeoff for not getting any real flak is the stuff you get from the city council…"

CODA had an outpost at Hannover; the city itself belonged to the Unaligned Coalition of Kupferthal and the Islands—BBKI, in the local tongue. Though independent, the BBKI maintained close relations with the Yucatan Alliance, and Anders could only imagine Yucatec culture enhanced with Germanic sensibilities. He snorted. “You ever miss flying for the airlines?"

“Fuck no. What, you ever miss… driving a forklift?"

Anders didn't miss driving a forklift, although back in the corporate barracks he'd at least known his place. CODA made for a more challenging environment, navigating between people like Multani and people like Sherman. Obviously, the political officer didn't think he was 'qualified.' “No. I'd rather take the flak."

“Either kind?"

“I guess."

“CODA 514, descend and maintain six kilometers, cleared to the next beacon bravo-six, delta-four, delta-two. Contact Hannover tower for final instructions."

“Six kilometers, bravo-six to delta-four and delta-two, CODA 514. Have a good day."

Higher up, Anders hadn't been able to tell where the storm ended and the snow it left behind began: at six kilometers there was nothing but an unbroken grey soup beneath them. After Anders checked in with the cosmodrome's control tower, Multani quietly informed him that she was reconfiguring their stabilizers to account for the turbulence.

“It'll be bad?" She locked eyes with him, and nodded.

Anders adjusted one of the controls next to him. The view from out the cockpit glass switched from purely visual to an augmented blend of most of the electromagnetic spectrum. The clouds disappeared, and they could finally see the ground beneath them… but even with the effect at full intensity its appearance was fuzzy, covered in static.

The first jolt hit with an audible thump, and the Peregrine gave up a few hundred meters in altitude while Anders tried to find something more comfortable. 'Comfort' was a matter of degree, though, and when they were three thousand meters over Hannover it took most of the husky's concentration to keep them on course.

Multani took over talking to the tower; Anders heard Hannover tell the dropship that the cosmodrome had been closed to civilian traffic, and the previous CODA transport had diverted to Braubach, two hundred kilometers away.

Given the nature of the mission, this would only be available to them if there were no other options, and it transpired that the transport had been heavier and far less maneuverable. Anders thought they could handle it. “Ten klicks out," he reminded Multani. “Where's the approach guidance?"

“Good question. Acquired, but…" The cues kept flickering on the viewscreen, shifting in ominously random directions—none of it helped by the Peregrine's tendency to jolt ten or fifteen degrees on the storm's whim.

“Not rated for these conditions?"

“Guess not. I have a manual plot for backup. Give me ten seconds to register."

Their scanners cut through the storm, comparing the terrain in the navigational computer against what now lay ahead of them. Anders watched the count of 'correlated points' increase from fifty to a hundred, then six hundred. A few of them crowned a hilltop off to their left, the crest of which was barely beneath them.

But, as Multani would've pointed out, at least nobody was shooting. The guidance cues lit up in healthy, steady green. “Tower, CODA 514, requesting landing clearance."

“CODA 514, you're cleared to land on pad seven. Expect strong wind shear on your final approach."

It was telling, Anders thought. There were plenty of free pads, which would've allowed Anders a bit more flexibility. The cosmodrome's officials, however, had chosen one that was as close to the terminal as possible.

Nobody wanted to be outside. He had to turn down the visual augmentation system to focus on looking for the beacons ringing the landing pad. Multani had the scanners on at maximum intensity, but all either of them could see was the blizzard.

'Half a kilometer' of visibility was optimistic to the point of absurdity. The Peregrine was only sixty meters from the pad when Anders's keen eyes picked out the beacons. The last seconds of their approach dragged on—this was no time to get fixated on his desire to be back on the ground.

But at last he felt the landing skids crunch through the snow to the pad's surface, and the magnetic locks engaging to hold them in place. When he was certain they were secure, Anders cut power to the engines.

Multani took a deep breath, barely audible over the howling storm. “This better have been important…"

With the systems secured, they grabbed their bags from the cargo area behind the Peregrine's cockpit and fought their way to the terminal. It had to be twenty degrees warmer inside; even still, the officer greeting them was bundled up.

“Sir. Chief Warrant Officer Anders and Sergeant Multani, reporting from the Tassafaronga."

Lieutenant Fitzgerald returned the salute, introduced himself, and pointed the way to the pilots' quarters. “We honestly weren't expecting anybody would need them. But I guess you're here to transport that ambassador, huh?"

“That's right, sir."

“Must be important." Fitzgerald didn't look convinced. “When you get settled, you should probably check in with her. She's in officer's quarters—I can make sure they know to let you in. How's things on the carrier?"

“Pretty good. It's been quiet since the ceasefire."

“Thank God for that. We didn't see much of it locally… Fort Hannover is just a resupply station, though. It keeps us pretty out of the loop. We never know what to make of the rumors."

Sergeant Multani shrugged. “They're just rumors, sir. For now."

“And a supply station like this runs on 'em, like we run on deuterium. Anyway: mess hall's open until midnight; flight ops can give you the latest conditions and advisories whenever you want. Both are right through that door over there. Enjoy your stay."

“Thank you, sir."

Another soldier was waiting as soon as the lieutenant departed. “Hey, dog. I need your signoff on the maintenance sheet."

“Excuse me?"

The maintenance technician held out a computer. “You're the pilot, right? For your inbound flight. I need a signature."

Anders blinked, and decided he'd put up with too much to endure one more thing. “My name's not 'dog,' sergeant."

“Okay?" The husky held his stare until, finally, the man understood. “Fine. Mr. Anders, can I have your signature for the maintenance log?"

He took the computer and looked over it quickly. The battalion's Peregrines were all new enough to be in good condition and most of the log dealt with checking its airworthiness after their rough approach. He signed the document and handed it back over.

They'd been on the ground for half an hour and it was already starting. Many of his colleagues wouldn't have been able to land the Peregrine—many more wouldn't even have tried. And already he was 'dog,' every bit of respect extended only begrudgingly.

And some days it was harder than others to tell himself that it didn't matter. Multani's appreciative nod, just her saying hell of a job… that meant more than the approval of any random technician. Especially because the first time he'd heard it from her, there were a dozen 20-millimeter holes punched through the rear fuselage and one of the tails was half gone.

There were a lot more random technicians than there were people who'd served with him in active combat. Anders finished up the rest of the paperwork and went to track down the ambassador while Sergeant Multani found their own room.

The officer's quarters were in a clean, white building—ornamented with a single strand of colored lights whose attempt at cheer was largely undone by the blowing wind that knocked them against the doorframe. He made his way inside as quickly as possible, coming face-to-face with a guard who raised his eyebrows at Anders's appearance.

“I was told to come here and meet the ambassador. I'm their pilot." He handed over his identification card for the man's inspection.

“You're CODA? Huh. Well… makes sense, I guess. Room 108. Just on the left, Mr. Anders."

He didn't ask what the guard meant by 'makes sense'; in any case, it quickly became apparent. The ambassador was canine: a shepherd with white fur perfectly matched to the snowstorm. The brown of her soulful eyes was so deep that, briefly, Anders was reminded of the coal-eyed snowmen human children were said to construct. Moreaus—the subject of such human creativity—were not inclined to build golems.

“You are the pilot they sent?"

“Yes."

She bowed. “Good day, then. Alhakhnan goru, jananga. Rag rukhat dhalagensa? English?"

“Either is fine, ma'am."

With the possibility thusly left open, the ambassador continued in Rukhat, which must've been her native tongue. “My pack calls me Enadun Rualishad, or Lishad. What does yours call you?"

“Chief Warrant Officer Anders Poul, ma'am, or Anders. Or 2C-467N-AND."

Lishad's head canted. She waved him in, and brushed the door shut with her paw. “If you don't mind me being forward, Anders: does your pack still own you? Does the Defense Authority?"

“No, ma'am." She shook her head. It might not have been modesty; the Rukhat honorific was somewhat unwieldy. He tried again: “Comrade?"

“If you have to, yes. 'Lishad' would be fine, as well."

“I own my liberty deed, comrade Lishad. I joined CODA after purchasing it—that was about fifteen years ago. Before that, I had some training in flying…" He sought the word in Rukhat. “Ketadanja nakt-dinkarag? Ketadan kad edo uttera ralhasa." A suborbital ship—a ship that flew lower than outer space.

“Leta? Letaja dhalhasi?"

“Lighters. Yes, exactly. I flew lighters." In retrospect, it wasn't such a surprise the moreau word would be borrowed from English. “It wasn't so difficult to transition to flying dropships."

“But with more shooting, I assume? At least the flight from here to Pressman should be calmer. There are some active zones on Tycho… I imagine that's why CODA is here in the first place? I know you can't talk about it, though. Operational security."

That, too, was a loan-word from English. “Yes, ma'am. Are you… Yucatec?"

“They told you nothing about the talks? Or perhaps you didn't ask—what's the saying?" She switched, briefly, back to English. “'Above your pay-grade'? I'm from the Kashkin, on Jericho. We're in discussion with the Yucatec Alliance, the UN, and the BBKI over access to sector shipping. Do you care about the politics?"

“I'm not sure. I didn't know the Kashkin had embassies, is all."

He knew of the Commonwealth, of course: the largest moreau colony that considered itself fully independent. Twenty years after the fighting that established it, the Kashkin remained only dubiously recognized—but it was a thriving state nonetheless, and plenty of moreaus gravitated towards it.

Anders himself had not: he was not the kind of moreau to live in pastoral enclaves and muse on the natural beauty of agriculture and long walks in quiet forests. Lishad smiled at his statement, and he assumed she saw this trait in the husky. He corrected himself: “Of course, it has earned them…"

“In the eyes of some. The Kotaliy Kinashja was one of the first Alliance-leaning states to establish relations with us. It was not entirely popular. Torstenberg has become accustomed. Smaller towns, like Hannover… I do not know how we would be regarded here."

“Our political officer told me the negotiations were important. He also doubted my qualifications. At first I thought I'd been sent because the conditions were so bad, but now I'm wondering if…"

“If you're here because we speak a common language?" Lishad grinned. “I can't guarantee that you weren't, but it wasn't on my request, if so. I'm pleasantly surprised to find kin here, but I think you'd be fine in assuming you were the only one qualified to make it through the storm, and that's why they picked you."

“Thank you, comrade."

“Or did you mean that you'd be the easiest to sacrifice?"

“If so, that's a little more bearable of a suggestion."

“What's the saying? It comes with the uniform."

“Something like that, comrade."

“You certainly look professional in it," the shepherd told him. “Speaking of matters of duty: do your orders leave your time here free? Oh—good. I must admit, Mr. Anders, that my curiosity is piqued, if you wouldn't mind spending some of your time with me. Breakfast tomorrow, perhaps?"

“I can do that, yes. Of course."

She smiled warmly, and took his paw long enough to give it an affectionate pat. “I look forward to it. But now, I'll let you sleep. I'm sure you're exhausted from the flight. A pleasure meeting you, Mr. Anders."

Likewise, he said; honestly when the door was closed behind him the husky wasn't entirely sure how he felt about meeting another of his kind. She seemed pleasant—friendly even beyond the general camaraderie moreaus had for one another.

It was a sentiment he experienced rarely: there weren't many on the Tassafaronga, and all of them were soldiers. The nature of the job gave them more meaningful things to bond over. It comes with the uniform, he heard her saying, and shook his head. What would she know of that?

He'd been given a room to share with Multani, and she was already settled in—reclining on one of the cots, idling reading something on a computer she set aside at his appearance. “You alright? You look like you were hit by an orbital strike. How'd it manage to get worse than that approach?"

It took Anders longer than he wanted to switch his brain back into English. “I'm fine. Tired, I think. The ambassador isn't human—that caught me off-guard."

“A dog? Who has moreau diplomats?"

“The Kashkin—the Commonwealth. Their country on Jericho."

Multani nodded. “You don't seem all that excited."

“I don't know what to think. She wants to get breakfast tomorrow. She seems friendly, I just… don't see many moreaus. And I don't know how to get along with them."

“Do you need to? You get along with Sergeant Rana, don't you?"

“Rana's like me. It's different for the ones that never grew up around people. They have an odd way of thinking." He didn't know how to get along with humans, either, of course. Multani hadn't mentioned that part. “It'll be fine, it just took me by surprise. Do we have a flight plan?"

“We're completely grounded tomorrow. I'm not sure it's just the weather—some discussions about the peace talks, too." Saying it aloud, she paused in thought. “I wonder if that's what we're here for?"

“The ambassador said it's for a trade agreement. But who knows? We can fly the day after tomorrow?"

“At the earliest. They told me to get some sleep… probably not a bad idea, huh? I was waiting for you to come back, in case something was up with the ambassador. Another dog… that's not quite what I had in mind. Er—is she a dog? I don't want to presume."

“Yes. Shepherd stock. A white shepherd… I don't remember the model range. Well. Well, she was freeborn, anyway, so… it wouldn't matter. Shepherd. That'll do."

Emily's eyebrows arched. She picked her computer back up, switched it completely off, and tossed it aside. “You sure you're alright?"

“Yeah." He sat on the other cot, gathering his wits. “Yes."

“You don't talk much about moreaus. Or your past."

“There isn't much to talk about. I don't see myself as a dog. Most of the time, I don't even think about it." Emily, thinking no doubt of the conversations she'd been party to—exchanges like the one he'd had with the technician—eyed him skeptically. “I don't want to have to think about it. Better?"

“Better."

“I don't know a whole lot about their country. It's not mine."

“It could be a learning opportunity, then. Or not—don't let me boss you around, chief. But I wanted to make sure it wasn't that you were excited, but didn't want me to think so. I wouldn't mind."

“I'm processing my thoughts. Maybe sleep would help."

“Probably," Multani agreed. “I'm just here to talk, if you want."

Perhaps, eventually, he would. But—cleaned up and in bed—rest seemed far more important. He forgot even the work of it: trying to brush his fur into place, and tidying up the stray hairs so that his copilot wouldn't notice. She'd never commented, but…

But.

Sleep took him before those thoughts developed further. He woke before Multani the next morning, and decided to let her sleep in. A guard informed him the ambassador had already left, pointing him towards the officer's club: a small, quiet affair, where he found the diplomat waiting.

“Good morning, Mr. Anders. Breakfast should be coming shortly. First, some introductions?" Lishad gestured to another dog, occupying the seat next to her. “This is my assistant, Rukalkolja Nakhota."

Nakhota got up, padding over to sniff at Anders's neck. The Border Collie struck him as young—bright-eyed and energetic, with her tail wagging at the opportunity to meet someone new. “Anders," she pronounced. “Comrade Lishad says you're a pilot."

“That's correct. I'm with CODA."

“The military? Intriguing! I have many questions," she promised, but bowed and retook her seat. “After breakfast—as comrade Lishad is about to instruct me, if I don't sit back down."

The food arrived a minute later: local meats and bread, simple fare but definitely better than what the Tassafaronga's cooks managed. Anders nodded when the ambassador inquired about its taste, and conveyed his polite approval.

“But then, you're coming from CODA. I've heard the horror stories about what they make you eat…"

Nakhota raised her head. “Why would they do that? Why wouldn't they feed you properly?"

“The disadvantage of starships, comrade," Lishad explained. “In space, the requirements are different. Not everyone has farmland in abundance. We might have to learn ourselves, one day. There are Kashkin-flagged freighters, Mr. Anders, you understand. But they're few and far between, for now. Most of our trade with this country comes in Coalition ships—not ours. That will be part of the negotiations."

“If we make them. Did they tell you we're grounded today?"

“They did, yes. Tomorrow we can leave, I'm told."

“Hopefully."

Nakhota kept looking up from her plate, over Anders's shoulder. “But the snow is so beautiful, is it not? The way it falls, and the light that glints off the flakes, stirs happiness within me."

Anders couldn't help himself. “It does?"

“Certainly it does," the collie repeated. “On my walk this morning, I heard how the howling wind gives way to a marvelous hush… one must strain their ears to hear anything except one's own thoughts, and the snow leaves a perfect impression of all that walk through it. Through the snow we all become authors."

Lishad patted the collie's paw. “You're being a pup, Kolyushku. The climate in the Kashkin is very mild, Mr. Anders. We only see snow when we leave. It's less special to you?"

He was still thinking about the willingness with which the Border Collie expounded on the snow. The stories that others tell me are all true, he thought. Freeborn moreaus were epicurean, given to speaking at any length about the sensory experience that was nature. Whether or not it mattered, they loved to ramble on. “I see a fair amount of snow, yes. And I find the snow less peaceful when I'm trying to land in a blizzard."

Nakhota was listening, with her floppy ears lifted, but Anders saw in her a sort of naïveté—as if she was now picturing what the snow would look like through the windscreen of a Peregrine, and marveling at the mental image rather than understanding how difficult the work had been. “Like you did last night? What was it like?"

“Leave Mr. Anders in peace," Lishad told her assistant, though the admonition came with a friendly smile. “At least let him finish his breakfast."

“Yes, comrade." The Border Collie couldn't keep her curiosity to herself for more than a few seconds, though. “Why do you refer to him as Mr. Anders?"

“Respect, Kolyushku. As I explained to you, he has a great deal of expertise and experience. He's respected by his people. That's what they would call him in CODA."

“You've never asked me to call you by your rank, have you?"

“No. But our rules of hierarchy are different. It's something you should keep in mind, when we're amongst different cultures."

Anders waited a second or two for Nakhota to reply, but the Border Collie seemed satisfied and he indulged his own curiosity. “Your rank, ambassador?"

“Yes. I retired as a captain from the Kashkin Self-Defense Force before transitioning to the Observatory. The Foreign Ministry's headquarters," she clarified, having used the English word in place of any Rukhat translation. “An old observatory building east of the capital."

“Comrade Lishad is being modest, Mr. Anders. She was a decorated soldier during the struggle for independence."

Suddenly her offhand comments about the nature of CODA made more sense to him. “Were you with a human militia before, comrade?"

The white shepherd shook her head. “Only ours. I was working as a business translator when the fighting broke out, but I joined the OVKK in the ceasefire after the Three-Day War. When the war ended, I stayed as a translator in the intelligence section for a few years, but… my commander and I agreed that my talents would be better served in the Foreign Ministry."

“I see."

“This guides the nature of some of the questions I'd love to ask you. In time—do you have plans for this evening? Would you consider accompanying me on an outing?"

“What would you like to do?"

“I'm not quite certain yet. We weren't planning on staying so long. But when I find out, will you consider the invitation extended?"

He offered, at least, to consider it. Lishad stayed quiet for the remainder of breakfast, while Nakhota told him at length about their home on Jericho. The Border Collie hailed from a town called Shadesh, which had been all but razed in the fighting for independence.

And the pride was clear in her voice when she said her pack had been among the first to return and rebuild. Save for a memorial in the town's square, little of the destruction remained visible. Nakhota's family owned a workshop that specialized in repairing farm equipment.

Anders learned this among dozens of details that the young collie considered more important: the sweep of the wind from the valley walls, the sound of gulls over the Arkadiensee, the smell of the fishing boats. She wanted to know what life entailed aboard the Tassafaronga, and kept asking even when his answers proved too scanty to truly satisfy her.

The gathering ran longer than he'd expected, as a result. Finally, even Lishad tired of the conversation—or saw more important things to attend to. She directed Nakhota to return to their room. “I'll follow in a moment."

“Of course, comrade!"

When Lishad stood, though, she walked to the window of the mess hall, gesturing for Anders to join her. “I did have an idea for this evening, but I wanted to hear your thoughts before I told Nakhota. There's a sort of… community event—a seasonal marketplace, in the square a few blocks beyond the gate. One of the soldiers said they were planning on going."

“Seasonal. Like the lights outside, I imagine?"

“Yes. It's an important holiday for the cultures on Earth that settled Tycho. You know the story?"

“The birth of an important religious figure, Jesus Christ. He is said to be…" Only the rare Nakath was spiritual in any formal way, and describing the belief in Rukhat proved to be difficult. “A demigod, I think—the child of a god and a human woman."

Lishad favored him with a soft, gentle laugh. “You haven't discussed this with your human friends?"

“No, ma'am. It rarely comes up."

“I can tell! Not a god, Mr. Anders. He is the son of the only god, and his parentage is… complex. They fought wars over these topics, long before our time." The shepherdess gazed across the street, at the decorated windows of buildings intermittently hidden by the thickening snow. “We do not have such beliefs, not yet. Nor do we have such holidays. Why do you suppose that is?"

“I don't know. Your culture is new. Maybe traditions take time."

“Maybe they're completely irrational," she suggested. “Maybe a day is special because of what happens on it—not what happened on a similar date in years past. Maybe we'll never find gods to worship. I think there's still value in it, don't you?"

No immediate answer came to him. “Why would there be?"

“Because it's still something we have to understand. I don't think we can relate to humans if we don't know their traditions any more than we can speak their language without knowing the words. I've learned a lot by listening to them. Can I speak… bluntly?"

“Truth comes from speaking openly." Al-keth nalkona høsniy rukhat, as the saying went in their own tongue. An admission that, in the past, they'd lacked the freedom to do so: the first moreaus spoke only through computerized voice-boxes, and only with the words their programmers allowed them.

Lishad's ear twitched. “Does it? There's meaning in bluntness and in subtlety. I'd be a poor diplomat if I only lived by that proverb. But, between us: I don't think you like humans very much."

“I like some individual humans. Some humans like individual nakathja. I don't believe they think of us as people, though, not on the whole. I see it in their expressions—hear it in the way they talk to me. And with the rumors from California… the new generation…"

“Only rumors, for now." From the change in her tone, Lishad knew of them: that AGMC had been working on a new type of moreau. Quadrupedal, and mute, and more easily dominated. Not the kind of creature that could fly a dropship.

Nor one that could declare independence. “Rumors that GeneMark doesn't deny. But even this assignment—given because no-one else was worth the risk. When I landed, the soldier didn't even use my name. Just called me 'dog.'"

“Why don't you leave? You'd be welcome in the Kashkin."

“Would I? I don't want to write poems about watching the snow fall, either. I joined CODA because I couldn't see myself as a Commonwealth nakath. Listening to Nakhota I just hear…" Lishad stared at him, as if to say: speak openly. “I hear her naïveté. She sounds like a pup. A country full of that…"

She nodded and, rather than chiding him, took the husky's paw. “She is a pup, Mr. Anders. She doesn't remember anything about the war. She has no reason to think her children will experience anything like it."

“Do you?"

Lishad let him go, stepping towards the window. “It's cold outside," she said. “You see them? Wearing… throats?"

“Scarves."

“Sukarthja," the shepherd repeated—slowly, like her tongue was curling about the word to feel it out. “There's nothing like that in the Commonwealth. I don't want it for us. But it's good to be prepared, and to find ways to prepare yourself."

“I beg your pardon, comrade, but that wasn't really an answer."

“What did I say? There's meaning in subtlety. We might be called upon to defend the Kashkin again, or we might not. I hope, through my work, to make that less likely. It is, however, only a hope. And?"

“And?"

“What if it is? Life has to be more than waiting for winter, Mr. Anders. And in the depths of winter, it has to be more than stoic acceptance. What's the point, otherwise? Come with me tonight. I want to see why they said it's worth going."

“I'm not qualified to be your escort, comrade. I'm only a pilot."

“But you're qualified to explore the town square, aren't you? Nobody wishes to assassinate me, Mr. Anders, and the walk would do us good. And Nakhota will want to go, even more than I do. What do you say?"

“If you desire it, I'll… I'll try to accompany you, yes."

She beamed and gave him a warm hug before letting the husky go. Anders—who had left his participation conditional, anyway—returned to find Multani in the room they shared. Awake, freshly showered, and with a cup of coffee, Sergeant Multani looked to be in good spirits. “Hey, chief. Long breakfast, huh?"

“They wanted to chat."

“About? I'm curious."

“Random things, mostly. Also, the ambassador asked me to go with them off-base. I guess there's something in the square tonight."

“The Christmas market—the locals love 'em, apparently. Not my kind of thing: food I can't eat, songs full of silly platitudes, expensive trinkets. But if it's your first time? You should have fun, Anders. Relax a bit."

“Like you?" A flight manual was open on the computer in front of her. “Studying?"

“I'm going to try to get instructor-certified on the Block 10s. Just in case."

“You're thinking of getting out?"

“Not until after the tour, don't worry. You can enjoy the market." Her grin was teasing, but—as far as he could tell—sincere. “I might apply for a shoreside rotation at some point."

“It would be a good career move. Let me help you study."

Brow lifted, she stared the husky down until he cocked his head questioningly. “This is the UDL section, boss—the way we share data from the squad back up to TacOps. Reading up about startup procedures. Here: 'A solid diamond confirms a live, secure connection to the UDL network. Note that if the ISP centroid cue is red, this indicates…' What? Finish it?"

“Indicates that the… that there's a non-friendly signal on the map."

“'If the ISP centroid cue is red, this indicates that the PST in CCSR mode resolves to a point below the stored terrain mesh. Reset the terrain height by… by… by…'"

He lowered one of his ears. “Asking your systems operator?"

“'Running the 'Align/Resolve' program from the ISP diagnostic page.' Enjoy the market, chief. I'm only staring at this for a couple more hours, anyway. Then I have a date at the rec center."

“A date?"

“You start telling me about your personal life, chief, and I'll start telling you about mine." It was familiar teasing, though; she laughed. “For now, I'm learning about the UDL. Have fun."

***

The Christmas market, one of several in Hannover, served CODA as well as the town's inhabitants; the signs were written both in English and German. Being able to read them, though, only partly settled Anders's nerves: the crowd of people was thick, and the group drew more than their share of attention.

“Bracelet," a guard demanded. “You heard me—hurry up. And finish out here quickly, whatever you're doing."

“Bracelet?" Lishad asked.

“Don't play dumb. Your work bracelet."

The shepherdess nodded, and beckoned Nakhota closer so the collie would follow her lead in pulling out their identification cards. “We're with the diplomatic mission. I'm ambassador Enadun Rualishad; this is my assistant, Rukalkolja Nakhota. Chief Warrant Officer Anders is detached from CODA as a pilot of my diplomatic vessel."

“Diplomatic vessel?" Skepticism gave his voice a surly, ugly edge. “Why are you here?"

Anders sharpened his own tone when he spoke up. “In transit to Pressman. The ambassador wanted to explore the town a little before we have to depart."

He grunted, and handed Lishad's card back. “Don't stay long."

She bowed her head, smiled, and pocketed her identification. “We'll cause no trouble, sir. Don't worry." She said nothing about the duration of their stay and, without another word, the shepherdess led them deeper into the market.

Nakhota seemed to have forgotten the interrogation immediately: the Border Collie's tail had already started to wag again, and her ears perked at every new sight and sound, every new market stall and knot of activity. Lishad hung back, keeping an eye on the younger dog… but she, too, observed the square with interest.

“You've never been to one of these, Mr. Anders?"

“Never."

“These colors… the lights." She inhaled deeply, her nose twitching. “The food. It doesn't move you?"

“A little… overwhelming, perhaps. Nakathja wouldn't have come up with something like this. Something so excessive." Lishad turned, grinning at him. “Am I wrong?"

“Absolutely not."

“But it moves you."

On the other side of the square, a chorus of voices raised themselves in sudden song. Her ears perked and she stretched herself up, straining to hear over the crowd; it proved impossible. Still smiling, Lishad settled down. “Yes."

“Why?"

“This tradition comes from Earth. It's hundreds of years old—maybe more than a thousand. It predates nuclear power, starships, computers… think of how cold the winter must've felt. How dark the night would've been… how remote your village would've seemed with the next town over on roads hidden by a meter of snow."

Without agreeing, at least not at once, Anders nodded. “The square defies that. Promises something more than the night."

“Yes. Seasons are a matter of physics. Winters will always end. But I imagine, a millennia ago, spring and the next harvest felt like much less of a certainty. Here is a town that does not resign itself to the cold. Even if," she added, gesturing to a couple in heavy coats and flowing scarves. “Its people adapt. I love this. And—Kolyushku!"

Nakhota was on her knees, at eye-level with a growing crowd of human children, one of whom had the dog's ear held in a mittened grasp. The Border Collie carefully extracted herself, then turned to look over her shoulder at them. “Comrade?"

Lishad hastened to rescue her assistant. “You're making friends?"

“I'm not certain." She freed her ear from another inquisitive child. “Perhaps?"

An adult—there were too few of these to account for the half-dozen youths clustered around the collie, but they must've been a parent of one of the children—spoke up. “Don't touch that, Karoline. Get away. You—are you with the market?" he demanded of Lishad. “You're not supposed to be in public."

“We're visitors, not employees."

“And what do you want with my daughter?"

“Your daughter found Nakhota, I think, and neither mean any harm to the other. My name is Rualishad. To whom—"

“Visiting why?"

“Nakhota is new. And this is a beautiful market. They have them in the north, but neither of us got around to it before. It was well worth the walk."

“North?"

“We live just outside Torstenberg, in Tanstadt."

“Tanstadt? Wirklich? Du bist nicht von Torstenberg, oder?"

“Nein. Wir sind beide Kashkiner, und mein Kollege ist yukatanisch." She pointed to the husky when she spoke. “Auf jeden Fall, es ist für uns alle das erstes… Winterfest?"

“Weihnachtsmarkt. Er ist ein Soldat?"

“Ja. Er fliegt—entschuldigung, ich glaube er spricht kein deutsch…"

“He flies," the man continued in English, looking at Anders. “With CODA?"

“Yes, sir," he answered. “I was sent from the task force in orbit."

“The one fighting in the east?"

They'd been conducting joint operations with a detachment of Coalition soldiers; it must've made the news. “Yes."

His mood softened by a degree or so, enough that he didn't warn Karoline again when the youth crawled into Nakhota's lap. “I've seen a few of you around. But… Kashkin. That's the dog world, isn't it? The dog country."

“A country, yes, on the planet Jericho. We have an embassy in Torstenberg, and a few trading missions. That might be why you've seen our kind before. And the BBKI is special to us."

“Special?"

“In 2539, we… what's the word?" Lishad frowned, and patted Anders softly. “Apologies again. Der Freundschaftvertrag mit der BBKI war der erste den mein Chef mit einem nichtkommunistischen Land unterzeichnet hat. Wenn er—_when he signed it, the message was sent over the radio to our entire country. Yours is also the only nation we have a word in our tongue for. _Kotaliy Kinashja—it means, roughly, the same thing as Blockfreie Bund. We see ourselves… similarly. What's your name, sir?"

His name, he said, was Martin. “Similar, I do not know…" He seemed to be calmer, though. Anders wondered if he'd really thought his daughter had been in danger.

“Not the same, of course. Different in many ways. We don't need those, for one." Lishad pointed at Karoline's mittens, then at Anders's thick-furred paw. “But they are beautiful. Made by hand? I've seen patterns like it around town."

“Knitted by a local craftsman," Martin confirmed. “They have a stall in the market, on the other side of the ice rink."

“We'll be sure to look at them. That's why we're visiting: to learn from you. Even small things, you know? I wouldn't wear a handshoe, but I can appreciate the artistry, and the way the colors work with one another."

At that moment another child tackled Nakhota, and the pair went down with a laughing, giddy squeal. Karoline joined in a second later, and Martin observed them wrestling, contemplatively. “They do seem to share a language. How old is your daughter?"

He had addressed both Anders and Lishad; Anders let the diplomat answer. “She's not our daughter. And she's 17—too old for this—but it's her first time around so many humans. Especially children. Growing up, she's heard of them, but... never seen whether or not the stories were true."

“Stories?"

“Like the ones you have about us, I'm sure. Sometimes they seem… less-than-kind, but it's unfamiliarity in a different guise. This is the only way we move past it."

Martin nodded, after another lengthy period of quiet. “Yes. I suppose. We should be going—Karoline, come along. It was… it was… nice meeting you, Rualishad. Safe travels to all of you."

“Thank you." More adults had drifted over, watching their children, and Lishad offered her companion a paw to pull the Border Collie back up. She switched from English back to Rukhat. “This is how you're representing the Kashkin?"

Nakhota brushed some of the snow away, then shook the rest of the flakes off. Briefly they hung, catching firelight, and fell gently back to earth. “As enthusiastic explorers? Seekers of new experiences? Yes, comrade."

Lishad grinned. “Just don't wrestle with the other diplomats. And don't tire yourself out so quickly."

They made their way through the market, circling closer to the group of singers. Anders didn't understand the words: he knew next to no German, and having it sung in harmony made things even more difficult. “I don't have the first idea what they're saying," he admitted.

The white shepherd took his paw, ruffling it softly. “You don't have to. The sounds alone are beautiful. Focus on that."

Whatever music might've been found on the Kashkin—he wasn't sure—Anders knew only the ditties he'd picked up in basic training. For a minute, try as he might, the husky found nothing especially beautiful in the choir.

Then he heard Lishad: think of how cold the winter must've felt. It struck him how well the voices flowed together. They'd practiced, the way he practiced flying the Peregrine, until the result was just as precise and clean. And their ancestors, he realized, had done the same thing.

With the days growing shorter, and only their fellow townsfolk to rely on, they'd invested their time and energy in song. The tradition was an homage to that, and seen from that perspective the very artistry involved was beautiful—was meaningful—was special.

Nakhota had taken a few steps closer. Now she rejoined them. The collie glanced down at where Lishad still held his paw, and tilted her head, but Lishad neither noticed nor let go. Nakhota grinned. “You said you don't understand it?"

“Not the words."

She nodded. “They're saying: 'the savior is here.' 'Silent night, holy night. Son of God… Son of God, how love laughs from your divine mouth. For us… the hour of salvation strikes for us.'"

“The song is about Christ?" He could hear the name being repeated.

“Yes! Indeed! They're singing about how the night is peaceful—the night of Christ's birth. The shepherds were the ones to hear about it, from the angels, and now everyone knows that salvation is coming."

“From winter?"

The collie thought carefully. “I don't know. I believe it's more complicated than that, but I can't say in what way—oh! Wait—this sounds familiar."

“It should," Lishad said, though Anders didn't recognize the new song, nor the words. “Go on…"

“Ah. Happiness is—the beautiful…" She kept stopping, growing increasingly flustered. “The daughter of…"

“Elysium. 'The daughter of Elysium. We enter your heavenly sanctum, overcome in our ecstasy. Beneath your gentle wing, your magic binds, once more, what had been strongly divided.' The words aren't quite the same as the ones we use in the Kashkin."

“But a similar concept!" The collie clasped her paws and abandoned further translation to listen to the singers, her tail wagging briskly, oblivious to the way it kept hitting Anders.

And he, too, discovered he was growing less concerned. Her exuberance, to the husky's surprise, was infectious. Not until after they'd left the market—after the mitten stall, and a generous sampling of local holiday fare, and Nakhota scampering through the snow on the way back—did he manage to gather his thoughts.

It took the collie's departure—she wanted to see if there was anything comparable at the officer's club—and Lishad, asking him openly. “What did you think?"

Then, at last, the inconsistency of it all came to mind. The dissonance between Nakhota's excitement, and the reactions of the others to it. And, more than that, his own reaction—though this was still evolving, and he started elsewhere. “The way Nakhota interacted with that child, compared to the way her father reacted to the two of them. That was… striking."

“There have been stories," Lishad explained. “Moreaus aren't banned here, and moreau ownership isn't banned, but almost nobody owns them. Supposedly a few Alliance caretaker moreaus attacked their children and were turned out on the street, because the BBKI's constitution forbids capital punishment."

“'A few'? That seems unlikely."

The shepherdess gave him a gentle, sad smile. “Yes. It probably didn't happen once, let alone enough times to explain the stories. Such is the nature of rumor."

“You deal with so many humans outside the Kashkin. As a diplomat. How do you endure it? The minor slights, and the outright insults, and the hateful stories..."

“They hurt me, of course. Sometimes they hurt more; sometimes they hurt less. You've found that, I'm sure. Right? Sometimes it's the simplest things, the ones when you know that nothing was meant. Only thoughtlessness."

All too well, and in all too many places. “But you endure."

“Life itself is challenging." Lishad laughed, her dark eyes softening. “I didn't mean to dismiss you. I put up with it because I think it's getting better. Talking to that man for a few minutes was enough."

“That was just one person."

“True. But societies, comrade, are 'just one person'—a million times over. They can change. And because I want to learn how, I choose to spend my life outside my home. Twenty years ago, the Kashkin itself seemed impossible. I'm curious: you enlisted after our independence, didn't you?"

“I did."

“You'd heard of us?"

Before the Kashkin was an independent state, it had been known as the 'Chartered Colony,' because the founding moreaus negotiated a charter for their autonomy with the Yucatec Alliance. And the Alliance, treating the tiny state as a safety valve for moreaus who might otherwise consider more violent remedies to the injustices visited upon them, hadn't suppressed its existence.

So he had heard of them, both from humans and from moreaus who spoke of alkosh, 'the song' that was supposed to be calling them. It was a metaphorical song, and Anders couldn't say that he himself had ever heard it. The Chartered Colony held no greater draw than did the other, smaller moreau settlements.

He explained that, trying not to sound insulting. “But I knew friends who went. More than to Dawa, at least. A few came back. They were like… evangelists? Echangelija—that must be an English word, I suppose."

“I think so. That isn't my point, though. Nobody thought it was odd that you enlisted rather than going to the Kashkin? Nobody questioned your loyalty?"

Anders thought back to his training. “No. But… I only know a few nakath pilots. Now that you mention it, one told me that, in the months after independence, some of her colleagues negotiated discharges in case they'd have to fight on Jericho."

“Which didn't happen. When the colony got its charter, nobody dared to think of a recognized state. The ones who left to Dawa, I guess… but there've never been more than a few hundred of those."

“Admittedly, the Kashkin seemed like… more than that." Dawa moreaus were the ones who hadn't stayed on Jericho after the charter—who thought it didn't go far enough. Decades later they were hard-liners, devoted to their pastoral existence and shunning contact with humans. “More serious."

“Yes! And yet, only fifty years after the charter, we declared independence. By the time you enlisted, nobody was discussing the Alliance retaking our land. You've heard of Alsansi? No? A moreau colony on an unsettled world. They got off to a rocky start, but they're thriving now. Ketthajo-Kødsar is almost ten thousand moreaus, and they trade regularly with the other colonies on their planet. Human colonies!"

“But here, you're still biting human children."

Lishad's smile faded. “Yes. And, to tell you the truth, tensions are rising again on Jericho. It's not perfect, Derla. But it is getting better. And we can do our part."

The snow, which had dwindled nearly to a stop, was beginning to pick up once more. Briefly he found himself thinking not about politics, nor the alkosh, but that they would need to fly in that weather, and his problems would be simpler again.

Reminding her of the local urban legends had been reflexive: a bit of cynicism that, as he forced the snow from his mind, Anders regretted. The rest of her words caught up to him when he began to speak, and the reply shifted before he could give it. “Khasla. Or Kettich."

She cocked her head. “Oh?"

“Ralketilla Khaskolja."

“Does anyone call you that?" He shook his head. “Would you mind?"

The name—'his thoughts are the ones of captured birds'—came from the corporate barracks, before he'd purchased his liberty deed. He hadn't really used it, even then. “I suppose not." And it was better than using his company-given name to form a Rukhat diminutive.

“I prefer 'Kettich,'" Lishad said. “When did you get your name?"

“Before I joined CODA. It didn't have to do with flying."

“I assumed." She took his paw, smoothing the fur down. “Don't tell me yet. We should keep some things for future conversations. An hour from now… tomorrow, and the weeks beyond…"

“Beyond?"

“If you stay on Tycho. Or, I suppose, tonight would be fine?" She turned and, before he could question her, licked his nose. “Unless you have plans?"

“I…"

“You do?"

“No. But…"

Laughing, the shepherdess settled herself in place against his side. “I should try being subtle again, shouldn't I? I didn't mean to make things awkward."

“You didn't." And how easy would it be to take her up on the offer? To see where things led—something more familiar, after the novelty of the market… but he had a job to do, and the weather was turning. “But I should be rested for our flight tomorrow."

“You think you wouldn't be rested, Kettich?"

He coughed. “I meant—"

“I know what you meant." Lishad pushed herself away, and licked his nose again. “You're right, of course. Your duties come first—and after that, then, perhaps we can see what happens…"

It was, however, with decided reluctance that Anders took his leave of the ambassador. The reluctance only grew more justified when he checked in with the flight operations center; he had the feeling he wouldn't sleep especially well.

Sergeant Multani was still awake, herself, lying flat in her bunk and giving him only a light wave when he entered. “Did you have a good evening?"

“Good enough. You?"

“Stayed in. Updated my will." Multani laughed at his startled look. “Okay, okay. Not that bad. But flying tomorrow is going to be… uh… exciting."

“And you saw the latest?"

Emily closed her eyes. “No. And I don't like the sound of that…"

“The ceasefire's been provisionally extended planet-wide. TacOps has been told to block any military traffic referencing echo-class beacons."

“We're civilian traffic."

“With a CODA transponder. They don't want the risk—we're staying suborbital."

“From here to Pressman."

“Yep. And there's no recover-to-orbit, either. Supply convoy jumped in this morning—the Tassafaronga's boosted into a new orbit for an unrep."

She opened her eyes again, groaned, and sat up. “Then we have a new plan to review, I guess?"

“Nope." Her expression twisted, incredulous. “New plans are going from sector command to TacOps to the peacekeeping mission, and back. They said if we re-file, we won't be cleared until next week."

“Shit." Multani flopped back down. “Well, there's a silver lining. At least I'm flying it with you, eh, Anders?"

“Unless the ambassador gets cold feet."

They would, he realized as he said it, be cold either way. That certainty deepened when they headed to the flightline the next morning with the light thin and grey, even two hours after dawn. The wind had calmed, leaving only a bitter chill. Anders left Multani to finish checking the Peregrine while he got the latest updates from the Tactical Operations Center.

TacOps offered no reprieve: a message from Lieutenant Commander Sherman reiterated the importance of the diplomatic mission. Anders turned up the thermostat in his flight suit, sighed, and made his way back outside. Three figures made their way from the officer's quarters towards them: Lishad, Nakhota, and a human guard who hurried back inside when he saw the Peregrine was already manned.

Anders jogged over to be with Multani when the pair arrived, so that he could introduce them. “They speak English fairly well, at least."

“That's what you speak with them?"

“No." The question made him unexpectedly uncomfortable; he shifted on his feet. “Met report from orbital shows no change. Mind if I ask them if they still want to do this?"

“Not at all. In English? Just so I can double-check," she teased.

“Sure. In English."

“Mr. Anders! Alhakhnan goru, jansarunga. Good morning, ma'am," Lishad added, nodding politely to the sergeant.

“Ambassador Enadun Rualishad and her assistant, Rukalkolja Nakhota. Sergeant Emily Multani is my copilot." He waited for them to shake hands, and cleared his throat. “I should warn you that the weather is… quite severe. If you wanted to postpone the flight, I wouldn't blame you."

“Dangerous?" Lishad asked, looking from Anders to Multani in turn.

“It could be. We've flown in worse—probably."

“But we were being shot at," Multani answered. “We can get you there, though, even if it's a bit exciting."

“Then we need to go. We promised to attend these talks, Mr. Anders. I would be neglecting my own responsibilities if I allowed my nerves to answer for me."

He nodded. “Then let's get started."

“Let us," Lishad agreed, before taking both the husky's paws and squeezing firmly. “I'm glad you're the one flying."

“Me, too. If we have to."

Lishad glanced over at the sergeant, nodding at her words. “See? It's agreed." She leaned up, licked his nose, and then let him go. “Safe flying. I'll see you in Pressman."

“When you're strapped in, stay harnessed," Multani suggested. “We'll do the rest."

The two diplomats settled into the Peregrine's passenger cabin. Nakhota grinned as Anders began to slide the cabin door shut. “Sakhutat nakathja na tanuniy kanja gastat honoro sil kadråkusashan. Ranshakota."

Lishad snapped the collie a look. “Kuru."

The younger dog was still smiling, and Multani picked up on the disconnect between the two. “What does that mean?"

Anders closed the door and latched it. “She said: 'ordering dogs to stay in their harnesses seems like a very human custom. I'm learning those.'"

“I didn't mean it like that."

“I know. She knows. It was a joke."

Multani followed him into the cockpit. “You tell jokes?"

“Not like those—mostly. They tend to be… absurd observations. Checklist?"

The sergeant handed him a thin computer, so cold from the winter morning that its display responded with glacial slowness. “Four hundred kilos. Nothing from the ground crews. Uh, but… I double-checked myself, just in case they didn't feel like spending much time outside on the green-slip."

“Makes sense." He flipped the power switches on, watching the cockpit come to life. “Figure we divert to Braubach if they don't let us into Pressman?"

“Or Birkenfeld. We have plenty of fuel, since we're not making orbit. Our planners were quite thoughtful." She smirked at the husky's rueful chuckle. “Absurd observations like that one, Anders?"

“You'd make a good dog." The dropship's self-test—like the ground check—came back with no errors. “What do you think, sergeant? Ready?"

“Do dogs lie?"

“We're not supposed to. The language makes it difficult."

“Huh. Well, I'm not ready, but I guess we're committed. Let's do it." At his gesture, she closed the canopy the rest of the way and locked it. “It can only get warmer…"

“That was a good joke, too." Anders steeled himself and swung his headset into place. “Hannover, this is CODA 514. Requesting permission to start up."

“CODA 514. Uh, say again—you're leaving? In this?"

“Affirmative, Hannover. If we can start up."

“Uh. CODA 514, cleared for startup and launch hold release." The voice on the radio had every bit of Anders's own skepticism. He ignored it, following the checklist for the main reactor and watching the Peregrine awaken, one system at a time.

When the data link came online, Multani reached out to cycle through displays until finding the weather. “So much for getting warmer. We might want to keep the thrust heaters on 'launch/recovery.'"

That was the setting they normally used in orbit, near the carriers. But he did as she suggested, anyway. “Watch the temps. And I need you to hold the maglocks until we're at takeoff power."

“They won't be happy."

“They can bill me." Everything on the ship looked as good as possible, under the circumstances. “Hannover, CODA 514 at pad seven. Ready for departure."

“CODA 514, the current takeoff vector is 0-8-0. There's, uh… no traffic in the area. You want a drone up for weather?"

“Negative. What's it gonna tell us?" he added to Multani, on their private channel. She shrugged.

“Understood. CODA 514, cleared for launch."

Anders increased the throttle until the Peregrine began to strain against the magnetic arrestor holding them fixed to the pad. The indicator showed the engines exceeding the ship's weight by a full ton of thrust… two… three… Multani pointed to a rising temperature alarm as heat washed over the dropship's belly.

“Yeah." He switched to the intercom. “We're about to take off. Hold on to something. If it's rough, I'll try to get through it quickly." And then, to Multani, he held up his paw, fingers splayed.

“Four. Three. Two. One. Go." She turned off the maglocks, and the Peregrine shot upwards. Someone in the cabin let out a startled shriek—Anders could only file that away subconsciously, fixated on the instruments as they disappeared into the blank grey of the storm. “Clear. Good on proximity."

“Thanks." Out of shelter, winds were already starting to buffet the dropship. “Hello back there. Hopefully that was the worst of it. We're going to climb for a bit, and then start on our way to your destination. Flight time should be about ninety minutes. Are you two alright? Talk into the speaker by the wall."

“We're fine," Lishad's voice answered. “We trust you."

Now it was a matter of making sure that trust wasn't misplaced. He held the ascent straight until they were a kilometer over the cosmodrome, and started to adjust them on their course to Pressman. “Stabilizers to 'flight.' And help me with the course, when you can."

“'Flight' mode," Sergeant Multani confirmed. “Be gentle."

It was abundantly, immediately clear that the sky—never a particular fan of dropships—intended to take its irritation out on this one in particular. A gust of wind twisted them ten degrees off-course; he'd just recovered when a second burst punched them another hundred meters aloft. “Stabilizers," he said again.

“Inertia conflicts on every axis, Anders. This is as good as it's getting. Try going up another kilometer."

That did the trick for a few minutes—but they were nine hundred kilometers from Pressman, still, and conditions were worse than even the two airmen had anticipated. Altitude didn't help. Nudging their course in search of marginally clearer air didn't help. He keyed the intercom. “Apologies, ambassador. I'm doing what I can."

“Nan'tag. Ko—dhalratallkag."

The former was the old Nakath independence slogan: “we can do it." And then: no—_you _will be able to do it. “Well wishes," he explained curtly to Multani. He didn't have the attention to spare for a proper translation or the context it required.

“Guess we need 'em."

“Maybe." Be gentle. The husky's jaw ached with how tightly he had it clenched. Then the Peregrine bucked, and they pitched downwards, and for a terrifying second or two there was no reaction when he pulled on the control column.

“I have very limited—fuck!—authority here. What's going on?"

Emily was hard at work on one of the computers. “Stabilizers—nine disagrees on the lateral-A channel alone—the tail's trying to go in a different direction than the nose—nose is trying to—"

“Right. Got it," he growled. “Higher?"

A pause. He hazarded a glance over. Multani raised her head; shook it. “Lower, if anything. Avoid the mountains—detour past Birkenfeld."

“How low?"

“Your call. Or we keep going on our current trajectory."

“What's the added—" time was on his muzzle when the Peregrine heeled over and a rapid, blaring alarm indicated the ship was being stressed past its tolerances. “Never mind. We're descending."

“Terrain ahead on this bearing. You want about two-ninety. No rush."

“Right, 2-9-0." When they were on the new course, Anders set them in as steep of a descent as he thought would remain controllable, mindful that every new jolt brought a matching complaint from the alarm systems. “Broadcast our intentions when you get a second. And kill the stabilizers. We'll do this by hand."

“Stabilizers off. Watch the layer coming up. Under that, winds are… thirty at thirty. But minimal gusts."

'Under that' gave the dropship a margin of a little less than a kilometer over the surface. Anders felt the wind change direction, fought the Peregrine back onto a straight course, and tested the ship's response to his command. "Calmer here." He could breathe again, in other words.

“Should be. Fuel burn could be better."

“We have plenty," he reminded her. “Very thoughtful."

“Very."

They were in the thick of the storm, blind without the computers. With the computers, though, the rendered image of Tycho slipping beneath them stayed reassuringly clear, and the turbulence remained manageable. “Any surprises coming up?"

“No direct observation, just what we have from the last orbital pass. There's a pressure change about fifty minutes ahead. I'm not a meteorologist, though."

“Warn me when we're closer. How's the ship?"

He saw her reach out in his peripheral vision, stabbing a button on her instrument panel firmly. A grid of warnings appeared on the cockpit glass in front of him. “What do you think?"

“Shit. Anything going to cause a problem?"

Multani let the button go, and the warnings disappeared. “Probably not. But I don't like the intermittent disconnect on the AMACS. It's not responding to commands."

“Bent?"

“Best-case. Worst-case, it's gone—wrenched off the pylon."

“Hopefully nobody decides we want a missile, then."

She nodded. “I don't expect anybody's dedicated enough to be out in this. And it's the holidays, right? Most wonderful time of the year… peace on earth…"

“You really think so?"

“Better be peace somewhere. It's not very peaceful aloft, is it? And there's the ceasefire, if you believe in miracles… why not take advantage of the season to use up your goodwill, huh?"

It had become peaceful enough that Anders no longer felt they were in danger of tearing the dropship apart, though, and he could concentrate on something other than his mortality. “You don't sound convinced about the ceasefire."

“You saw all the activity at Fort Hannover, right?"

“I spent yesterday with the ambassador. On your recommendation, remember?"

“Oh. Well, the depot is packed… chatted with a quartermaster, and from what she said, there's at least a division's worth of spare parts they're keeping in store. I guess that means what we heard about the 7th being brought in is true. CODA doesn't spend money like that unless they think they have to."

“No." Another thought occurred to him: “You know what else?"

“What?"

“We're due for a reactor overhaul, remember? If they're resupplying the Tassafaronga in orbit, they don't expect to wind down the RRTF's mission. We're here for the duration."

She saw the logic of it at once; her nod was subdued. “Probably. I hope you like Tycho. You'll get to spend more time with the ambassador, at least."

“Not from orbit, I won't."

“That's what shore leave is for." Multani met his scowl with a brief grin. “Just sayin', chief. You've never licked my nose."

“It's…"

“Complex?"

Anders gnawed around the edges of the truth for a spell. “Check the thrust heaters. What's the delta to ambient?"

“Uh, let's see. Under forty. Want 'em in normal flight mode?"

“Might as well."

“Done. Not that it'll help. Wear on the intake heaters is the last of our problems. Maintenance ain't just raking us over the coals when we land—they're gonna leave us there."

“It'll be warm."

“Good point. So: does the licking come before or after the harnessing?"

“Nakhota's young. And she likes humans. She knew I'd tell you, and she knew you'd find it amusing. That's all."

Sergeant Multani's flat 'mm-hm' was belied by the shake of her head. “Is it rare to like humans? Do you not like humans? I wouldn't blame you."

“I like some humans. Like you fine," he clarified, though it didn't really need saying aloud. “What do you think of the chop if we come a bit left? It'll be faster."

“Looks good. If I keep pushing, are you going to find turbulence until I shut up?"

He adjusted their course, waiting to feel out any worsening of the ride. None came. “No. Here: I get reminded all the time that I'm not like you. I'm used to getting defensive when it comes up, and that's hard to unlearn."

“Fair."

“Moreaus… sometimes… a lot of them—us—do the same thing. Also remind me that I'm not like you. They mean it more nicely. Ambassador Lishad is… different. She believes in our similarities, but not the same way I do." Not the same way I used to, maybe—but that was too nuanced.

“Well, you know… you're not like me. You use more shampoo. But you can fly a Peregrine as well as someone with bare skin, can't you? Is that what she means?"

“Is it?"

“You tell me."

The clouds before them changed, lightening. Anders zeroed his attention back on the Peregrine, waiting. Blue light flickered, and vanished. Flickered again—then they shot out into open sunlight, with snowy fields below them and nothing at all above.

He held off answering, telling himself it could wait until they'd landed. Knowing, of course, that once the ship touched down he'd be busy at once. But for the rest of the flight, short and smooth, he weighed what the answer might even be.

What did they share in common?

Practical concerns, for one. The ground crew that met them wore CODA uniforms. The man in charge, Sergeant Worrall, was in a good mood. “Even if I wasn't expecting to use the break in the storm for Peregrine recovery. It's good to see more Alliance faces—don't have many of those."

“There's not a permanent unit here, right?"

“Nope. We share space with the BBKI garrison. Technically, we're all 61st Spaceborne, but… really, haven't been spaceborne for about four months. Manage transiting flights, mostly—how's the ship?"

Multani cleared her throat. “Been better."

Sergeant Worrall's eyes searched the Peregrine from nose to tail. And then, pausing, he focused on the starboard wing. “Fuck me. You didn't happen to leave the countermeasure pod on the Tassie, did you?"

“No," Multani said.

Worrall reached up, gingerly working his fingers over the twisted remains of the pylon. “This is supposed to be rated to sixteen gees. This was the weather? Or did you get shot at?"

“Weather. I think. You could check the logs."

“Fuck me," Worrall repeated, shocked. “We better scope the whole frame. No way they'll clear a bird back to orbit with that kinda damage. You flew in this?"

“Well, it wasn't my idea. Blame him."

“Needs must," Anders said. “You know?"

“This wasn't even a combat operation. Do the marines know you get up to this in your spare time, Mr. Anders? Must be a hell of a pilot." Worrall shook his head. “Y'all are still crazy, though—don't get me wrong. Thank God I don't drop anymore."

“We get bored, otherwise. Can you fix it here, sergeant?"

“Yes. We'll take care of it. I'll report to you as soon as we have the diagnostics, Mr. Anders? That's Colonel Bultman and Sergeant Preuss coming over, now. Don't let me keep you."

Bultman's expression darkened when he saw Anders. He looked, briefly, like he was considering addressing Sergeant Multani instead. But, at last, he turned to Anders. “Oberst Bultman. Sind Sie mit die diplomatische Gruppe?"

Anders could, at least, make out the last two words. “Diplomatic group. That's right. Ambassador Lishad."

Bultman dutifully changed to English. “Welcome to Pressman. We were not expecting arrivals until the weather cleared. Your rooms are ready. The ambassador is with you?"

“Yes, sir." Anders stepped away, unlocking and opening the passenger cabin. Lishad made her way to the ground carefully, with Nakhota right behind her. Bultman looked about as happy to see the pair as he had to see Anders.

But he remained placid. “Ambassador Lishad. I'm Colonel Bultman, senior attaché to ambassador Dr. Jan Meier. I hope the flight was… acceptable. I know the conditions are poor. But you've made it."

“Danke schön, und vielen Dank für die Einladung. Unsere Freundschaft sollte auf kein Wetter achten."

“Freundschaft?"

She smiled, bowing gently. “Natürlich." Lishad glanced to her side; Nakhota came forward, handing a small, carefully wrapped package to the shepherd, who in turn held it out towards their host. “Von das Kashkin. Wir wünschen Ihnen frohe Weihnachten."

The Border Collie, returning to her place, whispered to Anders in quiet Rukhat: merry Christmas, she says. From the Kashkin. Anders nodded, and watched to see the man's reaction.

Bultman took the parcel, frowning slightly. “Feldwebel." The young man next to him approached, and Bultman spoke quietly to him. Whatever he said, the soldier looked surprised. Bultman nodded sternly.

“Jawohl. Please, then. You all: come." He went on as he led them away from the flightline. “There was a slight problem with your room. We give you new ones. Englisch ist besser? Deutsch? Nakathisch?"

“English." Lishad's amused smile came with a perk of the shepherd's ears. “You speak Rukhat?"

“Jo, neget. Huz ilgena… ha'nyenichka rukhat. German Nakathish," Sergeant Preuss clarified, and smiled to match Lishad's own. “I just try to learn. Maybe it will be useful. Depending on the talks."

“Are there moreaus in the BBKI's militia?" Anders asked.

“No. But… that could change, right?"

As at Hannover, the diplomatic mission and their CODA escorts had been given separate rooms. Nakhota, however, wasn't interested in settling in—she took Preuss up on his offer of a tour. His room, too, was quiet: once her bag had been tossed onto a bed, Multani went in search of something to eat.

Anders wasn't especially hungry. Restless, he knocked on the door to the room opposite. Lishad opened it promptly. “Ah—hello, Mr. Anders. Kettich?"

“Either."

“Kettich, then." She stepped back, inviting him inside. The room's far wall, dominated by a massive window, looked out on a tall pine tree festooned with strands of blinking lights. “I don't think this is the room they originally meant for us, if you can believe that."

“I can believe it." He waited to hear the door click shut. “I don't believe this is just about shipping negotiations—if you can believe that."

Lishad sat at the edge of her bed, patting the space next to her. “Join me. It's complex, Kettich. Diplomacy often is, even when it's in the form of trade agreements."

Night came early, at Pressman's latitude; it was already cooling off. “Looking for scarves?"

“The insurgency on Tycho has many clandestine backers. Certain officials in the BBKI doubt that the Yucatan Alliance is willing to commit for an extended duration. Significant concessions appear to have purchased an expansion of the current deployment, if what I hear about freighter traffic to the depots is correct… but that only goes so far. You and your soldiers are very costly."

“And the Kashkin needs allies."

“Or to remind the ones we have of our belief in the strength of packs. As I think you saw from Colonel Bultman, convincing them of this belief requires effort. But—as I think you also saw—it can be done."

“Are you optimistic?"

“I suppose." Despite the twinkling reflection of a thousand colored lights, the darkness of her eyes struck him first. “It will be challenging. Life is challenging, though," she added, with a soft laugh at the irony of her words. “We'll try."

“I know. Good luck."

“Even small progress can be enough, and the Kashkin is worth the challenge. Who knows where this journey takes us?" She raised her arm, pointing out the window. Nakhota and Preuss were together, on the far side of the tree; he saw the sergeant tell her something that drew the collie's tail into an eager wag. “Or yours. Where will you go?"

“Back to my ship, eventually."

“For now? The next few minutes?"

“Would you mind if I stayed for a spell? I'd like to watch the lights, if it's alright with you. And I'm… thinking about something."

“Of course." Lishad folded her paws in her lap, and went quiet.

She was right, Anders decided. About some things, at least—that people could change. Some of them, anyway. And you? Can you change? Could he truly see himself in the Kashkin, settling down?

No.

But he couldn't have seen himself at the Christmas market, either. There had been something worthwhile in that. Whatever that was, perhaps the same worthwhile thing he saw playing out next to the tree. The young sergeant had taken Nakhota's paw, and the Border Collie's ears were pricked alertly.

He couldn't make out the music of the choir that held their attention. Platitudes, Multani said. Nakhota's tail was all but a blur.

Anders looked away from them. Lishad noticed at once—her ears flicked—but she waited motionless for a full-half minute before turning, her muzzle lifted to focus her gaze on the husky. “I thought you were watching the lights?"

“Thinking, too, remember?"

“About?"

“Everything. My future. The Commonwealth. The next few minutes…"

With a smile, the white shepherdess twisted further, dipping her head and nosing softly into his neck. She murmured something—inaudible, nothing more than subtle warmth in the husky's pelt.

And then his arm wound up about her, somehow, the movement so natural and inevitable that Anders neither thought about how it had happened, nor found it in any way surprising. He nuzzled her ear, teasing himself with her silky fur. “What did you say?"

The faintest hint of teeth closed on him before Lishad let go. “I asked if you wished to be left to your contemplation."

He repaid her in kind, biting the rim of her ear. Gently, at first. Then a second time, with enough pressure that the captured ear flicked, and Lishad squirmed and gasped against him. “No."

The shepherd's ears swiveled back, and he heard two thumps of her tail. She relaxed, and as her frame grew heavier in his arm he let her recline, following her onto the bed. Their eyes locked briefly, and she licked his muzzle—then looked away, and slid closer. Pressed against him, her arm over the husky and her nose in his cheekfur, her voice stayed a whisper. “Do you know the worst thing about this planet?"

“Not the weather?"

“We're built for it. I haven't…" For a heartbeat her ears pinned again, and then she rallied. “I haven't been tied in six years."

“No?" He felt her shake her head. Anders nudged her, rolling with the dog as she turned onto her back. Propped up on an elbow, with the weight of his hips pinning hers, he stared down at her. “Really?"

“Really."

“Because we're built for that, also, you know…"

“Mm-hm." The sash holding her robe closed offered only faint resistance when he nudged it open, working the fabric wider while he buried his muzzle in her fur. “Too long for you, too?"

“With a nakath?" He had to think, honestly—the opportunity didn't present itself on shore leave very often. Might have even been more than six years. In any case: “definitely."

Her paws slid between them briefly, and the lingering tautness of her sash yielded. In the interest of curiosity and cultural exchange she could've prompted him further, could've forced the husky into explaining how humans worked—and what kinds of humans, at that.

But she didn't. Instead, with her sash undone she turned her attention to his tunic, pulling it upwards. Anders took a break to sit up, and to tug the shirt off, and to watch the shepherdess's grin become wolfish. “Lishad?"

“Kettich?" she echoed. “You know, if you moved to the Kashkin, it wouldn't be difficult to find you a mate. I'm not sure you'd make it out of the cosmodrome."

“If," he reminded her. “You'd need to convince me."

“Convince? Persuade?" Having sat up, Anders was no longer pinning her, and she used the opportunity to work her legs free of the robe. Sprawled nude atop it, her pristine white fur stark against the dark cotton, the dog formed an image that she seemed to know was persuasive, indeed.

He loosened his belt and undid his trousers—that part already a slight challenge; his excitement was less than subtle—and returned her smile. “You can tell me all about your country, for a start. First things first, though."

“I need to roll over?"

Picturing the white shepherd bent over—head down, rump lifted, arms braced to take the strength of the feral thrusts earned by such a stance—drew an immediate, reflexive growl from him. Captivating: but then, so were her eyes, and her expressive ears, and her enticing grin… her expectant, anticipatory look…

Anders shifted forward, and she spread her legs for him as soon as his intentions were clear. Their muzzles bumped; he followed up the inadvertent imitation of a human kiss with a lap to her nose, and a nip that faltered because even as his teeth met fur he felt the tip of his shaft catch a moment before gliding slickly over the warmth he suddenly found.

He'd known he was aroused but not just how erect he was, how hard and ready his cock had become. The swiftness of it almost called for a muttered apology, a disarming joke, but the shepherdess stopped all of that by adjusting her hips to meet him a second time.

And the angle was so precise, and so little distance separated them, that his instinctive thrust, shallow as it was, slid the husky into her. Not much, not nearly all of him, but enough for Lishad to feel the stiff heat starting to bury into her folds. Enough for Anders to know that one good push would finish the job of claiming her.

So he did.

Lishad tensed, then shuddered as he plunged deeper still, stopping only when he'd sunk his throbbing shaft in her to the hilt. For a second longer Anders kept grinding, working his length against her slick walls. Then he relented, and the shepherd relaxed with a helpless moan.

She began quivering as he pulled free, locking up under him again when the next, firmer thrust filled her just as completely. Her eyes rolled back, briefly. And they never came back into proper, sharp focus as he started to move. Lishad gasped in time to his steady, full strokes, and as the anticipation in her expression gave way to pleased satisfaction he knew taking her face-to-face had been the right decision.

The husky also knew, though, he wouldn't be able to appreciate it indefinitely. Desire had already started to creep into his rhythm, urging his tempo faster and adding to the strength of every inward pump. For the moment it was only the carnal gratification of her sex around him, wet and soft and exquisitely warm.

Soon though it would be overcome by the desire to tie her, to rut hard and deep into the shepherdess until her gasps turned to yelps and her claws scored him and he had her pinned under his driving hips, relentless bucks ramming his cock in to ensure his knot wedged where it belonged.

And after that the all-consuming need to sate himself, and Anders sensed this building by degrees. Lishad had her arms tight around him, pulling the husky close while he humped into her, and now and then he felt her teeth on his ear, his throat…

It was almost... feral.

And he'd forgotten how different that was. It felt so damn good to be fucking someone meant for it. Felt good to feel her fur mesh with his when they met. Felt good to feel those claws. Felt unbelievable to feel her grip at his knot, that snug pressure slipping over the swelling bulge as her body tried to keep him trapped.

No last-minute hesitation as the swift coupling changed into something purposeful and sharp and frantic, and the tie became inevitable. Lishad's hips twisted and jerked to help him, and her embrace tightened, and when he slammed himself into her the last, decisive time, grunting with the effort that forced his length into place, she cried out in proper, canine ecstasy.

And held on.

Panted his name, ragged and lust-filled, for the first half-dozen of the rapid pumps while the pressure of his knot swelled. Then she sucked in a sharp breath, and howled—pulsing around his cock. Squeezing him, begging for him, and Anders kept moving on instinct even as his own peak became inevitable, the pleasure rising up, throbbing...

His last thrust was rough and hard, straining for every bit of depth before his shaft twitched, and a warm spurt of husky cum gushed into her. The first rope was all but enough to fill the shepherd—he heard her yelp again at the liquid heat flooding her or the strength of his final, claiming stroke, or both—but the next shove brought another splash of his seed, and a third.

By the time he managed to growl, her giddy moan drowned him out, the sound rising with the shuddering jolts that pumped his load into her. And then he collapsed, driving the breath from her lungs, and the only sound was their heavy panting. She twitched occasionally under him, and he thrust reflexively in answer. But he had nothing more, anyway, just squelched his cock through the slick mess he'd already given her, and Lishad for her part gradually regained enough control of her body to lie still.

“Something changed," she surmised. Her voice was quiet. “Since last night. Something changed."

Anders nodded. His arms and legs were yet to work properly at his command, and he didn't trust himself to speak. He let her stroke him, running her fingers through his fur until he could recover, pulling the shepherdess with him onto their sides.

The heat and energy of their mating had faded, but though he was relaxed—sated, even—the exhaustion he'd expected never materialized in the soft-focused comfort that melted his thoughts. He slid his arms around Lishad, holding her close.

“You were right," he said, finally.

“Oh? I've… persuaded you sufficiently?" Her tongue lapped at his nose. “But… persuaded you to what?"

“What you said in the market. What they were doing with it… about the significance of it all—the lights, and… and the trees, and the cooking fires… I think I realized something about it. About us. You and I, and… Nakhota and her new friend, out there. And that man you spoke to, and his daughter, and the colonel… everyone."

Lishad nuzzled him, and he repaid her with a lick of his own to her snowy muzzle. “What of us?"

“I don't know that I'll ever hear the alkosh. And when I listened to the choir, I don't know that I heard salvation. But I know what I did hear: that we aren't the same. We don't look the same, don't speak the same language, don't share the same history."

“But."

“But the night covers all of us. We all face the same winter. And I realized how cold it would be if I chose to face it alone. If I had to face it alone."

“You don't," she promised, and he hugged her again.

“And that's what changed."