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The adventures of Jules Verne, the doglike warrior, continue apace! A combat drop into peaceful territory harbors less than peaceful secrets and a grim portent of what's to come. Julie also learns a bit more about this 'sex' thing you humans are always on about...

This is the second part of Cry Havoc_, the novel I am serializing here on SoFurry. It's still not as explicitly erotic as my previous efforts, although a sex scene of sorts managed to work its way in? You know how that goes. This section is primarily focused on character development, and introduces a partner to the hapless Julie Verne, wardog of the 366th. We see also some developments in the broader romantic arc that may (or may not >.>) be taking shape, and what a simple deployment looks like. __ If you like it, the rest of the novel will follow in installments as I write them. 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. 2, "Interesting Times"

---

May you live in interesting times. - Purported ancient Chinese curse

The platoon had landed with a spread of only a few hundred meters. Nothing had gone wrong on the drop, or the deployment, and after performing a few final checks Usher ordered them to spread out so they could begin their search. Verne switched her set on, watching the display projected against her goggles come to life.

The collection and synthesis suite was a complicated farrago of different sensors and computers, wedged together into a heavy backpack that made her look like an overprepared hiker. The active sensor array took up most of the weight -- a powerful multispectral scanner that could turn the forest before her nearly invisible if she so desired, or let her peer underground. The long-range radios that connected her with the battalion net and the platoon were of equal importance. She could monitor four channels simultaneously -- in this case she had chosen the networks of the command and control center, the company, and the air coordinator in addition to the platoon's private net.

But the real strength of the system, of course, was the C&S specialist herself. The computers fed Verne information from her active scanners and the passive sensors attached to every soldier in the platoon, letting her filter and aggregate it to tease secrets from their environment. Some of the subroutines were preprogrammed; some she would have to write as the situations presented themselves. It was an exhilarating challenge.

For now, though, she was happy enough to be on solid ground. Her job entailed surveillance, and this -- she was pleased to discover -- gave her ample opportunity to let her eyes sweep over the deep green of the surrounding woods, and the reddish brown of the dirt at their feet, and the soft blue of the sky beyond the treetops. After all the weeks inside the grey walls of the Kirishima -- broken only by the cold blackness of space beyond her windows -- the sights conspired to verge on sensory overload. She was lost in the colors, and the gentle chirp of her sensor equipment, so that when the radio clicked on the sound was briefly jolting.

"Net call, net call. This is Argus. All units, be advised the Roddenberry has encountered problems with her catapult system and the support package is not able to launch. We'll try again on the next go around. I say again: Roddenberry's cat is bent, estimate plus one orbit on the support package. Out."

The corners of Verne's muzzle turned down slightly, and she padded up to Usher with a furrowed brow. "Sir?"

"What is it?"

"Advisory from C3, sir. Roddenberry botched the launch, so the Intruders are delayed for at least an orbit."

Usher scowled. "Hell of a start." He held out his right hand, palm facing downward, and a holographic map of the area sprung to life above his splayed fingers. Colorful markers trudged like glowing ants in the empty air. "McArdle! What do we do about the Strix without suppression?"

Sergeant McArdle leaned closer to eye the map. "Lot of places to put a guy with a missile launcher, boss."

"Yeah, but what's the alternative? Go blind? Fuck. Fuck," he swore again. "Fucking CODA. Can't do a goddamned thing right -- private, get me Thorpe."

Verne nodded, brushing the radio's controls with a light, practiced touch. "Talon Seven, this is Badger Three-Six, message, over."

A moment later the radio crackled to life, and Szepesi Keleman's voice came through the line beneath a tinny hiss. "Talon Seven, send, over."

She unclipped the left radio headpiece from her ear, handing it over to the lieutenant. His voice was as sour as his expression. "This is Badger Three-Six actual. Listen, with the Intruders AWOL, the situation has changed a bit. Get some distance, and if you take fire -- if anybody so much as looks at you -- I want you to egress, no questions asked. Out of the area of operations, if you have to. Over."

She tuned her secondary radio to the same frequency, and empty static filled her right ear -- ordinarily she would keep them on different frequencies, but she wanted to hear the reply. "Talon Seven, understood. We'll hang out at orbital point Cortes, about thirty klicks north of your position, and wait for further instructions unless anybody takes a fancy to us. Over."

"Badger Three-Six actual, understood, you will anchor at Cortes and stand by. Out." His finger traced a line in the air above his right hand -- the path between their current position and the waypoint. Cursing under his breath, he handed the radio back. "Don't ever let 'em tell you the corporation doesn't love us, private."

Verne smiled wanly. "No, sir."

But although Usher was irritated at the aircraft's absence, his fatalistic grumbling did little to dampen the spirits of anyone in the platoon. Listening carefully over the radio, Verne detected no signs that any of the other marines had encountered any resistance; Fran Horvat's pessimism notwithstanding, the unopposed landing had gone smoothly, and they worked their way through the woods at an easy lope.

Jefferson, Verne recalled from her history lessons, had been an early experiment in terraforming. It showed -- the trees were gnarled and massive, their branches stretching upwards in a tired, ancient yawn. The vegetation was thick; the air was rich with oxygen, and the heady scents of the natural world filled the dog's muzzle every time she inhaled.

But the stream that spilled down the valley was shallow and seemed out of place -- riverbeds were etched in geological time, and the water here had not yet had the chance to leave its mark. The trees, Verne thought, peering at one admiringly, were ten times or more older than her -- yet they, and the Jefferson colony, and maybe humanity itself would be long gone by the time the creek had settled into comfortable routine.

She didn't mind the thought. Timelessness cheered the dog; it put her and her problems in what she saw as their proper place. What did Victor or Dennis Scott's taunting really amount to? Their discord took place in the blink of an eye, as far as a tree was concerned. Hopping lightly over an exposed root, she found that she didn't even feel too irritated about the aimless wagging of her tail.

The Silicon Valley Free Zone was a formless buzz of monorails and neon lights. Sterile and noisy, it had been planned down to the square foot; even the trees were artificial. Between her quarters and the office, she might've seen only a handful of pigeons on an interesting day, if the cleaning robots hadn't terminated them already.

That was one of the things that had made Camp Merriwether so overwhelming -- the feeling of dirt beneath her feet, and the smell of the rain, and the sound of absolute silence on those long expeditions out into the wilderness, as they learned how to navigate the natural world. Most of her fellow recruits had been similarly bewildered -- by the sight of real trees, with their scabrous imperfections, and water untamed by concrete walls. She smiled to think of it, and of how in the night they had twitched to the sound of every cracking limb in the darkness around them. Even now her ears flicked to the sound -- and then the hiss of the radio clicking to life.

"Contact, right two at one six." The display in her goggles identified the speaker as Staff Sergeant Hiroshi Haruki, and painted a thin line over her vision in the direction of his report.

Usher beckoned her over with a quick jerk of his hand, and when she had jogged over to join him he looked at her expectantly. "Well? Anything?"

She worked the controls of her sensor set, sweeping her electronic eyes and ears back and forth in the direction Haruki had indicated -- a little over two kilometers away, given his position, and hidden by the swell of the valley's walls. "Nothing on passive in any spectrum, sir. But it's occluded by the rock..."

The lieutenant looked from her to the tree-lined crest of the ridge, chewing at his thumbnail distractedly. After a second he sighed quickly. "Alright, bounce. Two sweeps -- that's it -- and get back down."

"Yes, sir." In her head, she went through the FLAG checklist the instructors had drilled into her -- check fuel, find a spot to land, calculate the desired apogee, and compensate for local gravity. Then she jumped, letting the suit amplify the muscles in her short legs.

Verne had trained as a glider pilot -- loving the solitude, broken only by the sound of the wind. Even there, though, plexiglass had kept her apart from the world. Now, as her leap took her a hundred meters from the ground, she felt her heart thrill with the sensation of soaring. At the apex of her jump, she dutifully carried out two quick sensor sweeps, letting the sensitive electronics devour as much information as they could -- it could be sorted out on the ground, after all. Then she was falling, in a graceful arc; she took a deep breath, steadying herself, and touched down lightly -- only a few meters from the spot she had planned.

Her nose had caught something, with that final breath; she shoved the information into a queue of other clamoring pieces of data, looking over the downloads from the sensors. Now she was in her element, plugging together the raw information from the sensors until at last a picture organized itself in her brain.

"Three people," she said. "Maybe four. Bearing zero-seven-five, range one niner five zero meters. By another stream, right close to the water. Two human women and one or two juvenile humans -- they're civilians, though, sir."

The lieutenant lifted an eyebrow. "How can you tell?"

"There's no radiologics, no sound of machinery, no EM leaks -- nothing that says weapons or technology. From the sound of their footsteps, I'd guess they're hiking, considering the scenery. They're bunched up too close together to be soldiers, and... also we're downwind of them. I smelled two kinds of perfume -- and I believe that one of the juveniles is an infant who has soiled himself. Sir."

Usher's brow was still raised; he and McArdle exchanged glances, and when the latter shrugged Usher shook his head with a snort. "Jesus." He lowered the boom of his microphone, keeping his eyes fixed on the dog. "Haruki, this is actual. C&S says you've got a handful of civvies there. Two adults, one or two others -- maybe hiking, so check the trail. I want you to take a look -- send Wangari's squad to investigate. Stay alert, but... if it checks out, circle around and meet us on the north side of Kaufman Peak. It's point Alpha Seven Zulu on the map."

"Roger that, boss," the radio came back. "That loop takes us pretty close to Objectives Echo and Golf -- you want us to investigate those while we're out here?"

"Yeah, go ahead. Usher out." He closed the link and chuckled quietly. "What do you think, Jim? I got a fiver says the private here's just showing off."

"You're on," McArdle laughed, and when they started on their course again he hung back, turning to her with a smirk. "'Juvenile humans'?"

She tilted her head. "That's right. At least one."

"Couldn't you have called 'em, you know, children? Kids, maybe?"

"What if you'd thought I was talking about goats?"

He gave her a strange look. "You have the weirdest damned sense of humor -- I mean, I think it's humor, anyways. I can't always tell when you're being serious."

Verne merely grinned. She was in an increasingly good mood; sorting the data had proven to be reassuringly intuitive, and she didn't feel nearly as overwhelmed as she'd feared. Maybe she had been showing off, a little -- but she was good at what she did; this, she decided, was the dividing line between pride and hubris.

"LT, this is Haruki." At the sound of Hiroshi's voice, over the platoon's net, she trotted over to join the lieutenant. "Tally on that contact, sir."

"Moment of truth," Usher said to her, dryly, and then activated his microphone. "Go ahead, Haruki."

"We're about four hundred meters out. You can tell Rin Tin Tin they were right, though. Two women... got a kid tagging along, and I think one of the women has a baby, too. They're dressed for being outside -- I think we just caught 'em on a hike, sir. You want us to get closer?"

"Negative, Haruki. Keep your distance -- no point in alerting anybody where we are. We'll see you at Alpha Seven Zulu. Usher out." He secured his headset, and then grunted in Verne's direction. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

"Rin Tin Tin was a male dog."

"Well, it's hard to tell with all the fur," McArdle offered in Haruki's defense. Verne had heard similar arguments before, and always found them somewhat perplexing. Because it seemed to reduce the unease her countenance brooked in people, GeneMark had imbued her with a number of secondary sexual characteristics -- softer features, a feminine voice; a head of hair that she found frustratingly long and required frequent trimming.

But that was beside the point -- Haruki had been jesting, and she was not particularly bothered. "He was also a German shepherd," she grumbled, with a poorly hidden grin. "Couldn't even get the breed right -- says something about his power of observation."

"What are you, then?"

"Lucky," Usher muttered. "Good at making lucky guesses."

"That so? You were guessing?"

"Of course not," Verne blinked. "Everything I said was my best assessment of the situation, sergeant. I wouldn't have raised it otherwise."

McArdle eyed her closely. "It was a joke, private. I know you believed it -- Usher and I might've been skeptical, but, that's the chance you take. I've just never heard a C&S report like the one you gave before."

"It's just knowing how to find patterns. You know?" She was back on alert, her eyes and ears swiveling to take in the scenery, but there was no sense of distraction in her words. "It's like those drawings they give to kids, where if you cross your eyes a bit it turns into a three-dimensional image. I get all this data and... I just cross my eyes a bit and there it is."

This was a slight oversimplification, but in truth Verne had never been able to clearly describe the ease with which she was able to organize information. It came to her as second-nature, although she had no real idea how it worked -- like a batter, struggling to explain the equations of a home run.

Christopher Neumann had suggested that her life in the platoon might be made easier, as people recognized her abilities -- but, two hours into the mission, they had yet to discover anything more than the hikers, a small herd of deer, and a tilled plot of land sown with narcotic plants.

Finally Usher summoned McArdle and Verne over for a quick conference with Haruki and Mayer Bourne, the squad leaders. They were several hundred meters away, and while the three waited for them to bound back Usher pulled the holographic projector from his wrist and set it on the ground, summoning up a large map of the area.

"Alright. It's time to get serious, guys. They claimed to have intel on these weapons caches -- so where the hell are they?"

Bourne shook his head. "I don't know. We've got nothing on sensors. It's like this whole area is a nature preserve, sir."

"Same here, boss," Haruki agreed. "We're a third of the way up our zone and it looks like a dead end, so far."

Usher snapped his fingers, cycling through different views of their surroundings -- thermal, terrain, sonographic. "Private? Any thoughts?"

"The Crate went over about ten minutes ago," she told him -- she'd looked up, hoping to see a glimpse of the Kirishima's passing, but only the radio calls had confirmed its existence. "We have a refresh on visual and thermal, but between the cloud cover and the low resolution, sir, it's not really much help. Argus doesn't have anything -- the other platoons are coming up dry, too."

The lieutenant sighed, chewing on the knuckle of his index finger pensively. "What's the threat picture?"

"Wait one." She worked the controls of her computer, which pulled the passive sensors of every other person in their platoon -- and the C&S specialists of the other units -- into one single readout. "Nominal, sir. I'm inclined to agree with Sergeant Bourne -- it's like there's nobody here."

Usher nodded, so slowly that for a moment she was almost uncertain whether her words had been heard at all. He stared into the holographic display, searching it with narrowed eyes. Then he sighed in exasperation. "Okay. Bourne, Haruki, get your men ready to move again. Verne, I want you to bounce, hit all our remaining objectives, and give me anything more than one sigma. Okay?"

She gave a crisp salute and stepped back from the conference to prepare her computer. Most of the work in data acquisition came before the jump itself -- if the goal was to collect data on multiple targets, the search hierarchy involved solving a traveling salesman problem to plot the most efficient means of traversing between them. Then the ideal altitude had to be calculated -- in this case, to cover the entire area in one jump, she would need to be well above the crags of Kaufman Peak.

But when the dog pushed off, a few minutes later, it all seemed to be worthwhile. The ground fell away easily beneath her, and she felt the rush of the wind over her ears and the exposed fur of her paw. Jefferson rolled away beneath her, the horizon stretching further and further back -- past the valley, to the farms and orchards that marked Lieutenant Quezada's area of operation, and behind her all the way to the glittering indigo of the ocean.

A chirp, close to the dog's sensitive right ear, told her that the computer had finished its sweep, right as she began to fall again. This time she held the deceleration thrusters off until the last minute, letting herself soak in the adrenaline rush of the freefall. She touched down thirty meters from where the lieutenant was still reviewing the map with McArdle, and analyzed the results as she walked back.

There was very little of significance. "It's mostly quiet, sir, to be honest. But thermal and magnetometer both went off at Objective Foxtrot -- magnetometer gave a two-sigma result. I didn't actually see anything, but tree cover makes that difficult."

McArdle and Usher exchanged looks, and Verne noticed that the lieutenant was biting his knuckle again. She had, to that point, never really noticed the degree of his cautiousness. "Okay," he said firmly. "McArdle, get that checked out -- send Bourne."

"The whole section?"

"Better safe than sorry," Usher confirmed. When McArdle had left, Usher spun the map around, and then jerked his head in its direction. "What do you think about this, private? Where would you hide weapons here?"

"I'm not certain, sir, to be honest."

He grunted. "Yeah, I'm not either. But look at these valleys. They've all got hiking trails -- the one up this river is paved right until... here, it looks like." He stabbed at the map with his finger to indicate the point. "Hard to tell if the foot traffic is suspicious; can't tell from the activity logs. It's only an hour from Charleston Township -- less with a gravidyne."

Verne closed one eye in thought, trying to block out everything but the map before her. It was not until she caught Usher's raised eyebrow that she noticed her head was cocked, with her folded ears pricked forward. She coughed, and quickly began speaking to forestall any comment. "Actually, when you think about it, it's a good point -- plus, the rivers are going to mask any thermal or motion sensors you might have from orbit. And the valley walls are terrible..."

"What do you mean?"

"Between the shape and the composition, it's like natural stealth, sir. Passive is okay -- we've got thermal, magnetics, some radiation... Anything active, though, we get a lot of multipath interference... I'd figure maybe every sensor has its resolution reduced by a factor of... four or five? Which, from orbit..."

"From orbit is significant," Usher finished. "McArdle, can I get a minute?"

There were three valleys that Usher found promising, and while he left Haruki's section to finish searching their mission objectives, he ordered Bourne's squads to search two of the valleys, leaving the third for the support section -- Verne as well as Isidora Pisano and Vlastimil Tomchik, the platoon's mechanics, and Enzo Eklund the medic.

It would've been easier to walk the hiking trails, but Usher wanted to avoid any unnecessary interactions with the Jefferson locals and they remained close to the ridgeline, moving forward carefully to sweep every meter of the valley below.

If the valley had secrets it did not see fit to give them up, and Verne was not entirely surprised when Haruki reported in that the magnetic anomaly she had reported was an old, disused mine -- unmarked on the maps. "Probably an illegal operation," Usher shrugged. "Hell, maybe that's what the government really has us out here for anyway. Sure as hell not this damned wild goose chase."

"What do you mean?" McArdle sounded puzzled.

"You think they care about this? Nah. This is a two-part strategic op, Jim. First part, sure, if there really are any insurgents here, CODA tells 'em the happy days are over and we're getting serious. If there are, and I ain't entirely sure about that. You know how paranoid colonial governors are."

"And the other part?"

"The other part is CODA playing the Jefferson government. You notice they ordered the battalion into a class three combat drop? We come down like avenging angels -- I'm sure the press got nice pictures -- for what? This? Fucking Jellystone here?" The lieutenant snorted, gesturing vaguely at the valley.

McArdle didn't seem entirely convinced. "You always were an optimist about human nature, Ray, weren't you?"

"Pragmatist," Usher corrected. "CODA doesn't want us to find anything. With the action on the coreward frontier, they don't have the resources for an extended op here. They'd have to kick the prices up so much nobody would want to pay. It's not worth it, not for a bunch of two-bit amateurs. What did Freeman say, they dumped some cargo in the bay? Seriously, Jim, would you class-three drop the battalion for a bunch of a litterers? Hell, even Verne wouldn't do that, and she hasn't even been here a full deployment. You wouldn't do that, would you, private?"

"No, sir," she agreed. "But I heard from Sedlacek that the rebels destroyed a corvette in the Yamato's RRTF. Is that not true?"

"That?" Usher scoffed. "Nah, that was those Starlight fucks. Was that Tom guessing, or is Jefferson actually trying to pin that on their malcontents?"

"He didn't say. He just said he'd heard." The Starlight Faction was a notorious separatist group, comprised of those people who had been born on starships and felt that planetless citizens of the Confederation deserved their own, separate representation. The attack, she decided, made more sense coming from them.

"You can't believe everything you hear. Threat picture, Verne?"

She paused, cycling through the data from the platoon -- now spread out over several kilometers. "Nominal, sir," she finally said.

"Good. But I can't be waiting for that information -- if I ask you, you need to be able to tell me immediately. You got that, private?"

His tone was stern -- not angry, but definitely sharp. "Yes, sir," she nodded, chastened, and kept the report open at the corner of her head-up display. They lapsed into silence, while she watched the constant sweep of her sensors -- and it was this single-minded focus, occasioned by the lieutenant's order, that brought a brief flicker to her screen some minutes later. "Hold up -- sir?"

"What is it?" Usher had stopped immediately; his eyes were alert, and she saw his hand move to bring up the holographic local map.

"I've got some weird readings out of somebody in Ajibola's squad, sir."

"'Weird' how?" he wanted to know.

She was working through her computer readouts frantically, trying to figure out what had seemed so strange to her. "It's almost like there's a little bit of a dull spot in the sensor information. Like it's muted somehow. It just doesn't feel right, sir."

"Threat picture?"

"Nominal, sir. I don't think it's a contact."

Usher expanded the holographic map, twisting and manipulating it to review the progress of the other platoons around them. He drew a long breath in through his nose, letting it out in a heavy sigh. "Bounce over there and check it out. If it's nothing, get back here."

"Yes, sir." She checked her compass and the map -- Kabiru Ajibola's squad was a kilometer distant; she radioed for them to wait and then set off.

The suit made it easy to navigate over the boulders and fallen logs of the valley floor. The augmented movement was something like a skipping jump; the sensation of the ground beneath her feet fell away, as she loped at an easy twenty kilometers an hour, jumping across the quick-running stream with an effortless bound.

The men were waiting for her; when she touched down, Victor Ramirez threw his hands up in disbelief. "Oh, wonderful. Am I on Jefferson or have I suddenly reached Nirvana?"

"Good afternoon to you, too," she shot back, and then turned to find the squad leader. "Lieutenant Usher asked me to take a look at some strange sensor readings close to here."

Staff Sergeant Ajibola looked worn; he removed his helmet, running his fingers through his short, dark hair, and then forced the expression away. "I thought they were a bit odd, myself."

"It could just be a sensor glitch," she clarified. "But the LT thought I should make sure. Have you rechecked the local area?"

"Yes."

"Have you run an interpolated scan with the PYK-70?"

Ajibola sighed. "Yes."

Verne did a quick search of her own, with the more powerful equipment she carried; it turned up nothing unusual. "When was the last time your equipment was recalibrated?"

"Private," Ajibola groaned. "Jesus, I know how to do my job. Aren't you supposed to be C&S?"

"I'm just trying to be thorough," Verne explained. "I can reproduce the anomaly on your sets, but not mine. It's something about the directed active search, I think. Passive is coming up with more of a dead zone."

"Just sniff around a bit and let us get back to work already," Victor muttered. She glared at him sharply, curling her lip ever so slightly, and he glanced away.

"Do you have any other ideas? We can't even localize it, and I don't want to go poking around with sticks unless I have to." Ajibola had not responded one way or the other to Victor's words.

Verne was, herself, unconvinced by the sensor readings and suspected they amounted to nothing -- but the slightest hunch suggested otherwise, and she nodded to the sergeant. "I'd like to call in the Strix, actually. They've got more powerful sensors."

"You think there's something there?"

"Twenty thousand obol bonus if there is," she pointed out. "That's worth a look, right? Besides, it's something that they mentioned in the briefing. I just want to check it out."

Kabiru rolled his eyes, but radioed Usher to request permission. After a moment, he dipped his head to her. "Go ahead -- Usher says to call it in as a C&S request, though, not from him."

"Alright." She switched her transmitter on and waited the half-second for the antenna to lock into the wider network. "Talon Seven, this is Badger Three-Niner, message, over."

"Talon Seven, send, over." Szepesi Keleman sounded bored -- as uneventful as the platoon's exploring had been, Verne realized that the view from twenty thousand meters must've been even less exciting.

"Badger Three-Niner, we have anomalous readings point-eight klicks north of Altair, but our sensors aren't good enough to sort it out -- your eyes would be much appreciated, over."

Technically, Horvat could decline the request, or escalate it up to the lieutenant; there was a second while, Verne presumed, they deliberated. "Talon Seven, roger, turning west from Orbital Point Cortes. Can you be more precise with the position? Over."

Verne brought up her own holographic map, and pinched her fingers to draw a marker near the center of where she judged the dead zone to be. "Badger Three-Niner, transmitting UDL packet now. Spotlight Yankee Four Alpha, over."

The Universal Data Link synchronized information across the combat zone -- when it worked. This time, they were lucky. "Talon Seven, tally Yankee Four Alpha. Standing by for tasking, over."

"Badger Three-Niner, illuminate Yankee Four Alpha with two seconds of a Type One sensor sweep in ascending modulation. I say again, target Yankee Four Alpha with two seconds of Type One, ascending, and report all contacts. Over."

"Talon Seven, wilco, Type One ascending, two seconds on target, echo pings," Keleman read back dutifully. "I am in from the east, ETA nine zero seconds. Out."

On the holographic map, she watched the Strix make a slow circle, and then charge down towards their position. It was moving faster than the speed of sound -- she caught the flash above them as it swept past, and then a roar as the sonic boom washed over the squad below. Her ears flattened with the sound; Ajibola had his hands clamped over his head.

But it was the C&S set she was watching, and a bright flicker of signal where there should've been only silence.

"Badger Three-Niner, this is Talon Seven. I got nothing down there, over."

"Badger Three-Niner, understood. Thanks for the help, guys. Over.'

"Talon Seven, any time. I am egressing back to Orbital Point Cortes; will stand by for further instructions. Talon Seven out."

Kabiru Ajibola had been listening in on his own radio. "So much for that."

She shook her head with a triumphant growl. "No. They're hiding something in a dugout about two hundred meters west of us. Off the main trail, up that little game track." She gestured to it with her muzzle.

Kabiru narrowed his eyes. "Keleman said they didn't find anything."

"They didn't. Do you know how multispectral cloaking devices work?"

"No."

Verne frowned and tried to consider her explanation. "Basically, imagine you were talking to me, and I spoke back at the exact same time, the exact same volume, the exact same pitch, everything. Our words would kind of cancel each other out."

"Ah. Yes, I've heard about that -- it sends back active information to reflect what the sensor would expect to see, right?"

"Right," she said. "But the active sensor is pinging at the speed of light, of course. So sending back information at the right time means the cloak is temporally disjoint -- it's actually listening for pings slightly in the future, so that it can transmit back in the present. I don't exactly understand the physics, because... well, I'm a dog; I never studied it. But I know that causality masking for extremely precise cloaking is very, very difficult. So cheap cloaks aren't precise at all. It would be like if you talked at me, and I shouted back at you, so you just couldn't hear anything. The sensor is only listening for your echo, so it's fooled..."

Recognition dawned on his face. "But you turned your scanner to a different frequency and listened for a return that shouldn't have been there, didn't you?"

"Exactly."

By the time they had uncovered the concealed entrance, Usher had joined them; Verne explained her methodology, and he ordered her to broadcast it on the wide net to see if anyone else had any better luck. She returned from doing this to find Dennis Scott and Zemzem Selam, the squad's automatic rifleman, dragging out a heavy box, painted in camouflage. It was shut tightly; Selam drew her sidearm and fired once to destroy the padlock.

Kabiru and the lieutenant stood a few steps back to give them room to work. When the box was opened, Verne caught the flash of metal, and the flat, ominous black of deadly machines. "One... two... three..." Scott was pulling them out, setting them carefully down on the ground. "This is six Type 41s, sir."

"41Cs," Zemzem corrected, tapping the barrel of one of the guns. "Upgraded with microstabilizers on the collimating unit and thermal sights. Real shiny toys, boss."

"Expensive," Usher said flatly. "Somebody's getting serious."

"Ain't been used, either. There's still packing grease on the power couplings." Selam shook her head. "Man, this thing's like a nun's cunt, LT. Lot of potential for fun, just going to waste."

"Little help?" Victor Ramirez had another box by the handle; Usher took the other end, and together they pulled it into the light. Ramirez got it open -- then they all stared inside, shocked into silence for a time. Victor was the first to speak, and for its brevity his comment -- "oh, shit" -- spoke for the rest of them.

"How serious were you thinking, LT?" Sergeant Ajibola asked. He was bent over the crate, looking at the thick tube of metal and the electronic components next to it.

"Well, the way I see it, serious enough. If you've got an surface to air missile with a sixth-generation anti-countermeasure system and integrated guidance, I figure you're probably not just a hobbyist. Congratulations, Ramirez," he said glumly, scuffing at the side of the crate with his boot.

"Sir?"

Usher laughed darkly. "I think you just guaranteed us paid work for the rest of this tour."

*

Back on the Kirishima, after a perfunctory debrief, Usher retreated to his office, leaving the rest of them to unpack and check their gear. Nobody had expended any ammunition, and with the exception of one cracked armor plate -- fourth squad's automatic rifleman, Makkai Egyed, had accidentally bounced into a tree at nearly full speed -- nothing was even scratched.

Verne was running post-mission diagnostics on her C&S set when McArdle tapped her on the shoulder and indicated that Usher wanted to see her in his office. She put the gear away carefully and made her way down the corridor.

Usher's perpetual cup of coffee was full, but from the lightness of the vacuum flask as he set it aside she guessed he was at least on his second. "Sit down," he said, and indicated the seat that faced his desk. She sat, carefully; his grey eyes swept over her in silence for a spell, and then he smiled. "Wasn't bad work, down there."

"Thank you, sir."

"We cleared another forty thousand from the op. Twenty thousand for our bounty, twenty thousand in tips from the other teams -- they had a richer haul, anyway. Looks like our intel wasn't all bad."

"Has the government said anything?"

"Big ol' press conference," he confirmed. "They're asking CODA for additional support. We looked good out there, so Freeman said he might tap us for a couple of special assignments, coming up. Nothing serious -- just a reward, you know? If we hadn't turned up anything, this could've been a very boring cruise."

When he didn't continue, Verne let the stillness hang until she felt she was about to start fidgeting. "You don't... sound entirely happy. Sir."

He smiled again, a weary grin that spoke of knowledge learned unhappily. "You know, the Chinese are supposed to have a curse..."

Usher had trailed off, and Verne let her head tilt a little to indicate her curiosity. "I don't see why -- the Empire is the most powerful group in the Arm. What do they have to curse about?"

The man stared into his coffee, rocking the cup distractedly against the desk. "Not an oath. They said -- supposedly, anyway -- may you live in interesting times."

"You'd rather the deployment be uneventful," she nodded. The sentiment was common to her own kind, most of whom had a fondness for routine impressed upon them by their corporate teachers.

"Because we're stuck," Usher said. "Five hundred years ago people could only dream about a starship that could cross light years in a single moment. Even Fran's old jalopy is a marvel of transportation -- and we're stuck. Are you off-duty, private?"

"Right now. I'm standing watch in an hour and a half."

"Good. Your watch reports are always fun."

"Sir?"

He chuckled softly. "Nothing. I've seen reactor diagnostics conducted less thoroughly." Finally -- before the agitation of the mug cooled the coffee off completely -- Usher finished what was left, holding the cup by his lips a second longer. His movements had become increasingly thoughtful. "You take your job very seriously, private," he mused -- the sentence was directed at her, but the audience seemed to be the mug, or perhaps the room itself.

"Yes, sir."

"Not everyone does." He set the cup down and looked at her closely; his eyes had the troubled grey of a sky portending storms. "Why do you?"

"No offense, sir," Verne answered quietly. "But I'm not sure you'd understand, not exactly."

"No," he agreed. "I'm sure I wouldn't. But I'd like to."

Prior to receiving the letter that contained her first assignment, the biggest moment in Verne's life had been the day she moved out of the corporation's barracks and into her own apartment. It had taken a long time -- the company paid in scrip, and it was nearly impossible to save up money in Confederation currency -- but signing the lease and taking ownership of the place had made the struggle worthwhile.

"Does it have to do with what happened at --"

"No, sir." She had cut him off, but he didn't admonish her or give any sign of taking offense. After a few false starts, with her claws scraping aimlessly against the edge of the desk, Verne found an angle she was comfortable with. "We Moreaus... nobody really ever trusts us with real responsibility. We have reached this uncomfortable stage in our relationship with humanity where we are valuable enough to be needed, but not valuable enough to be respected. The trust that I have, I've earned in little tiny bits and pieces -- paying my own bills, owning my own apartment; signing my own contracts. It is critically important, for me at least, that I never feel that that trust has been misplaced, sir. That's why I take things so seriously."

"I feel the same way, you know?" Usher bent over, disappearing beneath the desk for a moment, and straightened up with a bottle of Tokohan whiskey. He fetched out a glass, pouring a small measure of the amber liquid, and then took a drink. "I have a bad feeling about this cruise. I don't know why, exactly; I just do. But the thing about trust... earlier today was my forty-sixth combat drop. In all that time I've had seven KIA. Seven. Kai Etxandi was the first in twenty missions when he bought it on the final drop of our last tour."

"I'm sorry, sir."

Usher gave a short, grunting laugh, and a look of disgust briefly crossed his features. "Well, it was practically a suicide. I don't blame myself for him. I asked him to bounce, for recon, and he picked a clearing to land in that was obviously a trap. I tried to warn him, but he was already jumping -- sure enough, when he came down he triggered an IED. Could've packed what was left of him into a toothpaste tube."

"If you don't blame yourself, then..."

He shrugged. "It gets back to what I mean about being trapped. I don't know what you're going to do when you realize that."

"I guess I don't exactly see what you mean, sir."

Usher finished the whiskey and eyed the bottle before, with a shake of his head, restoring it back beneath his desk. He was more animated now, though his words were still slightly caustic. "I mean that most people join the service because they want to get it over with. But after this, for you, there's nothing. So maybe you'll move up the ranks, a few grades or two; maybe find yourself a nice little niche. Your comrades will come and go -- mostly go -- and you'll still be here. Because you don't have anywhere else. Neither do I."

"Because of your record?"

Usher stared at the tattoo on the back of his hand. "You know, I've thought about having it removed. I mean, it would still show up if you scan my name, but I've got this crazy little fantasy that maybe they wouldn't care too much out on the frontier. 'Cause... the thing is, private, as long as I'm here? It's my goddamned albatross. Maybe I'll make captain, if they can give me some administrative job. No higher, and I'll never have a company of my own."

"Why?"

"Because all the PMCs are the same. They're all dealing with clients, at the end of the day. The colonies hire CODA instead of one of the other firms because we have a reputation, but it's still a business contract, and they still want people who look like upstanding corporate citizens. Which I'm not, because I fucked up. So this right here, this platoon? That's all the trust that anyone will ever have in me. And that's why I take my job seriously."

Usher had always, in their conversations over the proceeding weeks, had an air of the cynical about him, but true bitterness was more rare, and she quirked her ears thoughtfully. For her part, the dog had accustomed herself to the belief that no human could ever really understand what it was like to live as a permanent outsider -- which, she believed, was still true. But in the context of the corporation... "So we're kindred spirits, then."

"Did you pick my platoon, private?"

"No, sir. They didn't give me a choice. I think they just wanted me gone, and you had a vacancy in my MOS."

"Fair enough. I hear that a lot of people pick it because I've acquired a reputation of being safe. Very cautious. I'm going to do my best, just..." He sighed heavily. "When Victor opened that box, I almost cursed you. You and your damned intuition." Abruptly he laughed, and the sound seemed relatively genuine. "You know, I'm sorry, actually, private. I didn't mean to be so philosophical. That intuition is what I wanted to talk to you about."

"Very well, sir."

"We wouldn't have found that stash without you, and probably none of the other teams would've had the luck they did, either either. So you deserve a cut of the bounty, no question. Do you have experience with money, though? Like, do you know how to handle it? Because a lot of soldiers, when I cut them a big check, it disappears immediately. Gambling, mostly -- frivolous things."

"I'm not bad with it, sir. But I have a request. If we wanted to arm the CLS-37 -- how much would that cost?"

Usher stopped, and his eyebrow lifted. "What? You mean outside normal mission reqs? Buying a real weapons system for Fran's bird?"

"If I'm not mistaken, it ups the platoon's ATAQ, right?" The Aggregate Threat Appropriateness Quotient -- pronounced attack, and invented by waggish planners -- determined the types of missions that a platoon could be tasked to. Units with greater capabilities had more options, and were more valuable; in any event Verne didn't like to think of the Strix as being completely defenseless. "I had just presumed it was in your plans."

"McArdle and I have been considering it with Chief Horvat, yes. A couple hundred thousand -- if we have that, we're at the threshold for matching contributions from the ship's Readiness Allotment, in any case."

"Any money that you would've given me, please put in the platoon's general fund, and earmark it for that upgrade, sir."

Usher gave her a perplexed look. "Are you certain?"

"It's an investment on my part, sir. I want the ship to be there to pull us out, if it comes down to it. I don't really need the money, anyway -- I'm not remitting anything, and I don't really spend it on myself."

The lieutenant had brought his computer out in anticipation of initiating a money transfer; now his fingers rested at the edge of the touchscreen hesitantly. "You're a strange one," he finally said. "But with your money, I guess we can scrape together enough to start work. You're positive? 'Cause I'll transfer this to your account if you want."

"Absolutely positive, yes."

He tapped a few buttons on the computer, and then set it aside. "Alright, then," he said. "You're dismissed, private. And, ah..." She had been standing to leave; now she stopped, looking at him expectantly. "Don't worry, I won't tell Fran."

Julie smiled, softly, and, smoothing down her uniform, gave a slight bow and made her way back to the door. "I appreciate that, sir."

She completed the maintenance of her computer equipment dutifully, although the lieutenant's words continued to stick in her mind. She had no great love of excitement -- indeed, routine was one of the most compelling things about the armed service. And she had no doubt that Usher was not afraid -- at least, not afraid for his own life or security. He was a shepherd; they were his flock. It was easy enough to understand his hesitation over the development of the mission.

In the barracks, though, the attitude was positively jubilant -- everyone knew that the discovery of heavy weaponry meant that the government was going to have to act, and it seemed reasonable to assume that they would be seeing further action. Even Christopher Neumann, who was ordinarily circumspect in such matters, grinned and told her that it was already shaping up to be a good cruise.

Her alarm chirped, and she got herself ready for duty. Victor Ramirez was standing watch; she met him outside the door of the barracks, and he gave her a slight nod. "Hello, private." He held his right arm out stiffly; she did the same, until their computers on their wrists chimed and the transferred log sprung to life in the air above her palm.

She scanned it closely, and then nodded, flicking her wrist to close the hologram. "Quiet night."

"There's nothing serious to report," he confirmed. "The engineer has advised us that they're conducting operations to reinforce the hull in this section, and they've asked us to maintain a fire watch with a focus between frames 160 and 163. That should be finished by 1700; they've already moved past our frame, anyway."

Verne nodded, and Victor brought up his sidearm, snapping the diagnostic panel open and holding it out for her. She paged through the menus quickly before taking the gun and holstering it. Then, straightening up to as much of her full height as she could manage, she raised her paw in salute. "I am ready to relieve you."

The cleanliness of the choreography made their interactions easier; Victor returned the gesture simply. "I am ready to be relieved."

"I relieve you."

"I stand relieved," Victor said, and, with a bow, stepped back to the phone mounted next to the post. When he had noted his relief, he replaced the handset, and turned to leave; she was already in her watch mindset, when he reached the hatchway, and she caught the pause in his footsteps. He turned, silhouetted in the dim lighting beyond the hatchway.

She tilted her head, inquisitively, just as their eyes met. He paused, and she heard him swallow. He seemed on the verge of speech for several long seconds -- staring at her, a slight frown on his thin lips. Finally, he simply nodded to her, once -- his head dipping in quiet acknowledgment. Then he ducked through the hatch, leaving her alone.

The watch itself was a tedious formality; the barracks area was largely separated from the ship, and the patrols requested by the captain covered access to the platoon's armory and equipment room, which lay at the far end of the platoon's dedicated area. Any visitors had to pass through the commons area; the armory was not accessible from the rest of the ship.

But the Kirishima's security policies insisted that they stand the watch whenever the main barracks door was unsecured. So they stood them often, and Verne didn't really mind. It was a chance to be by herself, outside the raucous energy of the common rooms, a chance to reflect on her life, and to sort things into their proper places.

Victor, for example. His gesture had seemed almost conciliatory -- if she had prodded, Verne thought she might even have been able to draw a civil conversation from the man. Was Chris right? Was it all simply a matter of time before they considered her one of them? Or perhaps Victor was simply happy about the bounty, and wanted to give her a verbal pat on the head -- the platitudes humans used to congratulate particularly hard-working tools.

But that might not be the case. She could not be certain -- but the dog could hope. Humming lightly to herself, her eyes alert and sweeping the empty corridors intently, she walked alone, deep in thought.

*

"What is that?"

"Water."

Kabiru Ajibola scoffed, as though the notion was completely beyond the pale. "You know what? You're a pussy."

Verne scratched behind one of her ears with a frown. "That's not completely accurate."

"You want a beer?"

She did not. In fact, she was not entirely certain that she wanted to be in the barracks at all; the boisterous celebration, organized by Sergeant McArdle in honor of their first successful mission on the cruise, was already quite loud and the promised music had yet to appear. She had been lingering by the countertop that served as their makeshift bar, out of the way, when Kabiru approached. "I can't really drink," she demurred. "It's --"

"What did I say?" chortled Ajibola, shaking his head ruefully.

"Poisonous," she finished. "I'm very sensitive to alcohol."

The tall man pursed his lips, and then took a long drink from his bottle. "The people who made you?"

He had phrased the sentence as a question, and implied there was more to come, but she had to prod. "Yes?"

"They're fucking bastards," he finished.

"I have," Verne admitted, "thought that on occasion. But not about ethanol, specifically."

"Well, you can't toast with water." She started to protest, but he wagged his finger to forestall any such objections. Then he downed nearly all of his beer in one long pull, until there was only a centimeter or two of liquid left in it. He plucked a replacement from the bar, and pressed the nearly empty bottle into her paw. "Here."

Verne sighed, and took it from him. "Thank you."

"To your first combat drop." He clinked his bottle against hers.

Resigned, the dog lifted the bottle to her lips and took the smallest sip of the beer she could manage, letting it fall against her broad tongue carefully. "To your..." she trailed off.

"Seventy-eighth!" Kabiru declared. "You have a long way to go. But don't worry, you'll do fine." He punched her shoulder lightly, and then slipped off to join the main crowd. Verne shook her head and awkwardly poured some water into her muzzle; bottles, like everything else on the ship, had not been designed for her kind.

"Enjoying yourself?"

She turned to find Chris, favoring her with a grin. "It's... different," she said, returning the look. "How about you?"

"Better than PT," he suggested, and leaned against the bar to relax. "You know, this is what you were really getting yourself into, pup. You didn't think the camaraderie of arms was confined to foxholes, surely?"

She looked around; the platoon was only twenty-eight people, all told, but the energy around them seemed to come from a number twice the size. "No..." she said slowly. "But I didn't know that it would be like this, either."

Chris snickered and took a drink, arching his eyebrows teasingly. "I told you that you were going to have to become less high-strung. But you're drinking; that's a start."

Verne looked down at the bottle. "Sergeant Ajibola said it would make me look cool."

"I might not go quite that far," Chris said. "Since you seem to be using it as a prop. Did you tell him it was toxic? Because, you know, funny thing about that... Back where I'm from, there was a bar up the street run by one of you guys, and he did a pretty good business selling to others like him."

"Well. We do have heightened sensitivity to it. It's not like cyanide, or anything."

"No," he agreed. "And don't get me wrong, Jules, I'm not saying you should take up drinking for the hell of it. But I know that you know that it has a reputation for lowering inhibitions, and you do love your inhibitions. And you don't really want to be at this party in the first place, because you're out of your depth and there isn't any manual for it."

"I'm doing fine here," she grumped. "I just don't like the noise, and the... you know. The other things," she finished unconvincingly.

Smiling, Chris shrugged airily. "Nah, it's okay to feel nervous about human celebrations. I know you'd rather be calibrating your --"

The dog narrowed her eyes, and then tipped the bottle into her muzzle, finishing it with a decisive swallow. "Who's high-strung now?"

Chris's smile widened into a friendly grin, and he drained the last of his beer, gesturing at her water with the empty bottle. "That too."

She cocked her head to the side. "Why?"

"Well, firstly, 'cause it's important to stay hydrated. Secondly, you need both your hands free. I guess they're hands? Do you call them that?"

Palms down, they looked more or less like gloved hands, save for the dull claws at the tips, but when she turned one over she wasn't certain. She had short fingers, and the smooth pads, fringed by downy white fur, seemed far more bestial. "I think of them as paws," she told him, "but you didn't answer my question, either. What do I need them free for?"

Chris gestured behind him; she caught a flash of the scuffed metal that Oscar Baldetti was draping over himself like a armored vest. Julian Almeida and Chidinma Odili were next to him -- friends of Christopher, she guessed; they were all in the second section together. She was about to ask what the commotion was about when there was the sudden sharp wail of an accordion, drawn between Chidinma's hands, and Oscar Baldetti's rough, throaty voice filled the room:

"Hey, everybody -- let's have some fun. Y'only live once, an' when you're dead you're done."

He kept singing, but what followed immediately was drowned out by a sudden cheer from the platoon, and Verne had to prick her ears carefully to try to pick out the melody -- such as it was. Chidinma's accordion and Julian Almeida's guitar carried most of it; Oscar himself was keeping time, rubbing his fingers over the corrugated metal he was wearing.

Chris was grinning broadly -- it was so infectious that she couldn't help smiling, as she leaned closer to him, raising her voice over the noise of the crowd. "What is this?"

"Zydeco," he laughed. "C'mon, pup."

She started to protest, but he plucked the bottle of water from her hand and seized her paw, dragging her away from the bar and into the crowd of people. Verne glanced about nervously -- she thought of herself as reasonably adaptable, but this... She had to focus, telling herself that it was a good study in human behavior; that learning to pick out the music from all the other noise was an exercise in signals analysis, that --

"Follow my lead," Chris shouted, and then dipped his head downwards. He was shifting his weight between his feet; she forced herself to study the patterns carefully, mimicking them until she heard him laugh warmly. "Yeah, like that. You're still a bit stiff."

Next to them, Pejman Ghorbani was moving with an animation all out of proportion to his stout frame. He raised an eyebrow, eyeing the pair. "You know what they say about old dogs and new tricks, Neumann."

Snickering, Chris shook his head. "She's trying. Give her a chance."

The trio of musicians had begun to pick up the tempo, and her measured, careful movements became too difficult to keep up -- she forced herself to relax, until the beat Baldetti marked was internal, as much a part of her as her pulse. Then it was easier; her limbs became freer, and she felt herself bouncing lightly off the soles of her feet.

Pejman's more aimless wanderings took him in a broad circle; when he made his way back to the two, he watched Verne for a few seconds more, and then gave a shrug and an approving nod at her progress. She grinned, her muzzle open, and the corner of his mouth turned up briefly before he moved on.

Abruptly, as though Ghorbani's departure had been all he had waiting for, Chris took the dog's paws in his hands and squeezed lightly. His touch was warm; it shocked her for a moment, but with his body locked against hers through his arms she was drawn into his rhythm -- matching his steps, and the loose shuffling of his torso.

She had learned so easily, and adapted so gamely to this closeness, that she didn't even pause in her movements when he put his hand at her back to draw her against him -- and then, so as not to disrupt their fluid synchronicity, she did the same. Even in the packed room, with the energy of the crowd all around them, his body felt warm beneath her touch. It was pleasant; she let her mind wander, so that her subconscious took over the dancing for her.

That was fine -- it was primal, a shouting exultation of emotion and movement. There was something else entirely about the feeling of Christopher's body near to her own -- the heat of his hand, pressing down the thick fur of her back, and the smooth skin beneath his shirt.

Sometime later -- a handful of songs or a dozen; she had lost track -- the exertion became too much and she stumbled against him. He caught her deftly, and with a grin -- out of breath, sweat starting to darken his hair -- he guided her off the floor back and back to the bar.

"Wasn't so bad, right?"

"Right." Verne had to admit that it had not been -- though it had been awkward, and her sense of rhythm was still lacking, and she had no way of telling Chris that, more than anything, she wanted an excuse to touch him again. She laughed, and hoped the nervousness would be lost in the noise. "I still need to practice. Most dogs have two left feet, after all."

"Well, you're not most dogs," he teased. "You want some water?"

She nodded, and he leaned behind the bar -- then frowned. "Ah, damn. We're out. I'll be right back." He stood, and made his way over in the direction of the supply closet, disappearing into the sea of packed bodies.

Verne swallowed heavily. She could not identify why she felt the way she did -- not about anyone, and certainly not about a human. She knew only that she felt utterly safe when he was around, and that with his absence the din of the party was starting to press in around her with the suffocating tightness of a noose.

There was movement next to her; she focused on it as a distraction, and found Lieutenant Usher reaching over the bar to grab a bottle. "You know, I have to admit I'm surprised to find you here. Are you enjoying yourself?"

"Yes, sir," she said; it was not entirely untruthful.

"Just 'Ray,' when I have a beer in my hand and I'm not giving you orders. Tomas said he thought you were dancing."

"I was. It was Chris Neumann's idea."

"They thought it was all quite amusing," Usher chuckled. "Are you good at it?"

"Not especially. I hope I didn't make too big a fool of myself -- you know, we're not really known for it. Our dancing is... frenetic." There had been some dancing in the company quarters, on Incorporation Day -- when reshaped creatures observed their integration into Confederation society. But it was wild, and quite undignified, and as a general rule Verne wanted nothing to do with it. "Canine music doesn't have a strong beat."

"Don't let her fool you, sir." Chris had returned; she was gratified to find that he chose to stand behind her, rather than on the other side of the lieutenant. "She's a real quick study."

Usher smirked. "Yeah, I guess I'm not surprised. Well, you two have fun -- don't overdo it. We have a joint brief tomorrow morning, so we might be back in rotation again."

"Yes, sir," Chris nodded. When Usher had left, Verne turned to him, and he shook his head. "We're out of bottled water in the supply closet, too. Maybe somebody forgot to requisition it. I guess I'll go to the galley, if you're interested?"

In the small room, with the hatch closed, the noise of the party was muted, and Verne let herself relax. She lapped at the cup of water Chris offered her thankfully -- she was nearly done before she noticed that he was smiling, watching her drink. "Yes?"

"Promise me you won't take it the wrong way?"

"I can't promise, but..."

Chris rolled his eyes. "Fine. I just think it's really cute, sometimes, the way you do things."

"Like drinking?" Her nose was still buried halfway in the glass.

He shrugged defeatedly. "Yeah."

"I can't really do it the way you do," she pointed out. "My muzzle's not shaped the right way."

"I know," he said. "But that doesn't mean it's not cute. Like the way your ears perk up when something's interesting to you. I remember the first time we talked, you didn't really like those habits, 'cause they made you... you know, different."

She stared into the dregs of water at the bottom of the glass. "I don't," she murmured.

"I know that, too. But the things that make you different are... they're also the things that make you... well, you, Jules. That makes them appealing in their own way. I guess. If you understand what I'm trying to say -- I don't think it's cute because it's different, I think it's cute because it's something you do."

She felt her ears splay out to either side; this was one of the curses of her form, a tendency to be betrayed by body language. "I've never really considered that a good thing." Her voice was almost a whisper.

Sometimes, after suitably lengthy periods of introspection, Verne was willing to admit this to herself -- that some part of her desire to enlist was due to the vague sense of self-loathing that the company's teaching had managed to inculcate. This admission had never gone so far as to legitimate a sense of comfort in her own body, which still made her turn away, when she saw it in a mirror.

"I'm not going to pretend to know why that is," Chris was saying; her ears were still pinned. "I don't think of you as some kind of a monster or anything. I just think of you as Jules. And, you know. I feel closer to you than I do to pretty much anyone else in the platoon. Maybe that's weird."

"Maybe," she echoed. She felt the same way, although it was different for her -- Chris was one of the few people who had been willing to even speak to her, when she had first come aboard. She set her glass down, and leaned against him.

Presently she felt his arm around her back. It was the same hand, the same touch as she had felt on the dance floor -- but in the quiet of the small room it was more intimate. There were fewer distractions from the warmth of his fingers.

After a second or two, his other hand began to stroke her arm. His fingers were splayed, and the touch was halting -- it took her a moment, and a brief glance, before she realized that he was tracing the patterns of the dark spots that dappled the soft grey fur.

If Verne had been asked to identify the last time anyone showed affection towards her, her ears would've pinned in much the same way; it was hard to know. Perhaps the nurse that had raised her, or a friend in her brief puppyhood. Certainly there had been nobody in the Silicon Valley Free Zone, nor anyone in her basic training.

So the soothing feeling of his fingers came as a bit of a surprise, and she sighed comfortably against his chest. Neither of them said anything, but by the time he dipped his head, planting a soft kiss between her ears, they were at least at a half-perk, and she felt more relaxed than she had been in years.

At the sound of the hatchway being opened, she jerked back -- the rush of adrenaline seemed to come from nowhere. Zemzem Selam ducked through the hatch, muttering to herself -- when she caught the pair, her head jerked between them quickly.

"What the hell are you doing here? Am I -- am I disturbing something?" Her green eyes were fierce, and slightly accusatory.

"Get your mind out of the gutter, Zem." Chris lifted his glass. "We were getting some water. The bar is out, and we're thirsty."

"Oh. Yeah." Her gaze softened. "So am I. Pour me some?" Selam had a notoriously fiery personality, which she packed into a compact body no more than thirty centimeters taller than Verne herself. Where Verne was lightly built, though, even elfin, Selam's taut muscles spoke of well-harnessed power. She was an automatic rifleman; the gun was awkwardly large, next to her, but she was rumored to have the highest number of confirmed kills in the platoon.

Chris handed over a full glass of water. "You were down in the engineering shop earlier, right? Any truth to the rumors that they're refitting some of the Strixes to carry armored vehicles?"

Zemzem shrugged sharply. "Fuck rumors; I don't know. They weren't doing it when I was there. Guess we'll see on the next drop." She arched her eyebrows with a predatory grin, drinking half the glass in one long pull. "Always an adventure."

He laughed. "I'm kind of looking forward to it too -- excuse to get out of the Crate, anyway."

"Yeah. Hell, I was going to put in for a transfer. Got a friend in the Alabama's RRTF -- they're coreward, workin' Carthago. One of the zaibatsus -- Sony, I think? -- they've been in a proxy war with the colonial government. Serious action, man -- my friend said they cleared 20k each from one mission. None of this pansy-ass brushfire insurrection bullshit."

"Not transferring now?"

Zemzem shrugged. "Well, you heard, your bitch here managed to turn up some goodies. Couple dozen 41Cs, twenty kilos of plastique, and four fully specced PIM-122 launchers -- and that was just from our cache. I heard from somebody in Hui's platoon they found most of the assembly for an MSM-20."

"You tell Fran that?"

"Yeah. Haven't ever seen that girl put away a bottle so fast."

Verne clicked her tongue. "Lot of gear, for disgruntled miners."

Selam glanced at her briefly, but directed her response to Chris. "Either way, if I was a betting woman, I'd say they're going to have themselves a civil war, and we've got front-row seats." She flashed another grin, and set her glass into the recycler. "Enjoy the party, you two. Make sure you put her back in her crate when you're done, Chris."

With the hatchway closed, Verne shook her head. "She's an interesting one. I don't think she really likes me, for some reason."

"Zem's not really friends with anyone. Anyway, she's just nervous." At her quizzical expression, Chris snickered. "Her religion says one day their god will come back, and there will be an era of peace and brotherhood. So, you know. She wants to get as much as possible done before then, just in case."

Selam's words didn't really bother Verne anyway -- in any case they weren't any worse than ones she'd heard before. More troubling, to her, was the way the thought of being seen had filled her with a sudden dread -- like there was something wrong with her closeness to Neumann; something shameful.

Chris seemed to notice her change in mood; he didn't try to touch her again, and when she allowed that she thought she was going to go find someplace to take care some of other business, he didn't protest.

*

Over the days that followed they conversed pleasantly enough, but while she tried to sort out her feelings she avoided spending much time alone with him. Mostly, there was the puzzle of what it meant that he calmed her so. She was not wholly conversant with the human concept of attraction; abstractly it seemed an appropriate term, but nothing in any of her education had really qualified her to speak on the subject.

The company school had discouraged the thought of physical reproduction so strongly that Verne couldn't honestly tell whether or not she felt she was supposed to be attracted to humans or others of her kind; both seemed equally strange, and when she closed her eyes it was impossible to imagine what the emotions would be like. The company had described turmoil, followed by self-doubt and depression; certainly she was now feeling the first two.

She was seated in the observation lounge, by herself, when she heard the sound of someone settling opposite her and looked up to find herself surprised by the presence of another Moreau. He had dark fur and canine features, with large ears that perked straight up -- Alsatian stock, she guessed, probably from another GeneMark line.

"Alhakhnan goru, jananga. Dhallatha shiran?"

"Shiran," she said curtly. "Ghanrukha kihad na Angallash."

"Angallash?" He lifted an eyebrow in surprise. "Fine, fine. Whatever makes you comfortable -- I wanted to see this for myself. There was a rumor that a Nakath had enlisted for this tour." He used the honorific for their species rather than the human term Moreau, and her head tilted inquisitively. "No, jananga, I'm not a soldier. I'm an auditor for the Colonial Defense Authority. I make sure you guys don't go over your reqs. My name is Hakhana Kana, by the way."

"Verne. Or... well, Julie."

He leaned across the table to sniff at her, and while she had the opportunity she returned the gesture. Finally he settled back. "'Verne' isn't Nakath-rukhat, is it?"

"No."

Hakhana Kana nodded slowly. "I see. In that case, then, I'm Forster -- out of the Menlo Campus. Batch three ninety-two."

She had never been to the Menlo foundry itself, although it was known for the analytical capabilities of its gene lines. "I'm from the Loyola nursery. Batch three ninety-five."

"Ah," Forster grunted. "Another Fuzzy. I should've known -- we're dangerous." The term came from the last two initials of the Silicon Valley Free Zone, although humans didn't generally choose the appellation. "Did you just join us?"

"Yes. I'm in the 366th, as a C&S specialist. It seemed to be a good match with what I did for IBM. Are you still indentured, Forster?"

The shepherd shook his head. "No, I bought my freedom, probably just like you. Now I freelance, and see the galaxy. We have a good reputation in CODA for support work."

This was the first she'd heard of the Colonial Defense Authority hiring other Moreaus. "You do?"

"Yeah. You should really think about doing it -- it's all the fun of the travel and the novelty without any of the... you know, the part where you get shot at." When she failed to respond, he raised an eyebrow, and let the silence hang for a spell. Finally he tried again. "Look, I'm going to get some food -- do you want any?"

Verne shrugged, and handed over her identification card, watching the shepherd's tail wag lazily as he wandered off. One more skeptic in a line of skeptics -- she knew the type, and they were common enough amongst Moreaus as humans. Nobody had blessed her enlistment.

And, as she expected, when Forster returned -- with a bowl of ration mulligatawny for her and a sandwich for himself -- he continued his previous line of conversation. "What made you want to sign up? You don't owe the humans anything."

"It's not what I owe, exactly. It's... what I want to do with my life. What I want to be."

"Are you Lona?" The word was an epithet -- it meant "shaved," and her kind used it to refer to those who, they felt, were trying too hard to become human.

"No," she said; a half-truth, at best. "Not really."

Forster took a bite of his sandwich -- human cuisine, the mark of professionals who had access to fresh bread. "What's your name, then?"

"My clan name?"

"Your real name," he corrected.

It was customary for the small communities that served as ersatz family units to assign their own names to the young creatures, beyond the numbers given them by the company. Verne sighed. "Runshana Nikka-Kharat."

Forster chuckled; it was a hoarse sound, but friendly for all its roughness. "You got a late start?"

Her name, literally translated, meant 'the one whose muzzle is always nursing.' "It's metaphorical. I was... curious, even as a pup. I wanted to know things."

The other dog nodded. "Mine was very literal. I was quite clumsy; I knocked things over a lot. They said it was though my tail had its own tail, that was the only way they could explain it. Why don't you use your name?"

"I find that people are not comfortable with Dogsp... with Nakath-rukhat. And it raises more questions than it answers. I don't really want to cause problems when I don't have to, I suppose."

"I wonder," Forster mused aloud. "What do you suppose all your deference has gotten you? That's the curse of the Lona -- they become housepets. You're smarter than they are... faster, healthier. Do they treat you as an equal?"

Verne didn't answer at first, recalling the way Selam had spoken past her to talk directly to Chris. "Not always. But we have to make some allowances. We're different -- unique. Respect isn't necessarily a given. It's --"

The shepherd shook his head firmly. "No. Respect is the bare minimum owed to all sentient creatures. Respect of their individuality, of their liberty; of their choices. Don't get me wrong, Runshana. I'm not a religious man; I don't believe the prophets who think we're some second coming, some savior of the universe. But humanity -- they're bankrupt. They don't consider us equals, and we're not, it's true -- but they judge it in the wrong direction."

Verne was not unfamiliar with such talk; it was common enough even in the company barracks. Forster was, however, more strident than most. "Bankrupt?"

"Look at the way they act. They eat flesh, but they spurn the hunter's code. They keep flocks, but they've forgotten the shepherd's humility. They speak of freedom, but they've lost the barest sense of what it means to be free. They speak of themselves as our mentors, not our masters, but the only thing they can teach is the past."

"As individuals, they mean well."

"As individuals, they do," he agreed. "They think of themselves as wolves, and every man sees himself as the pack leader. But they're not -- they no longer have the currency or the honor to pay for that hierarchy. I'm not saying you were wrong to join CODA, of course -- I'm sure it's an adventure -- but you are wrong if you aspire to their ways. They won't even let you vote."

"It would be a slippery slope."

Forster growled. "That's an excuse. They're right, sure -- if they gave us suffrage, many of us would vote the way our corporation told us to. I know that many Nakath are... indoctrinated, no better than beasts of burden. But we're that way because they made us that way, Runshana. Don't you see how wrong that is?"

"I do," she told him softly. "But that's not why I joined, anyway. I joined because I believe in the Confederation... that is... I believe that in a universe governed by entropy, the Confederation is on the side of reversing that decline, even if it's just in our part of the arm. So I owe them my service -- not because I want something out of it, but because it needs to be done. And if they tell me to be a lowly private in some security platoon, then I will be the best private that CODA has ever seen. And maybe they'll change their mind about the franchise, and maybe they won't -- but it's not about them, Hakhana Kana" -- she used his Nakath-rukhat name in deference. "It's not about them -- it's about me, and the people I serve with."

The big dog leaned back, taking a deep breath and holding it for several seconds. Finally, with a slow nod, he sighed. "Well spoken. I don't agree with it, but at least you're not flying blindly." His eyes, dark and pensive, remained fixed on her; she felt, briefly, as though he was able to look through her -- that he was searching for something. "I don't hate people. Most of my friends are human. My romantic partners, even, sometimes. But I'm wary, and you would do well to be so too, Runshana."

They finished the rest of their meal in silence; Forster seemed on the edge of speaking, a few times, but he never did. Finally, fearing that he might depart, she swallowed her pride and splayed her fingers questioningly towards him. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"You mentioned your friends, and then... then your romantic partners. What does that mean?"

"What?" The curious look he gave her was not born of shock or the fear of impropriety, just confusion. "What do you mean by that?"

"I don't exactly understand what it means -- romance. Affection. You know, all that kind of... that circle of emotions. It's not really clear to me how it is supposed to work."

The shepherd's ears swept back. "Oh, I see. You mean between people and Nakath? It's a complicated subject. Some of it is, I suppose, purely sexual. Our creators favored us with suitable parts -- I suspect because they did not want to redesign their medical equipment. Of course, humans and Nakath can't produce children, and our superior immune system makes us less susceptible to all their diseases. For some people, we are therefore a certain commodity. Sometimes, though, I think it's genuine attraction. There are definitely people I've known that I felt that way about -- men or women that I was captivated by. And that can become a physical desire, so I suppose there are humans who feel that way about us."

"How can you tell? I mean... how do you know what that's like?"

"There's someone you have in mind?"

She sighed, and tried to explain the complicated feelings she had for Christopher Neumann -- the way her chest had tightened, thinking about him, and the curious power he had to calm her down. "I don't know what these feelings really mean -- or how to fix them."

"It might not be something that you actually want to fix," the shepherd suggested. "I don't know anything about the man -- would I be wrong in guessing that he was willing to talk to you when you first joined? And that he was, perhaps, the only one to do so?"

"He was the new person in the platoon before I joined. We were sort of kindred spirits, in that fashion."

Forster smiled gently. "He might genuinely enjoy your company, Runshana. If you enjoy his, then I don't exactly see what the problem is. Unless you feel that there's some ulterior motive. People can be dangerous that way, as well."

"Dangerous?"

"There's a certain disregard that people occasionally have for us. I know that... some humans -- not to say this one is, of course -- but some humans are inclined to use Nakath to gratify their sexual urges, and --"

"I know that," she said sharply.

"Eh?" Something in her tone made the shepherd arch his eyebrows. "I see."

Julie flattened her ears; her voice softened again. "I mean that I'm familiar with the physical practicalities. I took the health classes the company offered. I don't think Chris wants to... use me."

Forster's eyes narrowed, and he didn't speak for a bit, as though not wholly satisfied. Then he shook his head, and didn't press the issue further. "In that case, it may just be something that evolves naturally from your emotional relationship."

"I'm not really interested in becoming physically intimate."

"No?"

She thought back to Victor and Tomas, and frowned a little. "Yes, I know that some people are, but I don't see the point, exactly. It's unhygienic, awkward... I don't see the payoff. Why would you put yourself through it?"

The other canine looked at her for a long time, bemused. "The hormones have certain leveling effects, and it adds a certain... je ne sais quoi to a relationship -- I find. Plus, there is the part where it's quite pleasurable."

Verne made a face. "How?"

"Physically? I mean... it's the same sort of feelings as when you masturbate, you just have a partner to help you." Seeing her blank expression, the shepherd tilted his head and tried again. "You know, when you masturbate? When you..." He took a deep breath, and let it out in a whistling sigh. "Oh boy."

"I feel sometimes that I am missing something."

Forster clicked his tongue sharply. "Yeah."

"I am?"

"Yeah."

"Can you elaborate?"

Again he sighed. "Not in the cafeteria."

"I see," Verne said quietly.

The shepherd splayed his fingers out; like her own, they were short, and covered with fine, thin fur. "Do you want me to teach you? Not everything, just... the basics. What did you call it? The physical practicalities. I suspect there are some things you were never really told, Runshana."

"Well..." She paused, and turned the idea over in her head. There was little sense of shame over one's body where two Moreaus were concerned; the thought that the shepherd might be able to teach her something was not ridiculous on its face. "Perhaps my interest is piqued. But I don't know where we'd go, not at this time of night."

Forster shoved his plate back and stood, waving her up with an outstretched paw. "Leave that part to me."

The advantage of being a civilian, Julie soon learned, was that they got their own quarters -- and therefore privacy. There was no escape to maintenance rooms in the outer hull; Forster simply guided her back to the civilian area, near the front of the ship, and spun the hatch of a private berth. It was small, and meticulously kept -- not a single thing was out of place, and even the shepherd's scent was muted.

"It'll be easier if you take your clothes off," Forster said matter-of-factly; he was pouring a bowl of water, and his back was to her. When he turned around, he nodded his head towards his bunk. "And have a seat there when you're done."

He watched her closely -- holding his bowl with both paws and peering at her over the rim as he drank. More curious than anything else, Julie unbuttoned her blouse, folding it carefully and setting it on the bed. She followed with her white undershirt -- which matched her fur so closely that she sometimes considered skipping the garment entirely.

The uniform had the effect of flattening her fur; she shook herself a few times and immediately grew in size as she fluffed up. Forster snickered at the sight -- and, objectively, Verne was aware that she looked somewhat ridiculous, with the dense pelt covering her wiry form. Climate control played havoc with her biology -- she had spent her entire life in air conditioned environments, and her body had responded by giving her a permanent winter coat.

"My pants, too?"

Forster raised his eyebrow, chuckling softly. "You're not really up on how sex works, are you?"

She sighed, and undid her trousers as well, setting them neatly atop her blouse and undershirt. On second thought, she added her knickers to the pile as well. "What about the socks?" They were part of the uniform, but she hated having to put them on -- they clung tightly to her feet, and had to be pulled against the grain of her fur.

Forster shrugged, and set his bowl down, stepping closer to her and trailing one claw-tipped finger through the thick fur of her sides. "For our purposes, the socks can stay on." He settled down on the bunk, and when she tilted her head at him curiously he patted the edge, and she took a cautious seat.

"I'm not certain what to expect," she admitted.

He swung his feet up onto the bunk, so that he was resting on his side, and wrapped one arm around the dog. His grip was gentle but firm; he tugged her down with him, until her back was snug against his warm body.

Verne could feel the rise and fall of his chest, in time to the warm puffs of his breath that tickled her bangs; his muzzle was cast downward, a solid presence pressed to her forehead. It was not an unpleasant feeling, by any means, although she did not feel as relaxed as she had in Chris's hold.

The shepherd's fingers combed the thick ruff of fur at her chest, moving past her ribcage. His claws traced circles around one of her nipples; Verne's breath caught, and she was suddenly aware of how sensitive they were to the touch. "Sh," he murmured soothingly. "Just relax..."

She closed her eyes and tried to consider the sensations dispassionately. There was an undeniable pleasure that his touch drew forth, at the purest, physical level. Julie kept herself meticulously groomed; her paws had ran through the same fur time and again, in countless showers -- but this was something different.

Forster's other paw was smoothing the downy, silky fur of her inner thigh, working its way upwards with such glacial insistence that she hardly even noticed its movement. It was easy to be distracted; his claw drew closer and closer to the bare flesh of her nipple, until he touched it with the soft pad of his thumb, and she gasped in shock.

The shepherd gave a grunt of approval, at this; then she felt his teeth, nibbling gently at the rim of her ear. Now this felt sensitive, too -- she shivered, and he bit down tenderly. "Are you alright, ansharuk?" She had never been called attractive before, let alone sexy; the dog's answer was an unsteady murmur. "Do you want me to keep going?"

There's more? How can there be more? she thought -- then she thought that she could not possibly ask that question, lest it reveal her inexperience. Instead she nodded, and Forster used his knee to lift one of her legs, parting her thighs to let his paw move further -- which he did, always stopping to stroke her fur back down the right way, so that not one hair was out of place.

She knew what he was going to do only half a second before it happened, and she felt the smooth touch of his finger tracing her lower lips. Her breath left her in a rush; her lungs emptied, and she had to gasp sharply to find the ability to speak. "Hold on -- wait. You're not supposed to touch people there..." she mumbled; the words seemed increasingly absurd as she finished. "It's not... it's not right..."

"Says?"

"The wellness teachers..." she tried, without conviction. "Would say it's not proper..."

"Tycho Brahe," Forster whispered softly, "said the same about the heliocentric solar system." He stroked her again, gently, and she shivered in response. "Galen, the most advanced doctor of his time, treated people with bloodletting. Einstein rejected quantum mechanics..."

"I don't underst..."

He cut her off, nibbling her ear again, and his purring growls close to her ear left her whimpering like a puppy. "There's a difference between what you've been told is right and what you feel is right. Now -- what do you feel, Runshana?"

Verne didn't answer, but when the shepherd slowly worked his way inside her, and she felt herself clinging tightly to his finger, her moan was gasped with such primal sincerity that she didn't need to find words. The teachers had said that what Forster was doing was wrong -- but arguing for the defense was the feelings he was drawing forth, so deeply pleasurable they could only have come from a place of innocence.

She was aware that she was out of breath -- shuddering as she fought for air in ragged, helpless gasps. The root of satisfaction -- she recalled unbidden the Sixth Edict of the Uplifted, which she had been made to recite in school -- is to serve at the pleasure of your masters.

Then what was this? What was the shepherd doing to her -- as his fingers pumped deeply inside her ever more wet body, and he curled them up to drag his flat, smooth fingerpads over her inner walls?

Her whimpers and whines were growing louder -- she tried to still them, but it was as if her body was no longer really her own. Forster's arm wrapped strongly around her chest, holding her close to him, safe and secure, and all the while his fingers explored her with the deft sureness of a master guitarist.

He knew exactly where to touch her, and how, and when -- how to take the sensations that wracked her body and draw them to greater and greater heights, until she could feel herself starting to slide over an unmarked edge.

Forster knew what was coming better than she did -- all at once his paw clamped down on her muzzle, and rapture took her in an inexorable wave, crashing over the dog's body and bearing her upwards. She felt her spine arch, unbidden -- then she was howling, muffling her cries into his paw, her body quivering as if lightning-struck.

She was still gasping for breath when he let her muzzle go, and the moment it was free she opened it to pant desperately, her tongue lolling. The world seemed perversely small and out of place; she had to feel around awkwardly, to ensure that Forster was still there, and her voice was thin and girlish:

"Why didn't anyone tell me?"

He hugged her tightly, his chuckle soft and knowing. "Because if they'd told you, you would've known. I had to find out from someone else -- a human, actually. I suppose he was my first boyfriend."

"Here?"

Forster shook his head. "I ran away from the Zone once or twice, to see what I was missing. It turned out that sex was one of them."

She sighed, twisting her back to look at the shepherd over her shoulder. "I remember they used to tell us that spices were mostly poisonous -- that people just used them as feats of endurance. Because the gruel in the barracks was just... you know..."

"Ground up bits of dead rats and lost housepets."

Verne blinked. "Yeah. I suppose. Did you ever go to Dos Amigos, on El Camino Real?"

"I didn't. Never heard of it, Runshana."

"About half a kilometer beyond the north gate of the Zone perimeter. Cheap, dirt cheap Mexican food. I traded in a half-used battery for a tostada." She licked her muzzle at the memory -- her first meal, after leaving the company. "I always thought that was the best thing my senses would ever offer me..." And she laughed, an unfamiliar sound that was almost a giggle. "Oh, lessons learned..."

His fingers were pressed through the fur of her belly, stroking it gently; she could feel the lingering wetness at the tips as they glided through the fur to the skin below. "So you understand why people do this, now?"

"Yes." She rested her paws over his and leaned back into the shepherd's warm body with a sigh. He didn't calm her as much as Chris did -- after what they'd done, a little voice had raised itself, asking that question. But it was relaxing enough; she got herself comfortable. "It changes things a bit."

"Going to let yourself relax more often?"

"Perhaps."

Forster snickered. "Just remember that it's... a little different, for people. They're more reserved with their intimacy. Less... feral. Sometimes, at least. But I'm glad I could show you, Runshana."

Verne closed her blue eyes to the world with a lengthy sigh. "Yes. Well, it'll certainly make my life more colorful."

Licking her ear gently, the shepherd hugged her close. "Of course. But it's life, Verne. We're all living in interesting times."