FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Julie Verne was bred to be an indentured servant, writing reports for harried businessmen. Now, she's the newest member of 3rd Platoon, B Company, 366th Spaceborne Assault Battalion -- the only one of her kind in a platoon of humans. As her story opens, she tries to integrate into a band of brothers with precious little need for a canine companion...

This is the first part of a novel that I have been working on. It's not quite as erotica-focused as my previous efforts, and the emphasis is chiefly on plot. There is an overarching M/F character arc that begins here, and an M/M interlude that is more explicit but probably stops short of being raunchy. Sorry, all in good time. Anyway, this all makes it a bit different from what I'm used to, and I'm curious to see how you all enjoy it. If you like it, the rest of the novel will follow in installments as I write them. Unlike my last foray into serials, I have an outline and a plan this time! Beyond that, read and enjoy --_ and as always, please chime in with criticism and feedback. Per ardua ad astra, and all that!_

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

Cry Havoc!, by Rob Baird -- Ch. 1, "And what rough beast?"

---

The darkness drops again but now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle; And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born? -William Butler Yeats, "The Second Coming"

For a long moment she paused at the hatch, trying to convince herself that what lay beyond was absolution. Not that it mattered: she was already committed. Steeling herself, she spun it wide with a decisive thunk, and a dozen pairs of eyes swung towards her. Finally one of the men spoke, and his voice carried a note of slight incredulity:

"Are you lost?"

She scanned his uniform quickly, catching the tag that read "SCOTT" and looking briefly for rank insignia. "No," she said. "I'm --"

"Where's your owner?" The interruption came from a second man, whose tag proclaimed him to be "RAMIREZ" and whose rank was equal to the woman's own.

"I don't have one," she said, frostily. "I've been transferred here for your -- our -- next tour."

Ramirez and Scott exchanged glances. The latter -- a short man with a surly face -- shook his head. "As what, a mascot?"

She stifled the urge to growl -- the patience required to deal with humans had been the enduring lesson she'd taken from boot camp. "Who's in charge here?" she asked, as calmly as possible.

Her presence was drawing increasing attention, and one of the other humans -- perhaps judging that neither Scott nor Ramirez were likely to help -- leaned back in her chair to call down the corridor of the ship. "Hey, LT? We got a dog here who says it wants to join up." The description was inaccurate -- they were called 'reshaped' or 'enhanced' canids, but shared far less genetic material than did, for example, humans and chimpanzees. It was not a fair comparison to call the creature a dog even if, at first blush, she seemed to look nothing so much as one, standing on two legs.

In any case, the recipient of the information seemed perplexed by more than questions of semantics. "What?" After the moment, there came the sound of footsteps, and a sigh as he gained the main room. Lieutenant Usher, as his nametag said, was tall -- sixty or seventy centimeters on the diminutive newcomer. He looked her over with a skeptical eye, and then glanced around at the other members of the platoon. "What's going on?"

Scott jerked his head to indicate the unwelcome presence. "Just stepped through the hatch, sir. Talking some crazy bullshit about being transferred."

"Is that right," Usher said, his voice carrying none of the tone that might've made it a question and his gaze unwavering. "You here to join us?"

She nodded her head once, crisply. "Yes, sir."

Usher stroked a few days worth of stubble on his chin; the noise was rough and slightly grating to her ears. "I've seen your kind before. You're a newshound, aren't you?"

It was one of the colloquial terms for her type -- bred for sorting information quickly, her lineage had gotten its start in processing news stories for busy executives. "Data synthesis and aggregation, yes sir," she said, by way of slight correction.

"Are you embedding?"

"No, sir." She realized, from a quick glance, that all activity in the room had stopped, and she was being watched closely.

For his part, Usher seemed to be slightly perplexed, and he raised an eyebrow, arching it over the sharp grey of his eyes. "No? What are you doing here, then?"

"I'm enlisted." She tapped the cloth insignia on her uniform -- once they had seemed so lovely, beneath the smooth pads of her fingers. Now... "Regular army. I've been assigned to your platoon to fill what I was told was a vacancy."

The lieutenant's confused look was fading quickly into incredulity. "You mean front-line duty? You're dropping with us?"

"Yes, sir," she said; she had found that it was best to answer such questions directly, ignoring their tone and without adding the attitude she frequently wished to force into the words. "I'm your C&S specialist."

Usher thought for a moment -- she could practically see the wheels turning in his head. Is this a prank? Did the captain put somebody up to it? "Why don't you come back to my office?" he asked presently.

"LT" -- Ramirez's voice carried a note of insolent protest. "Are you taking this seriously?"

The tall man merely shrugged. "If the army does. Ours not to reason why, Victor -- come along, newbie, and let's see what this is all about." He beckoned her with an outstretched hand, and stepped back through the hatch that led into the adjoining corridor.

It was, of course, the reception that the woman -- dog -- rifleman -- had expected. Similar looks, similar catcalls had greeted her since her enlistment. So, with ears kept low and tail unmoving between her legs, she padded softly after the lieutenant, following him into his small office and waiting for him to take a seat in the uncomfortable straight-backed chair that sprawled lifelessly behind his desk.

"You know," he said. "Victor's kind of an asshole, but I've got to ask the same question -- you for real?"

She unclipped the ID badge from around her neck, handing it over to him. "My orders, sir."

"Jules Verne?"

"Technically, my name was 2C-GeneMark-395B-VER, but I went by Verne, and when the company released me they gave me 'Jules' as a first name. So I used that when I enlisted."

"And your deployment orders are here..." Usher frowned, taking the badge and pressing it against his computer. When the machine chimed, he stared at the readout -- and eventually, as though it contained the reminder of a sour memory, he sighed. "Well, ain't that a bitch?"

"Yes, sir," she agreed. "I prefer 'Private Verne,' though -- or 'Julie,' if you want to be informal."

The lieutenant blinked, furrowing his brow. "Was that a joke?"

"Yes, sir," she repeated.

He laughed, so softly that it seemed almost mirthless. "Well. I guess that's something. Helps to have a sense of humor." He turned her badge over and over in his calloused fingers, and handed it back with a light shake of his head. "Signals and comms, huh?" He used the older version of the name -- 'C&S' stood for 'collection and synthesis' now -- but the job was the same. "Aren't you a bit inexperienced?"

"A bit. I think it's normally a specialist two. I had high scores on the placement test -- my previous vocation gave me a lot of training in data processing and analysis, so... I guess they thought it was logical."

Lieutenant Usher rested his head on his hand, elbow propped against the arm of the chair. He was looking past Verne, at the gunmetal nothingness of the wall, thinking. His eyes flicked over to her. "What was your last job?"

"Trend analysis in the Silicon Valley Free Zone on Earth. Data collection, separation and synthesis -- trying to find new opportunities, identify causes of dissent, stuff like that."

"Apple?"

She shook her head. "No, civilian."

"How'd you wind up here, then?"

"Same as you did, sir, probably -- went down to the recruiting office."

Julie sometimes thought that it might be interesting to keep track of how people responded to her, when they learned this bit of information, in case one of them decided to do something different. Usher, however, failed to buck the trend -- like everyone else, he looked at her strangely, as though she had spoken in a foreign language. "Why? You don't need service for citizenship, do you?"

"No." Humans were generally required to put in some period of civil service, in the military or some other paragovernment arm; engineered creatures such as Julie were not. "That was part of the Incorporation Treaty -- but just because the companies didn't want to have to cover our expenses, if we retired. I'm not a real citizen."

"Not a real citizen in what sense?"

"I can't join the Ecclesia, for example." Beyond voting and public office, there were indeed a whole host of things that she couldn't do -- or could do only with substantially greater difficulty than an ordinary human. Marriage. Starting a business. Emigrating off-world. "I won't be able to even after my term is up."

It was no great secret that most people joined the military not out of any particular obligation but because they desired the benefits that came with vested citizenship. Usher's expression suggested that he, too, was of this opinion. "Then... why would you join?"

"Because civil service isn't a transaction. You do it because it's the right thing to do, not just because you get something from it. At least... it seems to me that's the healthiest way of looking at it."

He sighed, and she was given cause to believe that he had seen such youthful idealism before. "So you're here because you think it's the moral thing? Well, that makes you harder to buy out, now, doesn't it?" Again came that quiet laugh. "You actually think you're going to drop, though? We don't have suits in your size, private." He unscrewed a vacuum flask, filling a mug of coffee and tipping the container to her.

"No, thank you." She shook her head, declining the offered beverage. "A model 3 Europan in size 37 fits, sir. I checked with the quartermaster on board, and they have one, if you can requisition it."

Usher's mouth was filled with coffee; he held his hands up to either side of his head to pantomime a helmet.

"That's still a problem. I can wear a Morris-type respirator and goggles, though. I'm qualified for blue, green and indigo environments with that. Drops of class four or below. Anything higher than that and I require sign-off from the medic, but the ship's assignment is for a blue planet, if I'm not mistaken."

He had the look of a condemned man whose options are becoming rapidly limited. "You're not going to leave me any options, are you?"

"I would prefer that you not think of this as an imposition."

Usher snorted, and had to wipe a few drops of coffee away with the back of his hand. "Maybe. I still don't like it, though. Feels a little much like rocking the boat for no good reason."

Verne nodded.

"And my men won't like it."

She nodded again.

"I can't make them like it." She nodded a third time and, sensing that he was arguing with himself, Usher shook his head and was quiet for a spell. "I guess," he finally offered. "This is the part where I tell you that the man you're replacing was one of the best soldiers in the army. A credit to his country -- beloved by every last man, woman and child in this platoon."

"I see."

"Kai was a fucking idiot. He paid cash for all his promotions -- or his dad did, anyway. Fuck. I'm almost glad he bought it, just 'cause... hell. He didn't have a chance to take anybody else down with him. That's how this army goes, you know, private. It's not the guys in here for a term you gotta worry about. They just want their citizenship. It's the people who want to make something of themselves." He spat the last four words like a curse. "Politicians lookin' to pad a resume, incompetents who couldn't make it in a corporation, sociopaths... Dogs, I guess?"

"And you, sir?"

He laughed once, shortly -- a dismal, strangled barking sound. Then he held up the back of his hand, so that she could see the punitive tattoo. It looked ornate, almost artistic, the machine-readable but human-opaque code stamped in a perfect square. "Corporate espionage. No company'll take me anymore. It was sign up or ship out to one of the outer colonies, and I didn't feel like that. Most of these people, though, they're only in it for themselves, and only for a few years. Our pilot's pretty good, but... she'll have enough service in six months to get a professional license without having to pay for it. You think she'll stick around? Hell no. You're like me, though, huh? Nowhere else to go? I guess I should be glad to have you."

"As I said, sir, I'd rather you not think of it as an imposition. My proficiency scores are --"

"You think I give a fuck? Private, I ain't stupid. I may not like this arrangement, but, fuck, I'm on the outside too. I don't have a problem with you guys. Not, like, philosophically. So I mean..." Usher gave another, bitter laugh, and waved his hand in her direction. "If they let you pass, it's because you didn't give them a choice. Otherwise they would've dropped you just on principle. That makes you, what... half as good again as a human candidate? Twice as good?"

He was perceptive enough; Verne nodded lightly. "Split the difference, sir."

"Yeah, see? I'm not worried you're going to let us down. I just don't want to have to deal with the bullshit from people like Victor. Which... I guess, speaking of..."

Usher finished his coffee, and screwed the lid back on to the flask with the precision of someone procrastinating an unpleasant task. Then he stood, and led her back down the metal corridor to the commons area of the barracks, where the rest of the platoon still rested.

"Alright, guys, listen up," he said; their attention came to focus on him immediately, she noticed. "As you know, Kai Etxandi's replacement was held up by the budgetary process while we were finishing our last tour... I am, ah... I'm happy to say that we have filled that vacancy. This is Private Julie Verne. She will be our C&S specialist, reporting directly to either Sergeant McArdle or myself." He ignored the murmurs that arose, forging ahead. "Please give her the... warm, civilized welcome with which you have driven off so many decent people before."

He turned to leave, and was interrupted by a question from a man identified by his badge only as Muhammet. "Are you fucking with us, LT?"

"Serhat..." Usher sighed in exasperation.

"Yeah, but, I thought this was a humans-only joint." The voice was female, and the speaker's identification was hidden by a hefty piece of diagnostic equipment slung over her shoulder. "I didn't know we were allowed to bring pets."

"You're not." Victor Ramirez's voice was dark, his expression ugly. "Shouldn't be, anyhow. What happens when I throw a grenade and your seeing-eye dog here decides to play fetch with it, huh? What am I supposed to --"

A new voice cut Ramirez off. "Grow the fuck up. Serhat, Klaudia, that goes for you too. Christ, you people are like kids."

"Thanks, Jim."

"No problem, sir. I can take it from here." The grumbling subsided, and Jim -- McArdle, the platoon sergeant, she realized -- crossed the room to offer her a hand. She shook it, and when he pulled back he indicated the far hatchway through which she had first entered. "Your stuff still down at embarkation? Let's take a walk."

With the hatchway closed behind them, McArdle shook his head, waving his hand dismissively at the now-hidden room. "You've got to ignore them. We've been sitting here for two months, no news about our deployment... they're getting restless, you know? Stir crazy."

"Yeah. I've heard stir-craziness can make people racist sometimes."

The sergeant shrugged. "I'm just saying. There'll be some... hazing, probably? Teasing -- some fond, some not. It's just best if you don't let it get to you."

"Ah," she said. "It can't be any worse than basic training was."

He turned to look at her. "Pretty bad?"

"I did my C&S training on the sims at Io Station. With the Gurkhas. They were okay. But I was back on Earth for most of it -- Camp Merriwether, and then Camp Sunset. It was pretty bad, yes, sir."

His eyebrows were starting to turn grey, and it gave him a fatherly air when he arched them. "Why'd you transfer?"

Memories that she had spent months in trying to suppress came back in a rush, too quick to still the shiver that tensed her short, compact frame. "Ah... difficulties with the command structure, I suppose you could say."

"You don't want to talk about it?"

"We've just met," she said, softly. "I'd rather not."

"Well, I'm just saying," he offered. "If you have problems, you come to me, okay?"

Dinner had been served by the time they returned, and it came as no great surprise to her that she found herself eating alone, crouched in her bunk. Klaudia, in the first group she had approached, warned her off with a scowl, and she didn't really have the energy required to force the issue. Instead she contented herself with the reminder that she had, at long last, finally made it, and the vindication of the other soldiers be damned -- she was on a ship, now, with a firm assignment, and when they cast off there would be nothing to hold her back.

That, she supposed was victory enough.

*

The following morning, with the departure of the ship imminent, Sergeant McArdle ordered the platoon up early and 'suggested' -- by which he intended to allow no dissent -- a run along the perimeter sections of the ship. He waited until they had assembled when, grinning, he allowed that he had chosen to increase the local gravity -- "you never know," he pointed out, "where we might have to deploy."

Julie discovered that, in general, she was not terribly bothered. It was, she supposed, true that a part of her wanted to ensure that she compared favorably to the other soldiers, but mostly it was an opportunity to let her brain wander, freed from the unpleasant distraction of contemplating her existence.

The ship -- the LCS Kirishima -- was around six hundred meters long, and by the third circuit she was relatively familiar with its layout. It was long and narrow; the thick arms that held its maneuvering thrusters and the massive pods for the interstellar drive were inaccessible to the soldiers aboard, and so they could content themselves to a brisk jog inside a thick belt that, in battle, served as part of the ship's armor.

The Kirishima was new -- new enough to have artificial gravity generated by plates, rather than the ship's rotation. "Up" was, therefore, a formality; they were running, really, along the sides of the ship. Once or twice she spotted sailors hard at work on the ship's girders, where the local gravity was aligned with the decks. Seeing them proved disconcerting, and she chose to focus on the ground beneath her for the remainder of the run.

When they stopped, she discovered that the remainder of the platoon was out of breath -- McArdle included, though he promised to increase the gravity for the following day regardless. Their panting, so much like a dog's, tickled her slightly -- she herself, with a body designed by scientists rather than the caprice of evolution, was scarcely winded.

This bothered Victor, who glared at her from his position against the wall. "You bastards. Think you're so good -- probably augmented all to hell."

"Not physically," she said. "We're just built to run better, that's all. Humans are best at walking over long distances. Not this."

"Yeah? Then how the hell do you run in two gees without breaking a sweat, huh?"

Julie, her good mood untouched, gave him her best doggish grin. "You know, you picked this service. They're looking for forestry people on Mars -- they even give you a little truck to drive around. You wouldn't have to run at all. It's okay if you can't handle the army."

Her ribbing brooked a few slight smiles, a few murmurs as his companions urged Ramirez to respond to the insult. His reply -- mumbling that he supposed, as a dog, it was natural that she should enjoy going for walks -- fell flat, and she was willing to let herself be heartened by this.

In the mess hall, that evening, she arrived early enough to secure a seat. Presently other members of the platoon settled in at the same table, evidently having judged the effort that would be required to remove her as unworthy of their troubles, although when she tried to interject some form of conversation they gave her the cold shoulder.

"If my dad knew the kind of... things... we were taking in this unit these days..." This was Private Scott, who hung around Ramirez often enough that she suspected them to be close friends. But his aggression seemed to be less visceral, and the others at the table took more issue with his proclamation than with her presence, even if the latter had sparked the comment to begin with. "He would totally fix this shit."

Sergeant Muhammet put down a forkful of reconstituted meat to glare at him. "Man, Dennis. Shut the fuck up about your dad already."

"I'm just saying..."

"Dennis. Nobody cares." She was trying to associate voices with faces and names as quickly as possible. Tomas Sedlacek was in the same section as Ramirez and Scott -- tall and massively built, he gave every impression that he could've simply lifted Scott up and tossed him with no effort. "So does anybody know what's actually happening now? Are we getting underway tomorrow?"

Klaudia nodded. "That's the word, anyway. They took delivery of the last munitions this afternoon. I heard 'em say they were starting up the engines."

"Where to?"

She shrugged. "Why the hell would I know?"

Verne spoke up. "The Columbia system. Some of the old mine-workers on Jefferson have been getting rowdy, so the colonial government asked for support. We're joining the Crazy Horse, the Leahy and the Scharnhorst to relieve the Yamato's group."

There was silence for a moment. Serhat Muhammet was the first to speak, eyes cold. "Did anybody ask you?"

No, they had not. The others seemed to be considering how seriously they really cared about Verne's feelings, but presently Sedlacek shrugged, and brought the conversation back to Muhammet's end of the table. "You know the Coral Sea -- they're with the Yamato's RRTF? I have a friend there."

"You have friends, Tom?" Klaudia Scholz seemed skeptical.

"Well. No," he admitted. "An acquaintance. I'd invite him to my wedding, how's that? Anyway, he says they've seen action out there."

That was enough to draw some attention -- generally, even when the Confederation deployed ships, they engaged in very little fighting. Scott leaned forward. "How serious?"

Tomas grinned, enjoying the power that comes from holding information, and shrugged lightly. "Ah, pretty typical for the sector. Low-level insurgency -- suppressive actions, mostly, takin' weapons caches and the like. Colonists, they all go out armed for bear and... well, eventually we're it, you know? But I heard that they've got some ships. They holed a corvette about three weeks back. Maybe that's why we're being sent out there."

Klaudia sucked her breath in sharply. "Casualties?"

"Decompressed half the ship; freeze-dried the crew."

This sapped the bite from Scott's tone. "Aw, fuck. That's no way to go."

"Least it's quick," Tomas pointed out. "I think. Hey -- doc!"

From the table next to them, Enzo Eklund, the platoon medic, turned around warily. "Yes?"

"If the pressure hull was ruptured, and the ship decompressed, it'd be pretty quick, right? For us guys?"

Enzo sighed, his cheeks puffing out. "Depends. Are you trying to tell a story, or are you trying to reassure yourself?"

Tomas paused, clucking his tongue and frowning. "I guess I'm trying to reassure myself."

"Oh, then, yeah. It'd be very quick. Painless, too. You probably wouldn't even notice."

Tomas opened his mouth to make some kind of reply, but Enzo had returned to his dinner, forestalling any further questioning, and so he turned back to Scott instead. "See? What'd I tell you. There are worse ways to buy it."

"Naw." Dennis was unconvinced -- indeed, something about the story seemed to unsettle him deeply. "It ain't right, getting killed without being able to do anything about it. That's not why we're here. I think if you're gonna get killed, you ought to have the right to fight for yourself."

"Who said 'right' has anything to do with it?"

Muhammet's question left them all silent, and Julie began to understand a little of the camaraderie. Dennis Scott was not a bully -- or at least, he was not only that. McArdle was the oldest among them, and Julie judged him to be in his 30s, prematurely grey, with his body outpacing his physical age. They were all young -- trying to come to terms with the world, and a society that had given them immense power and asked them to confront their own mortality in exchange.

Rationalizing this depended on an inherently predictable world, with understandable and fixed hierarchies. It was not a world that tolerated surprises -- like a routine tour ending in the destruction of a starship, or the addition of a peculiar animal to their ranks.

But this rationalization didn't make the isolation any easier to bear. The Kirishima cast off the following day, as planned, and Julie lost any recourse she might otherwise have had. She had told herself that she was prepared for anything that might happen -- the hazing, the constant needling and jibes, the rumors and the insinuations. That was, at any rate, what basic training had entailed.

There, though, she had had the benefit of a fixed goal -- completion -- and the occasional vindication of the trials that proved her worth relative to other untested men and women. Her marksmanship was better than acceptable, her physical endurance commendable. In the platoon, though, full as it was of men who had served together long enough to be willing to trust each other with their lives, none of this really mattered. A scorecard was meaningless, and she had not yet really been baptized.

And, of course, she was different. Her voice, generated awkwardly by engineered vocal cords, had a strange accent and could never be completely human -- she lacked the anatomy for this. She heard different sounds, saw different colors. She even smelled different -- though she was fastidious, and knew that when Ramirez complained about her scent he was hallucinating the odor where none existed.

So she ate in silence, by herself -- after the first week or so it no longer seemed worth the effort to force her way into conversations in which her presence was explicitly unwanted. She exercised with the rest of the platoon, and attended their training seminars, but they worked with her only begrudgingly, and she noticed the little changes in their behavior when they had to work with her -- the way they became more careless, more aggressive, less forgiving.

At night, in her dreams, she wondered aloud if it might get worse -- if they might begin to move beyond the verbal abuse (or the silence). Once or twice she awoke from one of these dreams panting softly, feeling as though a great weight had been placed upon her chest. She thought of rough hands, gripping her firmly to forestall any chance of escape. She thought of whispered threats, and the crushing knowledge of her own lack of power. McArdle had told her to come to him, if anything was wrong, and she tried to think of the recriminations that might follow.

The lack of any friendly conversation -- on Earth, she at least had the wireless links to her old coworkers and friends -- was beginning to weigh heavily on her, and the dreams grew worse. They had settled into a routine -- physical training, study, monotonous exercises -- so that there was nothing to break her mood. Nine days into the trip, with the Kirishima moving at ever-increasing speed away from Earth, she snapped awake and became aware, within seconds, of two things.

Firstly, her breathing was leaving her in a soft, involuntary whine -- particularly canine and, therefore, particular distasteful. Secondly, the noise had awoken at least a few of the soldiers around her. Somebody was shining a light over her; she held up a paw to block it out, but the darkness obscured the source.

Then had come the jeers -- loud enough for her to hear, but not so loud as to wake the others. Ramirez's voice, she thought, although it might've been Pejman Ghorbani, Tomas's assistant. It was phrased as concern, but the scorn behind it was obvious and evident. Awake, she was generally able to deal with the deliberately hurtful things they occasionally hit her with; roused from troubling dreams, she was aware of her own vulnerability.

She got up -- the beam of light was still following her, and she dipped her head to acknowledge it. Its owner dimmed the beam -- Ghazwan Naser, she thought, who was at least generally neutral towards her. No matter. When she had her feet beneath her, she padded over to the hatchway that led to the main corridor on the starboard side of the ship. Something caught her foot, and she went sprawling, striking her head on the hatch with a muffled yelp.

Clearheaded, she might've chalked this up to an accident, or something left too far away from the bunk, but in her discombobulation she decided it was a deliberate attempt to trip her. It was not something she cared to investigate -- things had become far too tense, far too pressing; she had to get out. The hatchway spun easily, and she stepped into the dim lights of the corridor with a sharp intake of breath that amounted to a relieved gasp.

The platoon's barracks were located towards the center of the ship; the Kirishima was double-hulled, and when on alert there was no way to access the space between the two. Most people didn't at any time; with its metal girders and bare lights, it was singularly uninviting. Klaudia Scholz seemed skeptical.But then, she thought, that was the point. Probably, back in the barracks, those who were awake were busy at mocking her -- even if only in their thoughts. She had no desire for any of their company.

There were no signs that marked the access hatch as off-limits, so she spun it, and stepped onto a gangway that led across to a small chamber on the edge of the outer hull. It led to a secondary airlock -- in case anyone needed to leave the ship to perform emergency repairs -- but the control room that adjoined the airlock was itself a separate area, dominated by a large metal plate set into the wall. She read the small plaque over the control panel, and pressed a button -- the plate slid back, revealing the deep, illimitable blackness of the space that surrounded them on all sides.

It was a humbling view, and it grew more stark as she found the controls that turned the lights down. Now, lit only by the soft glow of the panels, the room offered no distraction from the stars that burned coldly, all those light years hence. Death, Sergeant Eklund had said, would be quick and painless in a vacuum, but she found, curiously, that she had no appetite for it. Her decease would solve no problems, after all. Perhaps Ramirez and his friends would be made to feel guilty, but she doubted that this would really solve anything.

Instead, taking a careful seat before the window, staring out into infinity, she wept. It was a human gesture, and probably not one that her creators had intended, but she found it a naturally cathartic response. Her shoulders hitched with wavering breath, and she could feel the dampness of her tears staining the blue-grey fur around her eyes. She knew that she would have to return to the barracks, and was determined to exorcise her emotional demons before that point -- but the inevitability of that return, and of having to deal with the causes of her turmoil in the first place, did nothing to help her.

Probably, she thought, it could not get worse. This was a self-fulfilling prophecy; if anyone ever tried to reprise what had happened in the barracks at Camp Merriwether, she had decided that she would kill them, and face the consequences later. So it could not get worse. Or -- not much worse. She failed to hear the footsteps on the catwalk behind her until they were nearly at the entrance to the control chamber.

"You okay there?"

Julie didn't recognize the voice. "Yeah -- I'm fine." She hoped that she sounded certain enough of this declaration that they wouldn't press the issue.

"You sure? You mind if I come down there?"

She sighed, as inwardly as possible, and got to her feet. "Yeah, go ahead. I can get the lights -- hold on a second."

"It's okay." The footsteps made their way down; a man of middling height and light build, she thought, judging by his stride, and the way his boots fell against the metal. Presently he had joined her; in the dim light of the room, she could see that he was from her platoon, although his side was to her and she couldn't read the nametag. "Do you come down here often? The view is gorgeous -- I didn't know they had any real windows on this ship. Aside from the observation deck, I guess."

"It's too crowded. Too well lit." The NCO club and the ship's exchange were on the observation deck, part of a secondary structure that extended above the pressure hulls. There were always too many people there, she found, and the lights glinting off the paint made it hard to see the stars. "I didn't know this was here until just a few minutes ago."

"Yeah. Don't have time for much exploring, I guess."

"No." The interloper didn't say anything in response, and when the silence became deeply uncomfortable Julie forced herself to speak again. "I'm sorry for waking you up."

"I was writing a letter, actually. You didn't really bother me."

"Oh." Her anatomy made it somewhat hard to smile, but she tried to anyway -- a subtle gesture, nearly hidden in the darkness. "But you followed me."

He shrugged; she could hear the sound of fabric on fabric. "I got curious. There aren't too many places to go, so... this was the first I tried." At her silence, the man took a deep breath. "There's no... real easy way of saying this, I guess. I, ah. I could hear you crying. Not from outside the hatch, but... once I got inside."

Julie felt her ears flatten, and her tail disappeared between her legs. "It's not a big deal. I'll be okay, I just needed to get it out of my system."

"No, no. I'm not trying to beat you up. I'm just saying I... Look," he tried again. "Ramirez and assholes like them, you gotta... you can't..."

"I can't what? I can't let them get to me?" she asked. Her tone was sharp.

He took a moment to reply. "I... guess that did sound a bit flippant, huh?"

"Not on purpose. It's just nothing I don't already know."

"People probably aren't all that nice to you in general, are they?"

Julie stared out into the darkness, and idly wondered how far away she could see. Some of that light, one of her friends had once said, is from stars that are already dead. That's how big the universe is. He had meant it merely as a commentary of scale, but she thought of it, sometimes, in relation to her own problems. It was always possible to find something larger. "I've had worse," she finally said. "But no. In general, people... tolerate me, at best."

"It's probably worse, you know, here. People need to be so close in a small unit like this. It must be strange. Being on the outside like that."

She turned to look at him for the first time -- yes, of medium height, which still gave him a great deal on the canine, who reached a meter and a half only when stretched up on the tips of her toes with her muzzle lifted upwards. He looked young -- her age, maybe. Corporal Neumann, she remembered. A 'ch'-name, Charles or Christopher or Chandler. "A little. But I've never really been on the inside, so I don't know what I'm missing out on."

"It's mostly 'cause you're new. I think mostly, maybe not -- but I was the new guy, before you joined up. It took a long time for me, too."

"You have the advantage of a shared species," she pointed out.

He laughed, the quiet snicker of a shared, private joke. "Maybe. But I don't think that's it -- I really don't. I mean, sure, you look kind of... different. But I really think that just makes it easier for them to find something to pick on. They'd find something anyway. This is just a shortcut. For me, it was... they found out about my girlfriend. She's a Europan syndicalist, and her family's traditional, so... she looks like she's about twelve. We met long-distance. Um. Looking like that's not, like, my... my thing, or anything. Man, when Serhat found out about it..."

Verne debated the merits of opening up, and finally decided to take a half-step in that direction. "It just gets to something less than comfortable, for me. I'm very self-conscious about my species."

"Why? You can't change it."

"No," she admitted. "But." It was hard to explain; she sighed, heavily. "When GeneMark and Trimurti and all those companies started engineering us, they never really thought about our feelings. They bred us to do work -- hauling things, chasing things, whatever. For me it was data analysis. Finding patterns."

"You're like a wolf, right? So it's like hunting? I heard they tried to tie that stuff into the hunting instinct. You're like data predators."

It was an interesting concept; she laughed. "I'm not a wolf. I'm a Border collie. I mean, I'm not, but... that's most of my stock. They're very intelligent -- for dogs. They herd sheep. Sheepherding is kind of an abstract puzzle. The GeneMark engineers found a way to cross some wires and... well, there's a dozen other species spliced in but that's mostly who I am. I'm mostly a dog."

"You don't like that?"

The answer wasn't quite that simple. "I don't mind. But people... they joke about dog food, or shedding, or chasing cats... I don't mind that. It doesn't hit close to home. At the same time, there are things that the engineers left in because they didn't care. If I'm not paying attention, and I see something thrown, there's this... this little half-second where I kind of do want to chase it. Or, for example, it... it does feel nice to be scratched behind the ears. But I feel a little guilty about that, sometimes."

"Guilty?"

"When I left the company I was indentured to, some of my friends... like, my other engineered friends, they thought I was..." Julie closed her eyes to the stars and tried to think about how to capture those conversations. "It was as if I had sold out. Like I was 'trying to be human.' I don't want to be human, not exactly. But I know that if I want to be in the military, or to hold office, or get married, or do anything like that I do... kind of have to try."

"So you feel like you're betraying yourself if you admit that you like having your ears scratched?"

Those self-same ears lowered, but because he was right, if oversimplifying, she nodded. "Yeah. Basically. So when Ramirez or anybody make fun of me for... well, for being this, it... I'm sensitive to it, I guess, because I don't really belong anywhere right now. Humans think I'm a dog, and dogs think I'm trying to be too human."

"It must not be easy," he said. "But we're not all like that, okay? And I mean, we're definitely not all like Victor. You just need to put him in his place, that's all."

"Bite him?" Her mood was starting to improve.

"Maybe not. Look..." He nudged his head backwards, to the catwalk and the hatchway that led back into the inner hull of the ship. "McArdle is going to be a dick tomorrow, 'cause... we're underway and he wants to 'keep us in shape' and all that. You should probably get some sleep. What do you say?"

She nodded lightly, and, closing the metal guard over the window to block out the universe, followed the man back and into the sterile white lighting of the Kirishima's corridors.

Outside the hatchway to the barracks, he stopped, and offered her a hand. "I'm Chris, okay? If you ever want, like... company. Just... I'm here, yeah?"

She took his hand gently, and shook it. There was, she noticed, no reservation on his part, no shiver of revulsion. "Julie," she murmured. "I might have to take you up on that."

*

She did, over the following days, and he accompanied her to the observation deck for her first anticlimactic jump -- as the stars around them faded to nothing, then reappeared in strange and alien constellations. Dimly, she had hoped that his friendship might've opened the door into a general rapprochement, but the primary result seemed to be that two people were now being ostracized, instead of only one.

"You know," she said softly -- they were eating dinner, alone at the table. "I appreciate that you're willing to eat with me, but maybe you should stop."

"Why? Because people will think we're conspiring?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Because it's silly to let them punish you just because of me."

"It's not really like a punishment," he said. "I mean, like, Naser can spin a good yarn, okay. But what am I missing out on? Serhat telling one of his old jokes? Dennis going on about what his dad would allow if he was in charge?"

"It's companionship," she pointed out.

Neumann shrugged, and pushed an unappetizing lump of reconstituted gumbo around his plate. "The thing is, like I said when we first met... they'll forget about all this by the first deployment. I mean, they'll still keep teasing you, but it won't be the same. They'll let you sit with them, because it'll make you easier to tease, but it'll be more like... family stuff. So I might as well get a head start on that."

"On the teasing, too?"

"I don't know enough about you, yet. The dog thing is low-hanging fruit."

Her ear quirked, and she chuckled. "I guess I should be grateful you're so discerning."

"Maybe. Or maybe you do need some practice in learning to ignore it."

Regardless of whether or not this was the case -- and she was willing to admit the possibility -- things came to a head the following day. They spent the afternoon in tactical training, split into two squads. Instead of electronic weapons -- and, in McArdle's words, to "keep things interesting" -- they used replica guns that fired small pellets of paint.

These were not enough to cause serious injury, but the sting -- and the bright stains -- were incentive enough to try and avoid being hit. Peculiarly, though, despite her small stature Julie found herself the recipient of what she considered to be more than an equitable number of bullets.

This belief was strengthened when Pejman Ghorbani ambushed her and, rather than dispatching her with a single bullet or a three-round burst, emptied most of a 40-pellet clip in her direction. Eyes closed behind her goggles, trying to stifle an irritated growl, she was surprised by a final stinging blow. When she opened her eyes and brushed the paint from her glasses, she discovered Victor Ramirez, grinning darkly. "You know," he explained to Private Ghorbani. "Just in case."

For his part, Sergeant McArdle appeared to agree with her assessment; he pulled her aside, after the exercise, and directed her down to the infirmary to get cleaned up. Trying to scrub the paint from her blue-grey pelt was an exercise in frustration; it had matted the fur, and more than once she found that the hair was as likely to come out as the dye.

She was in a cross mood when she returned to the platoon's section of the ship, and Chris Neumann was unable to provoke a smile from her as she stabbed pointedly at the bits in their mulligatawny that pretended to be chicken but had never seen the inside of an egg.

After finishing the soup, she stalked back to her bunk, where she discovered a small lump, bound up in a bow. Untying the package revealed it to be a crudely made leash and matching collar -- fashioned, from all appearances, out of old civilian clothes.

There could not be many culprits, but in any case Ramirez was snickering, and when she glared at him he gestured at her bunk. "Check the collar out. We made a nametag, too."

It was a small, circular piece of metal, with "Jules" crudely inscribed on one side and "If lost, return to 3rd Platoon, B 366th" on the other. She bunched the fabric up, feeling her claws digging into the pads of her palm, and glared harshly at Ramirez. "I would really appreciate it," she managed, her voice so calm as to be dangerous. "If you would leave me the hell alone."

His expression shifted, the sneer fading into something less teasing. "And I'd appreciate it if you'd get the hell out. We're just going to have to be disappointed, aren't we? In the meantime, I made you something nice. Enjoy it."

"The only reason I would ever pick this up," she said coldly, "would be if I could garrote you with it. And I think the Army would frown on that."

"That almost sounded like a threat."

"You two having fun?" This question, phrased on the edge between wariness and calming, came from McArdle.

"We were just trying to make her feel welcome," Victor muttered, not taking his eyes from Julie. "Got it ready for PT tomorrow. I think this ship has a leash law."

"Come on, Vic," Chris said softly. "Don't be an asshole."

Julie heard a short laugh from behind her. "Well, at least we know who'd be holding the leash."

"You're not really helping, Dennis." McArdle's voice was stern. "Private Verne, Private Ramirez, can we calm down?"

"Yeah," Victor chided. "What do you say, can you be a good girl?"

"Sarge..." The pair had the attention of everyone in the room; Hiroshi Haruki, leader of the second section, had, by the sound of his voice, come up to McArdle's side. "They're going to come to blows."

The tension had been building for weeks, and there was no way of defusing it cleanly; the air had the grim static of a building thunderstorm. McArdle seemed to know this, and sighed. "You want to call security, or should I?"

"It's okay," Ramirez said. "I don't believe in animal abuse."

Julie snapped. "Fuck you. You couldn't take me even if you weren't a fucking coward."

"Excuse me?" Ramirez glanced around -- looking for endorsement, perhaps, or any reason to restrain himself. McArdle said nothing, but Julie caught the you-gonna-let-her-get-away-with-that? shrug from Serhat Muhammet before Victor charged.

He was taller than her, and had a greater reach, but Julie had the advantage of reflexes, and she dodged, catching him and using his momentum to flip him onto his back, so that he hit the table with the dull thud of dead meat striking a cutting board. He grunted, but got to his feet quickly, shaking his head to clear the fog that had descended. Most of the platoon had stepped back, giving them space -- distantly, she heard someone shouting for the lieutenant.

He swung for her, and she ducked under the blow; off-balance, it was easy enough to slam him back against the wall -- hardly aware of the energy building in her compact body. Her teeth closed around his throat, right under his jawline, and she felt Ramirez go tense in her hold as she bit down.

"Alright..." a soft voice said; she felt hands on her sides. She snarled fiercely, and the hands let go. Ramirez was panting. She could feel his pulse against her canines.

He had made no move to escape, and a little of the adrenaline was ebbing. She relaxed her grip on his neck, enough to be understood when she spoke. "Doc Eklund?"

He sounded wary. "Yes?" His voice was relatively close, and she wondered if he might've been the one who had tried to calm her.

"If I tore out his carotid, how long would you have to get him to the infirmary?" She increased the pressure on Ramirez's throat, feeling him swallow nervously.

Lieutenant Usher had emerged from his office and was surveying the scene; she caught him from the corner of her eye. "What's going on here? Why does Private Verne have Private Ramirez by the throat?" Something flew across the room. "What is this, Neumann? Is this a leash?"

"Yes, sir."

Usher snorted. "Well, hell, doc, don't keep us waiting. Now I'm kinda curious myself."

Eklund stammered. "What? I-I don't know. Thirty seconds? A minute, maybe? Maybe two, to prevent permanent brain damage..."

Verne gave a contemplative 'hmm' against the soft skin of the man's throat. "Do you want some practice?"

Eklund's tone was still a little uncertain. "With Victor? Kind of, but... I don't want to have to handle the paperwork."

She grunted, and bit down again -- a careful pressure, for her teeth didn't break the skin, but she could smell the tang of fear on him. She lowered her voice to a hissing whisper, so that only he could hear it. "I'm sorry you don't like me... I can't change that. But do you think you can behave? Can you leave me... the hell... alone?"

He nodded weakly, and she stepped back, letting him collapse to the floor. Usher shook his head, and beckoned Verne over, through the hatchway that led back to his room. As she left the barracks she could hear the activity resuming -- a crowd of people clustering around Victor, a few appreciative whistles, Dennis' insistence that his dad, properly informed about the goings-on, would want changes made. For her part she felt drained, and when Usher indicated a chair she slumped into it heavily.

"I don't know how to start this conversation," he groused. "I kind of want to say, 'care to tell me what happened?' but I guess I know. Did he start it?"

"Sort of," Verne admitted. "I called him a coward, but that was after the... leash thing."

"He probably had help with that."

"I know, sir."

"Maybe a leash was not quite worth killing over, though, huh?"

"I didn't kill him, sir. Not even close."

Usher laughed bitterly. "Small favors, huh? Sergeant McArdle!" When James appeared, poking his head through the door, the lieutenant arched a weary eyebrow. "Well? Will he live?"

"Yeah. Might need to requisition some drawers. I don't think he was expecting it to go like that."

"Could you have stopped it?"

"Maybe. For a bit, anyway. It was gonna happen though, LT. We're shipped out; neither one of 'em can go back. Tension needed a safety valve. It was better here than on the ground, that was my judgment."

Usher nodded. "Did he deserve it?"

"Victor?"

"Never mind." Usher looked between the sergeant and Verne for a moment, and then nodded his head to indicate that the former could leave. When they were alone again, the lieutenant's expression had become slightly more paternal. "Do you think he'll stop?"

"I hope so."

"And if he doesn't, you won't kill him?"

"No, sir."

"Are you done fighting?"

"Yes, sir."

Usher took a deep breath, holding it while he looked her over, and then sighed heavily. "Alright. I guess I'll take that. You're dismissed." Verne had stood, and was halfway out the hatch, when he spoke again. "Actually -- hold on a second."

She paused, turning around. "Sir?"

"I, ah... I pulled your files off our net. I was reading about what happened, during your training..."

Verne felt her ears lowering, but she nodded curtly anyway. "I see. Which time, sir?"

"Both of them." He looked slightly uncomfortable when he spoke again, as though each word had to be translated from an unfamiliar language. "But the first, mostly. I hope you don't feel that something like that could happen here?"

"No, sir."

He was on the verge of asking something else, she could tell -- curious about details, vague concerns about her feelings. In the end his hesitation got the better of him. "Alright. Good. Good," he repeated again, too firmly. "If you ever think otherwise... talk to me or McArdle, right?"

"Of course, sir," she said. "I'm not worried about it."

Nor was she worried about repercussions from the altercation; by the time she had emerged from Usher's office the platoon had settled back to normal. Ramirez shot her a glance, but when she returned it sharply he ducked away, and did not see fit to trouble her further.

*

In the following days, Victor Ramirez gave her a wide berth, and she was satisfied to note that, although she was still not welcome to sit at anyone's table, they also did not go out of their way to antagonize her. This, Christopher suggested, was because they were afraid of her, although in a Machiavellian sense Julie supposed it was better than most alternatives.

Sergeant Brannock, at Camp Merriwether, had not been afraid of her. He had been drunk on power, and she, in those early days... When she thought of it, even in the climate controlled barracks more than a hundred light years from Earth, she shuddered.

From the observation deck, the planet of Jefferson grew by degrees. At first a bright star, it swelled larger as the task force closed on it, until at last they could see that it was blue in color, and shrouded in clouds. "Just like Terra," she heard someone say -- although, since that was the point, it hardly seemed remarkable. Verne had never seen a terraformed planet before; part of her had hoped that the first glimpse of an alien world might be wildly exciting. She stared at the blue dot for a time, and padded back to the barracks, disappointed.

Just after dinner, Usher stepped through the hatchway, his jaw set. They snapped to attention, and he returned their salutes distractedly. "At ease." They knew what was coming; Usher had been given orders, of some fashion. Like condemned men, they waited only for the date. "So I have some news for you guys," he said, with a fatalistic grin.

Nobody laughed. "How bad?" McArdle wanted to know.

"Not so bad. We are going to be entering orbit with a party, though. I'm sure everyone's looking forward to that. Jim, Fran, Private Verne -- we have a briefing at 1630. Get ready -- bring notepads."

At the mention of her name, she tilted her head by reflex -- then, cursing herself inwardly, straightened up again. "Sir?"

"Well, you're C&S, aren't you? We should get a download on their capabilities when we get our assignments. Might as well have you around."

"Understood, sir."

"Bourne, Haruki -- this is our twelve-hour warning. Take the lead on making sure we're ready for the drop. I want everything green-slipped and a ready report on my desk by the time we get back from the briefing. We cool?"

"We're cool, sir," Haruki nodded.

The briefing room was cold, and the assembled men and women spent their time staring at each other, trying to avoid the nervous fidgeting. Julie tried to recall how long she'd been told the Kirishima had spent in port. Three months without action? Four? But they stood, coming to attention swiftly, when the door opened, and she stood with them.

Captain Terry Freeman occupied middle age comfortably; old enough to look distinguished, his eyes still occasionally seemed lit with youthful energy. His smile, like Usher's had been, was knowing, and slightly cynical. "Alright," he said, setting a thin computer on his podium and tapping at it a few times before raising his eyes to look out at them. "Let's, ah, let's bring this to order, ladies and... gentlemen. And... dogs? I guess?" He seemed perplexed, raising an eyebrow at Julie's presence, and as was typical she found herself profoundly aware of her alien countenance. But Freeman recovered swiftly. "Anyway, you know why we're here.

"But in case you need a reminder, this is Jefferson." He tapped his computer again, and behind him the holographic display came to life, displaying a rotating image of the planet and, around it, symbols that marked the disposition of the fleet. "As you're probably aware, the situation has become increasingly precipitous over the last few months. The planet is home to a substantial separatist movement, and that movement has been growing both in popular support and in boldness. Two weeks ago, terrorists seized the freighter Epsilon Orionis and dumped the entirety of its cargo into the ocean off Trumanville."

He gestured to the screen behind him, which showed images of the incident -- shipping containers, bobbing listlessly in a black sea. "The Colonial government has asked us to intervene before the situation gets out of hand. As a result, we're going to be kicking off our orbit here with a bang, which ought to make you guys happy I know. Our battalion, on the Kirishima and the Crazy Horse, has been directed to lead this initiative... ah, A, B, and C companies will drop, with D company being held back as a tactical reserve in case things get too exciting for us."

The map behind him paused, and then the focus narrowed, drawing the audience down and into a top-level view of a large landmass. Painted in high-contrast, with deep green forests and pale, burnt desert, it looked pristine to Julie. From so high above, it was hard to imagine the bustling activity going on every day. Then the map lit up with dozens of small points, ruining the illusion.

"We have received actionable intelligence regarding a number of weapons caches and other equipment stockpiles being used by the Jeffersonian separatists," Freeman explained, "and we will be investigating these closely to make sure that there's nothing that could be used to undermine the government's authority. This is B Company's area of responsibility, along the western edge of the continent Aquila, which dominates the northern hemisphere of the planet." A section of the map, close to the coast, lit up in softly glowing blue, and the hologram reoriented to a lower viewing angle, so that the mountains came into sharp relief. "I've further subdivided this into four areas. These are yours -- enjoy. The inland region, you'll see, is more sparse, so Lieutenant Mackey, you'll also be available to support operations further to the west."

The map cycled, in turn, between the four regions; theirs, Verne saw, leaning forward to get a better angle, extended along a river valley, with thickly wooded sides. Visibility would be extremely poor -- it was a good place to hide something.

"This is going to be an extremely quick operation," Freeman continued, and drew the viewpoint back so that the entire planet could once again be seen. The Kirishima and the Crazy Horse, positions highlighted, stood apart from the fleet, snuggled close like friends sharing a secret. "We're going to get in, take care of our business, and then get the hell out. We don't want to give them any time to mount a response, to hide their goods, to file an injunction with the Colonial authorities, or anything like that. We're budgeted for four cycles, but I want it done in three if it's at all possible. That's your job, so I want detailed plans of operation in my office by 1800 hours. We drop at 0600 ship's time. Are there any questions?"

"What do we have for support, sir?" The questioner's face was set, and from the tone of his voice Verne thought he probably already knew the answer.

Freeman clicked his tongue. "Yeah. Well. CODA has been relatively reluctant to attach substantial support assets to this drop, uh, both for reasons of, um, cost, yes, and also because they don't want to give the mistaken impression that it's a full-fledged military operation instead of a straightforward police action, which it is. We're not really expecting resistance of any sort. So, um. Colonel Cho had asked for a stationary corvette to be deployed, which was, ah, rejected. However! I am pleased to announce that she was able to obtain the services of two elements of Intruders, call signs Thresher and Tachi, which will be on-station to support us.

The man didn't seem terribly pacified. "Due respect, that's four aircraft for a hundred sixty thousand square kilometers of AO."

Usher cleared his throat. "What about the Strixes, sir? Do we go in armed?"

Freeman fidgeted for a moment. "No. The colonel wasn't able to get authorization for that, so if you can't take care of that yourself, you're on your own. But the threat level is expected to be quite low. All of you should actually be landing completely unopposed."

There were still some soft murmurs, but since there was nothing they could do about the situation the room quieted. Verne leaned over to Usher, craning her head to reach his ear. "What's their electronic warfare like?"

The lieutenant nodded, raising his hand. "How heavily are these separatists teched up right now? What should we be expecting in terms of electronic warfare or jamming, anything like that?"

"Right now, they're still very uncoordinated, so it's hard to make a blanket assessment about their best or worst capabilities," Freeman qualified, "but in general they're pretty backwards. Their communications are encrypted, so if you have intercepts and pass them to JSAC on the Sheridan, expect plus five or ten before we can decipher it. Other than that, there's very limited use of multispectral cloaks, but the Strixes will be able to burn through that, and it's quite crude anyway. You shouldn't have any problems."

Verne glanced down at her notepad to make sure the transcription device had recorded the captain's explanation correctly, and then nodded her thanks to Usher.

The room fell silent again, and remained that way until Freeman asked for any further questions. Lieutenant Mackey asked the one that, Verne guessed, most in the room were wondering. "What's the payout?"

"After taxes and fees, it should come to about seventy thousand per platoon. Plus a twenty thousand bonus for any weapons stockpiles you actually turn up. It's not bad for a non-combat op, guys, and it's above the threshold you specified so I don't want to hear bitching."

Mackey seemed mostly mollified, although she raised her hand again presently. "What do we get? Fuel?"

The captain nodded. "Fuel is of course covered. Note that, because this is a peaceful operation, any ammunition expenditures -- and that includes less than lethals -- are not covered in the budget. So if you feel the need to flashbang somebody -- and you know, more power to you -- don't file an expense report, because I will have to deny the claim and nothing makes me more unhappy than having to do that, guys." More grumbling followed, but there was nothing they could do about it and, when Captain Freeman failed to draw any further questions from his audience, he dismissed them.

In the corridor, the four members of 3rd Platoon, B Company were quiet. Usher was clicking his fingernails together -- a tic, for he didn't seem to be aware of his behavior. Presently the silence became uncomfortable enough that Verne spoke, turning to McArdle, who was walking next to her. "When they say that we shouldn't have to worry about resistance, is that... accurate?"

McArdle grunted. "For certain definitions."

"Go on, Jim," Usher said -- his voice was teasing, but he did not sound particularly happy. "Tell her about the Unopposed Landing."

With a sigh, McArdle raised his hands, fingers splayed. "Hey."

"Unopposed landing?" Verne asked.

"If you see one," Usher said, bitingly, "try to catch it, and it will grant you three wishes."

"When I was a girl," Fran Horvat added, "once a year we used to put out stockings, and the Unopposed Landing would fill them with candy."

Verne stared at the floor of the ship, watching the platings slip past her feet. "You're saying there's no such thing?"

"Not exactly," McArdle clarified. "LT, she's new here, why don't you explain, sir?"

The lieutenant looked drily at McArdle for a second, and then shook his head. "Alright. We may land unopposed, or we may not. They have intelligence that suggests the separatists are actually well-armed, or they may not. Probably they don't, actually -- don't get too worried. But the thing is, private, that if they admitted that they were dealing with an area of heavy resistance, they'd be obliged to up the operation TC."

"TC?"

"Threat coefficient," McArdle explained. "It's a relative number. This is a TC-Zero mission. They can move in the battalion, but only if they're not expecting combat. If they have to land in division strength, and it's a firefight, they'd have to escalate that up to TC-Four or -Five. I've never seen it that high. The thing is, private, that of course as the TC goes up, the price to the colonial government goes up. So they have an incentive to keep it low wherever possible."

"So you hear a lot," Fran grumbled. "About unopposed landings. It's probably only true two times out of three. Which is most of the time, but... you only need the one." The finality of this statement drew them into silence for a spell, and it was Horvat -- the platoon's pilot, Verne remembered abruptly -- who broke it again. "So... LT... I'd love to stay and help, but if they're not authorizing us to arm up..."

"I know, chief" Usher said, quietly. "We'll figure things out, don't worry."

"Sure," Fran nodded. "It's just a bitch of a situation, that's all. I mean. Nothing you can do about it, but, due respect sir, it fucking sucks."

The lieutenant said nothing, and after a few seconds Verne spoke up, turning to Horvat. "I don't want to seem dismissive, ma'am, but how much does it really matter to you? Won't you be above it all?"

Fran shot her a strange look. "I don't want to seem dismissive, private, but say that again and I'll muzzle you."

Her ears drooped, pinning backwards for a second contritely. "I'm sorry. I was just curious, ma'am. I... I actually wanted to be a pilot myself."

This admission fetched a raised eyebrow from Horvat, and her sharp features softened slightly. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. I had a restricted civilian glider license, but I thought, um..." Verne paused; the details of her own aspirations sometimes seemed vaguely ridiculous. "I wanted to fly Strixes, or... well, eventually, uh, the Starship Command School at Mobile."

"What happened?"

"Recruiter told me it wasn't going to happen. My vision is not real great. Newer models of my type, like me, we actually have color vision, but our acuity is pretty low. I coulda gotten corrective augments, but the guy I talked to said there were so many people applying for the program that didn't need augmentation that there was no way I could make it in. So, I went for infantry instead."

Fran Horvat, who had mostly left Verne alone and so ranked relatively high in the private's esteem, nodded understandingly. "Well, if it helps, he was just trying to save you from yourself." Seeing the canine's curious expression, with one ear lightly pricked, Fran laughed hoarsely. "I see. I'll answer your earlier question too, then. Dropship piloting is about the worst thing you could possibly do. We get no respect -- most of the time. You excepted, sir," she said, nodding towards Usher.

"Thanks."

She grinned. "Anytime. Anyway, the thing is, say you want to be a pilot. Anything that touches air -- lighters, skippers, Cape hoppers, hell, even some bulk instellar freighters. System tramp ships, sunrunners, executive ketches..." She ticked each name off on her fingers. "Anything like that, you need an atmospheric master's license. You can get an AML at any big school. Four year course, plus... fuck. Half a million in fees, tuition and all that stuff? Plus, if you don't want to hire somebody else to file all your paperwork, you still need to do your federal service." Fran halted. "Do you actually need to do service, mutt?"

The word hadn't been said cruelly, which buoyed her slightly. "No. I can't vote."

"Why not?"

"It's a long story, ma'am."

Fran still appeared slightly curious, but she didn't force the issue. "Alright. Anyway, so, if you sign up, and qualify for the Army Air Corps -- and most people do -- then you learn how to fly for us, right? Well, if you're a Strix pilot, and you put in five years, you can go into any licensing office in the Confederacy, hand over your papers, pay, like, twenty obols, and get an AML right there. Plus, if you're not stupid, instead of half a million in debt you've got maybe that much or a little more in cash reserves. Downpayment on a ship, say."

"That doesn't sound like a terrible deal."

"It's not. Which is a blessing and a curse," she said, with a sour grin. "Because -- have you been in my ship yet?" Verne shook her head. "I've got a sign on the front hatchway that leads to the cockpit. It says: 'Please conserve! Dropship pilots are not a renewable resource!' But they are, of course. That shortcut to the AML means there's always enough suckers. But, like, if you're a platoon leader, you get to thinking that your pilot doesn't really care about you, and is just looking to put in their five years and get the hell out. So you don't approve requisitions, and you treat them carelessly. If they buy it, you just pick up another."

"So it's in your best interests to convince your platoon leader that you're in it for the long haul? How long have you been doing this?"

Fran laughed again, the roughness giving it a hard edge. "Clever girl. I've been in for four and a half years now. This tour could be my last. But the LT and I have been together for about eighteen months, and he has his head on straight. If you can find the right company, the pay's pretty good, so I might stick around for a while yet. Most of my friends, though, there's no way in hell they'd be willing to do that. Landing ship and crew casualties are thirty percent higher than ground casualties. Like I said, we're pretty disposable. That's what you would've been getting yourself into."

Julie nodded, although she still longed for it, and from the way Fran spoke to her Verne suspected that Fran was aware of this. This mutual understanding was good enough for a not entirely friendless smile, when they reached the barracks -- although at dinner, Julie observed, Fran still ate with the other crewmembers of her Strix.

*

After the platoon finished their grueling checks, McArdle advised them to try to sleep soundly -- to the point of offering chemical aids towards this end. Nobody took him up on the offer, although most dutifully retired to their bunks. In the dim light, Verne stared upwards and tried to guess at what the experience might be like. She had only gone through the simulations -- and one half-serious drop, in an older CLS-22, when her training unit had been called in to help clean up and maintain order following an earthquake.

She knew that it was not the physics she had to be wary of, but the psychology. She knew what it was like to be in freefall; she knew what it was like to fire a gun. She had no idea what it might feel like, plummeting downwards into hostile territory, or what it might be like to deliberately end someone else's life.

Verne was not entirely unfamiliar with death and mortality. In the tenement housing the reworked creatures of Silicon Valley had shared, occasionally someone would fall ill. If they weren't covered under corporate insurance, there was nothing that could be done. For the most part, nobody minded; like others of her kind, Verne did not spend much time focusing on her own life, and wasn't philosophically opposed to its cessation.

Humans were different, she knew. They worried long hours about their fate. Her ears splayed, and she thought back to basic training, and watching the life ebb from the shattered body of a comrade, under the loveless blue desert sky. Philip Spitzer; she remembered the cracked pane of his nametag, malfunctioning, giving his name as "pitze" and, finally, just "it."

It was an uncomfortable memory, and it continued to creep into her thoughts in the darkness. Eventually she slipped from beneath the covers and padded to the exit, making her way back down to the hatch that led to the Kirishima's outer hull.

She had it opened, and was partway down the catwalk when a sound brought her up short -- the murmur of voices, and a sharp series of gasps. The canine's ears twitched and swiveled; the noises were coming from the observation room she had been planning on occupying.

Padding closer revealed two men -- Victor Ramirez and, by the sound of his voice, Tomas Sedlacek, First Squad's automatic rifleman. The lights in the room had been turned down, but she could see that Victor's pants had been undone, and hung awkwardly about his knees. Her eyes narrowed, and her ears perked forward, straining to catch the conversation. It was difficult; other noises from the ship interfered, but then Victor laughed, genuinely enough that she suddenly apprehended that their meeting was neither coincidental nor unpleasant.

The two were profoundly mismatched, which only became clearer as they embraced. Victor was short, perhaps only thirty centimeters taller than Verne herself, and his features were delicate. In the dim light cast by the consoles, the bronze skin of his arms and exposed thighs glowed a soft orange; to the extent that Verne understood human beings, he seemed youthful and slight. Tomas, by contrast, could have been part bear; tall and muscular, he dwarfed nearly everyone in the platoon, saving for the lieutenant -- who was thin and, next to Sedlacek, would've seemed to have been in shadow.

Sedlacek had to crane his head down, but his lips met Victor's in a warm kiss. The heat of it drew her attention; despite her past, and the way she still shuddered, remembering how Sergeant Brannock had come to her in the middle of the night. There was something forbidden and curious about human sexuality. She was given to understand that it was different from her own kind -- by law, the genetics companies were required to allow reshaped creatures to reproduce, but the disparate genetics made their prospects tricky, and from what she knew the mating itself was perfunctory and bereft of romance. There was a gentleness to Tomas's movements, though -- the way his hands edged down Victor's sides, tenderly, the way his lips seemed locked against the other man's -- that made her realize that there was much she had never been taught.

It did not seem wholly possible that these were the same men who had seen fit to torment her; whose jibes had drawn her to the point of violent outburst. And it began to dawn on her, as Tomas drew at length back from the kiss, turning Victor around gently, that what she had been taught in the corporate academy was at best an incomplete picture. She had been told that intimacy was dangerous, and fraught with discomfort and psychological trauma; she had been told that the physical act of coitus was a necessary, painful evil that the availability of genetic engineering had graciously spared her kind. Some of these things had seemed accurate, from her personal experience -- but now, watching these two, she began to doubt slightly.

Verne had a relatively good view; their backs were to her, and she could see the soft, smooth skin of Victor's thighs, the taut curvature of his buttocks. Even at her remove she could feel the growing tension, as Tomas unfastened his cargo pants, and then used his fingers to part the other man's cheeks, guiding his erection between them. They both gasped, and Verne felt her ear twitch. Tomas pushed his hips forward, slowly, with a gentleness all out of odds with his size. He leaned forward, and she caught the sound of heated whispering. Then Victor laughed, a sound so full of warm, genuine affection that she felt her antipathy towards the man ease.

She did not think that they were lovers, although now -- watching as Tomas drew backward, and then arched forward again with a soft moan -- she tried to think back on all their interactions. No, she supposed, there was nothing to suggest any sort of romance. Rather, it was the gratification of some mutual need -- the need Victor panted, softly, as he leaned forward to brace himself against the wall, and Tomas started to move behind him in a series of smooth, fluid thrusts.

The barracks was half-empty. Verne had naively assumed that most of the men and women were up in the observation deck, or trying to scrounge up a late-night meal, but now she was not so certain. Was this what had been going on around her? It was an intriguing idea, and she treated it as an academic proposition, watching the muscles flex in Tomas's thighs, the graceful arch of his back as he rocked himself into Victor's body over, and over, and over.

The notion dimly presented itself to the canine that she might have been intruding, and although her curiosity had gotten the better of her so far she slowly tore herself away. The two were gasping now, moans -- half-growls, really -- filling the small observation chamber. She was starting to pad back towards the hatch when a sudden cry startled her, and she turned back to see Victor stiffening, his fingers curling against the wall. Telling herself that it was only out of concern, she continued watching -- Tomas stopped moving, although she could see Victor's hips twitching, pushing back at the bigger man's body. They laughed, and Victor twisted around, soft, boyish lips meeting Tomas's for another kiss.

None of this was what Verne had expected. After a few seconds, Tomas began to rock his hips again, but there was a greater intensity to his movements. His big hands gripped Victor's hips, holding him in place, and as she watched his back arched, and a rigid tension clenched his jaw. His thrusts became deeper, and their rhythm went ragged and quick, until he looked like the reshaped creatures in the documentary films the corporation had made her watch -- urgent, animalistic rutting, humping in short thrusts against Victor's backside. Unlike in the documentaries, Victor didn't seem to mind. And when Tomas suddenly thrust deeply into him, a strained groan leaving his just-parted lips, Victor moaned right along with him.

Tomas's hips bucked a few more times, the movement growing slower at each revolution, and then they were still, and the big man wrapped his arms around Victor in a tender hug. They were talking again, soft and husky so that she couldn't hear their words, and on the off chance that they might choose to leave the chamber she stole quietly back out and into the corridor.

Chris Neumann was not in his bunk, and she found him in the platoon mess hall. In one hand, he gripped a bar of chocolate; in the other, he was manipulating a stand that held a magnifying glass, beneath which lay a small, complicated contrivance that looked slightly like a moth. Seeing her, he held out the candy. "Want some? It's Swiss."

"I can't eat chocolate," she said. "It's poisonous. But thank you. What are you working on?"

He spun the stand around; beneath the lens, the moth proved to be mechanical, with lightly traced wires extending all over its wings. At her blank glance, he took the stand back. "It's a hobby of mine. I build micro radio-controlled aircraft. This one will be about a centimeter and a half long, when it's done."

"What do you do with them?"

Neumann shrugged. "So much nothing, most of the time. I used to compete, in high school. It's got a camera, so I could use it to spy on people, but the optical sensor is so small that the image is pretty terrible. Right now it doesn't work at all... I'm trying to install a new motivator for the right wing, but the wiring has to be just perfect. If it's too close to anything else, you can get signal bleed, and the interference makes it behave unpredictably. So what I want to do is connect the right wing motivator to this A2120 automodulating chip I picked up the last time we were in port, and then use the..." He looked down at the moth, and then up at Verne. "You don't really care, do you?"

"I don't really understand," she corrected.

He grinned, and took a bite from the chocolate bar. "Fair enough. What brings you up here, anyway?"

"I had a couple of questions. Does the Army have any objection to fraternizing?"

Chris blinked at her. "Excuse me?"

His tone confused her, until she took a moment to reflect, and wondered if he had, perhaps, though that she was propositioning him. She shook her head. "Does the Army have any objection to platoon members, um... associating with one another, and... how often is that sensor room you found me in disinfected?"

Now he grinned, and his laugh was a knowing snicker. "Ah. The answers to your questions are one, officially 'yes,' and two, 'extremely often.' Those answers are related, so I presume your questions are?"

"Yeah. I went down to collect my thoughts and discovered the room was, er... In use."

"It happens," Neumann said. "Like, officially it's a no-no, and it's definitely not kosher for people in the chain of command -- like, you or me shouldn't get too close to the LT. Theoretically, Mayer shouldn't really be chasing anybody in his section, either, though in a practical sense Mayer is joined at the hip with somebody in D company. 'Least, I've heard."

"Does anybody care?"

Chris leaned back, rubbing at his beard with his knuckles. "Sort of. I mean. It's a problem if people can't behave effectively in combat. But, the thing is, you only have to have like, two or three drops in your belt before you realize how stupid it would be to do anything like that. So that's not really the issue. Romantic entanglements can be weird. Most people who are in here for awhile pick up this jaded, fatalistic attitude that pretty well makes romance impossible. But romance is different from a, like, normal camaraderie and b, just, you know, fucking." He accorded these two options the thumb and index finger of his left hand, and returned to each in turn with his further explanation. "Normal stuff, just shooting the shit and all, the pranks these kind of guys play, it's all about letting off steam. No offense, Jules, but you're pretty high-strung, and you're always on -- right now. By halfway through this cruise, or earlier, you'll be looking for downtime."

"Maybe." It didn't seem entirely likely -- unwavering dedication had been bred into her, after all -- but she was willing to entertain the concept.

"Trust me. Anyway, as far as the sex thing... Right before a drop, everybody's on edge. So you put that nervous energy to good use and get some endorphins out of it. No harm, no foul. Plus, there's this theory, like... you'll fight harder for people you're close to. So we're kind of like... we're supposed to be all intimately connected mentally. That's the bullshit the corporation gives us, anyhow. Some people just take it to the next level. A lot of platoons, you'll find that there aren't really relationships, it's more that anybody is free to hook up with anybody else. In Usher's platoon it's a bit different. There are definitely cliques. The First Section is very active, um, internally."

"I noticed."

He laughed again. "Let me guess. Victor and Private Ghorbani?"

"Victor and Tomas, the automatic gunner."

"Oh? That's a new one, in my book." Then he shrugged, and returned to peering through the magnifying glass. "Anyway. It improves morale and gives people something to do, so, even if the Army officially frowns on it, everybody in this platoon, ah, fraternizes. Most of them in... well, in the way that makes you have to disinfect the sensor room."

"Including you?"

He looked up from his model, lower jaw protruding in a half-frown. "Well. I'm the new guy. I was, anyway. So it's a little bit different for me. It's probably different for you, too."

"I guess," she said, and her head tilted as she pondered the notion. "I never really thought about it at all before I saw those two. Or... didn't... think about it as a good thing."

"What did you think about it as?"

This question verged into uncomfortable territory, and Julie stared at the fur of her fingers for a few seconds, smoothing it down in a nervous fidget. "Just as something that happens... or... that you have to do, I guess?" Chris arched an eyebrow, and Julie felt her ears dropping. "I mean. It's definitely a biological imperative, you know, and I wouldn't want to stop anybody, but... It was just a little strange to me. Victor and Tomas looked like they were enjoying themselves."

Chris took some time to compose his reply -- enough so that she knew he was treading carefully. "Well," he said. "It's about the need for companionship, basically, right? Physical intimacy can be very comforting to people. I mean... well, to me. It might not be, um. What did you say, biological? It might not be. It might not be, like, a universal thing; I don't know really how you were brought up. But for human beings, it's comforting."

"It's comforting for us, too," Verne said softly. "In theory, anyway. I've never really had the opportunity, exactly. Um. To be close to people, that is." The canine was aware that she was exposing her vulnerabilities, and although she knew Chris would not take advantage of them, it still made her uneasy.

"Not everybody seeks it out, I guess. Have you even wanted to?"

She felt her tail tucking between her legs, although the gesture was hidden to Neumann. Julie was sometimes aware that she had spent the previous three years working towards her enlistment, trusting that it would solve the lack of fulfillment in her life, and that the Kirishima had proven to be slightly less than liberating. She was not accustomed to desiring the companionship of other people, but thinking back on Victor and Tomas she was struck with a sudden pang. "A little," she finally said, her voice quiet.

He frowned sympathetically, and folded up the stand, placing it along with the small mothlike contraption and the chocolate bar in a tattered shoulder bag. "Do you want to talk somewhere more private, Jules?"

When she nodded, he glanced around, and after a moment of thought guided her back through the galley and into another access hatch. Like the former, it led to an chamber along the Kirishima's outer hull, although this one looked mostly at the ship's massive wings. The view was dominated by battleship grey, but below them -- hundreds of kilometers below -- she could see Jefferson, shrouded in nighttime shadow. Chris sat down, facing the window, and she joined him.

"I don't think," she said softly, "that I've really thanked you for putting up with me. It hasn't exactly been easy for me, but I think without having somebody to talk to I..."

She trailed off, but he got the message. "You might've done Victor in, huh?"

"Maybe. I was kind of hoping that... I mean, I was sort of -- foolishly," she admitted, "expecting the, uh, that 'band of brothers' bit. But even if it's true, I'm still an outsider. I've always kind of been an outsider. And sometimes, when you're looking in from the outside, you realize what you're missing."

"You mean hazing instead of being hazed, and unattached sex in a maintenance room? It's not all that, Jules."

She gave a quiet, chuffing laugh. "Maybe not. But..."

"C'mere, pup," he said -- it was curious how his tone of voice made it seem fond, instead of a slur. He held out an arm, and she dipped to get beneath it. She had worried that instinct and reflex might have made her recoil, but when he drew his arm close, pulling her into a hug, she found the warmth and the gentle pressure was keenly pleasant.

Chris didn't do anything further, letting her make the next move. Presently, having gotten used to the feeling of his arm at her back, she snuggled closer, and put one of her arms behind him gingerly.

"It's going to be okay," he said. His breath was ticklish at her ears. "Things are going to be great for you, Jules. You know that?"

"Maybe," she answered, aware of how noncommittal she was becoming.

"Just focus on the drop. It'll be fun. You'll get out in the open. Nice, fresh air instead of this reconstituted crap... everybody will see what a good job you do. Be hard to argue with that. Are you nervous?"

"A little," she nodded. "But mostly just technical details." And even that concern was ebbing; it was remarkably easy to relax, feeling Chris's warmth at her side. "You?"

"The same. By all accounts, it should be pretty easy. I'm just going to be happy to see something other than these damned bulkheads." When she laughed, he hugged her tighter. "You seem happier now."

Another nod. "I am. This is actually very nice. It's a lot different from what I had expected."

"Yeah? What were you expecting?" he asked, and there was a slightly incredulous tone to the question that reminded her of how alien she still was.

"A lot of... well, animals," she said, reluctantly, "don't like to be held. But this is... it's relaxing. I wish I'd known about this earlier."

Chris laughed. "So do I."

"What do you mean?"

"Like I said earlier. I was the new guy before you showed up. I'd almost forgotten how nice it is just to... well, you know, to be close like this. To somebody."

"Even a dog?"

He chuckled. "Well, man's best friend, right?"

*

The drop was scheduled for 0600, but they began suiting up a full two hours earlier just in case. Jules was operating on a mixture of adrenaline and the four hours of sleep she'd been able to grab; she was gratified to find that putting her armor together was second-nature.

It was the suit that made them equal. Without it, the dog -- not even a meter and a half tall -- was slightly built, and waifish. With it, she could lift three hundred kilograms as easily as breath -- the C&S gear alone, carried in a backpack, weighed nearly forty.

The finely engineered fibers of the combat suit clung tightly to her like a second skin; she flexed carefully, watching the artificial muscle respond in kind, and then set about attaching the light protective plates, which adhered closely to the matching sections of the biomechanical undersuit.

What gratified the dog most was that she didn't really seem that much more out of place than anyone else -- it was a natural consequence of the powered armor, designed to cover all exposed skin. With a respirator fixed over her muzzle and her C&S goggles secured, only Verne's tail really gave her away. This was the look, with its promise of obscuring her canine origins, she had been dreaming of for years.

The CLS-37 Strix was shaped a little like an egg, with a cockpit at the narrow end, twin thresher-shark tails at the wide one, and a pair of stubby wings in between. Fran's was painted olive and grey; nose art, depicting Rodin's "The Thinker" crouched in a cockpit, proclaimed the beast as the Logical Song and carried the admission "I know it sounds absurd."

The cargo doors, which ran the length of the cabin on either side of the ship, were open, and one by one they filed into place, securing the anchor strapsp1 that would hold them in place against the pull of gravity. Verne took her place between Enzo Eklund and Isidora Pisano, the platoon's chief mechanic. When the deckhands pulled the doors closed with the ominous thud of metal on metal, and she heard the engines spooling up, she closed her eyes and tried to focus on her breathing.

The ship jerked a few times, as internal cranes on the Kirishima turned it into position; for a moment they were upside-down, and then there was a brief unsettling sensation of weightlessness before the gravity plating of the hangar deck switched orientation and the floor of the Strix became 'down' again. She flinched; without external cues, it was easy to become nauseous.

The intercom chimed pleasantly. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, this is your copilot speaking." Szepesi Keleman was a short, highly animated young man who had always seemed relatively friendly -- although, since he was within Fran Horvat's circle, he also never interacted much with the rest of the platoon. "In just a moment, we'll be beginning our descent into scenic Charleston Township, Jefferson. At this point, electronic devices should be turned off and all personal belongings must be stowed. Please make sure that your tray tables are secured, your seatbelts are fastened, and your seats are in their full upright and locked position, as we may be encountering some light --"

From an outside perspective, the Strix's launch might've seemed merely forceful, as the engines burned strongly to push itself away from the mothership. On the inside, Jules decided that the sensation was most similar to being kicked -- hard.

"-- Turbulence on our descent," Keleman finished. "Now please sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight."

A descending Strix flipped over and turned its powerful engines downward at full burn for a steady four gees worth of acceleration. Plummeting at ever-increasing speed towards the planet above them, they all felt as though they were being pulled into the floor, and like the others Jules relied on a mixture of the respirator and the assistance of the suit to breathe.

Eklund turned to her; she could see him grinning behind his suit's mask. "How many drops is this for you, private?"

"Thirty-eight," she told him -- and then qualified. "Simulated."

"How many combat drops?"

"Uh. Two," she admitted. "Including this one."

He laughed. "Well, welcome to hell."

"Don't worry," first section leader Mayer Bourne reassured her. "It gets worse."

The panels of the ship were starting to creak. For Verne, whose sensitive ears flicked at every sound, it was the lack of other stimuli that was proving to be most disconcerting. "I wish there was some kind of window."

"No you don't." Sergeant Bourne shook his head, and when she cocked her head inquisitively he gestured upwards with one suit-clad arm. "Friction is ablating the top of the ship, turning the heat shield into plasma. It's not comforting to watch."

The intercom chimed again. "One minute to commit. Say state."

Usher's voice came in clearly over the radio. "Platoon, terminal check."

Verne turned her arm so she could read the diagnostic panel, reaching over to press the button labeled "Self Test" -- this, she didn't realize until after it was already done, was no more difficult in the heightened gravity than it would've been on Earth, thanks to the careful amplification of the suit. She waited her turn, and then read off the numbers. "Verne, zero."

Zero was the ideal number, because it meant the suit had registered no faults. Around her, the other members of the platoon were checking in, most with similar results. Victor was the last: "Ramirez, three. Checking it again." They waited with bated breath -- there was only so much time to abort a drop. "Ramirez, zero."

"This is Usher," the lieutenant said over the radio again. "Check sweet."

Keleman gave him two clicks of the microphone in answer. Verne began to hear the roar of the wind as the atmosphere thickened; the acceleration eased, as friction took its toll on the ship's downward movement, and she started to feel lighter once more.

The roar grew louder, until it was all consuming, and she had to turn up the radio volume to hear the copilot's next call:

"Thirty seconds."

She swallowed heavily, taking a deep breath.

"Ten seconds." The ship flipped over, and the force that had pulled them towards the floor now made the soldiers feel as though they were floating for a brief moment, until the ship's engines kicked in again to brake their descent. "Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Go!"

The doors to either side flew open, and Jules saw deep green jungle and a burning blue sky above -- the first glimpse of sky she'd had in months. It's beautiful, she had time to think -- then the explosive bolts behind her fired, and like the others she was jolted out and clear of the ship.

Gyroscopic stabilizers in the dog's suit picked up her orientation and corrected it, keeping the ground firmly beneath her feet as she fell towards Jefferson -- only a few hundred meters, not enough to reach terminal velocity. As the suit's thrusters fired, she relaxed her knees, letting them absorb the impact, and the realization that she was finally still was almost as shocking as the fall had been. Above her, the Logical Song was a disappearing speck.

"Hell of a rush, ain't it?" Verne turned around -- the suit limited her flexibility, and craning her head wasn't enough -- to find Sergeant McArdle. He flashed a grin. "You in one piece?"

"Yeah. I think."

"Alright, then." He clapped her on the shoulder. "Let's go."