"No weapons inside, sir. Remove anything sharp he could take from you. And anything he could strangle you with."
Naomi unholsters her handgun and places it on the security checkpoint's counter. Passing her hand in her boot, she pulls out a dagger and places it next to the gun. She slides off her belt and adds it to the pile. Finally, she tucks off her combat shirt and removes a combat knife from her back.
"Is it everything, sir?" the guard asks.
"Unless you also want the plastic knife," Naomi retorts.
"It couldn't hurt a steak," the soldier quips. He pushes a button, and a buzzer goes off as the next, barred door slides open.
Taking the food tray she came with, Naomi enters the prefabricated corridor. A soldier guarding it from the inside follows her.
"I advise you against any physical contact with him, sir," the soldier says.
"I was told he has been the most accommodating of our prisoners," Naomi says. She stops before the Plexiglas door holding her goal captive. "Did he attack someone?"
"The docs are treating him for scabies," the soldier says.
A shiver climbs along Naomi's spine. "Thanks for the heads-up. Stay to the side; it's better if he doesn't see you."
"Yes, sir," the soldier says. He places himself against the wall next to the door.
Naomi slides her badge through the door's reader, opening it. A man dressed in orange scrubs sits on the cell's bed. He stands up as she enters, his hands to the side. He looks like a caveman, with unruly black hair and a badly trimmed beard.
She sits at the table installed in his cell, bolted to the ground like its two stools. Placing the tray down, she triggers Silver Tongue, her first Diplomat's ability. It eases the nerves of whomever she speaks with. She can only use it for a few minutes, but that will be enough as she has a meeting coming up.
"Naomi," she says, pointing at herself.
He approaches the table and grabs the plastic knife from his tray. He presses on its side and lets go, making the knife jiggle.
"Knife," Naomi says. She makes a cutting motion with her hand.
He holds it up and repeats, "Nive." She's confident this is a bad pronunciation and not their word for it. He stabs it into his ground beef and splits it in half. Holding it back up, he says another word, the pronunciation alien to her.
"Language (Eldorian) leveled up," the system announces.
She takes a paper and crayon out of her pen pocket and writes the word, 'Knife.' Handing him the armless crayon, she slides the paper towards him.
He looks at it dumbfounded. Shaking his hand, he refuses the crayon and then points at himself. He mimics writing before repeating the same refusal hand motion. She guesses he cannot read or write.
Naomi leans back, letting out a disappointed sigh. He digs into his meal, taking a mouthful of beef and potatoes. His facial expression makes him seem disappointed by the taste. Odd; she thought it would be better than their dirt-filled food.
He hums, attracting attention to her rank insignia by pointing at it.
She looks down at it and explains, "Warrant officer."
He makes a height hand motion, moving it up and down. Could he be asking where she stands in the hierarchy? She takes back the paper and draws the various ranks of the U.S. army. "Fuck," she curses when drawing the details of the highest enlisted ranks with her unprecise crayon.
"Fack," he repeats.
He smirks as he sees the twenty-eight drawings. After pointing at himself, he taps on the privates' insignia and says a word. She points at the five stars general, and he speaks another word. He takes the paper and loosely rolls it to crown himself with it.
"Your leader is your king," she mutters, glad that they seem to share historical concepts. Taking back the paper, she adds an eagle holding arrows and an olive branch above the rest. "President."
He seems stunned for a moment and points at the ceiling. She gives him the crayon as he extends his hand for it; he draws a symbol above hers. Naomi saw that symbol in reports from Earth – people claiming to be servants of a new god. "Seraphel," he says.
She takes back the crayon and draws a cross next to his symbol. "President," she says, pointing at the eagle. "God," she adds, indicating the cross.
He scoffs, as if she had offended him. He lifts the plastic glass off his tray and looks at it, investigating its clear contents.
"Water," Naomi says.
He translates it and brings it to his lips.
"Language (Eldorian) leveled up," the system announces.
Noami's watch beeps, making him fall from his stool in surprise. She mutes it and confirms the time. Rising from her stool, she knocks on the door, asking for it to be opened.
"Balric," he says. She turns to see him tapping his fingers against his chest. He hands her his knife and fork, blade, and points towards himself.
She reproduces his refusal hand motion. "Eat," Naomi adds, mimicking the act. The door opens, and she slips out. The soldier follows her as she leaves the corridor. "That was fast, sir."
"I'll be back after my meeting," she says. Reaching the security checkpoint, she grabs her gear and re-equips herself. Naomi exits into the largest yard of the fort they took possession of.
The high stone walls surrounding them cast large shadows on their sheet metal buildings and tents.
Jackson, her colleague, lifts himself from the prison's exterior wall to approach. "Made any progress?" he asks.
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"Surprisingly, yes," she answers. She starts walking towards the inner yard of the stronghold, where the headquarters are installed.
"I can't believe they are scared of me. Can't do my work properly because of them," Jackson says. The prisoner he visited yesterday cowered against the wall of his cell before attacking.
"I would be scarred too if a giant chocolate man talked to me," she quips.
"You ain't closer to his Caucasian ass than me," Jackson retorts. He pulls on the side of his eye to elongate it.
"At least I'm white," Naomi counters. "Makes me a little more normal for them."
"Normal? Normal?" he asks, faking offense.
"Default settings, if you want the politically correct," Naomi doubles down.
A soldier forces a prisoner out of the back of a Humvee. The yelled commands break Naomi's and Jackson's joust. They know he doesn't understand, so why bother yelling? The man is still in his leather tunic, a few leaves strapped to his hood and shoulders.
The vehicle's radio goes off, echoing numeric noise. The Humvee's pilot grabs the radio's extensible handheld to bring it close. "Repeat," he says.
His sergeant turns to him, fuming. He grabs his leg and throws him to the ground. The soldier rolls to stand back up, but his sergeant roars, "Stay on the ground! Start pushing!"
He flattens himself to the ground and starts doing pushups. It is effortless despite his gear.
"Do you want artillery to fire on your fellow soldiers?!" the sergeant barks.
"No, sir!"
"Then you say: say again!" he yells. "Say it!"
"Say again," he repeats.
"You are forgetting something, soldier!"
"Say again, sir," he corrects.
The captive looks at the display but isn't shocked by it. The soldier holding him escorts him away towards the prison buildings.
Naomi and Jackson get too far to hear the sergeant's rambling, but she doesn't see his man leaving the ground even as they enter the command post.
Three dozen officers and warrant officers enter the room in the next minute, sitting at foldable tables before a projector. A technician connects his laptop to a conference hub and dials up their meeting room.
Maps of both sides of the portal appear in the center. The video feed of a meeting room filled with high-ranking officers and consultants pops up on the side. Naomi recognizes it as one of the meeting rooms she visited in Washington.
Major Rook, the leader of the companies stationed in the fort, arrives last. A soldier clad in a hulking loadout escorts her. The man would be considered a unit with nothing else than clothes, but his armor makes him look like a sci-fi super soldier. Everything, from his torso to calves, is covered in bulletproof armor. His head, hidden by a ballistic mask, is surrounded by an anti-explosion collar that rises to cover the back of his skull. Forty-millimeter grenades for his M32 launcher litter his front plate. A belt links his backpack to his primary weapon, an M134 minigun, stashed away to the back side of his armor.
'Lucky,' Naomi thinks. A few months ago, it would have been the delusion of a civilian. Today, it is the luxury of those who obtained the right classes. Each of his steps creaks the floor of their building, the place not meant to support his weight. And yet he moves with ease, as if all his gear weighed nothing.
Despite his presence, Rook draws more attention than the goliath. An aura seeps from her, rummaging through the guts of the attendance. Naomi asked about it, and those who seem to know best think it's a side effect of holding too much Ether.
"Ladies and gentlemen, Secretary of Defense," a voice crackles through the communication line. The tension in the field war room is palpable. A tall officer, laser pointer in hand, directs attention to the central display. It shows a satellite feed of Chinese mechanized troops in the desert.
"Our latest intelligence confirms the movement of Chinese convoys towards Iraq's border. They appear to have been hiding in Iran," the Secretary of Defense says. "Current estimates indicate four mechanized companies supported by artillery batteries and air assets. Furthermore, our intelligence suggests a rapid mobilization of their armies in mainland China. Their planes are loading up."
Questions arise in Washington – incomprehensible gibberish through the communication line. Whispers break out among the assembled aides, analysts, and senior military staff. A map flickers onscreen, with red markers showing Chinese deployments.
The secretary coughs, restoring order. A new set of markers appears on the screen, showing blue air forces crossing the Mediterranean Sea. A second wave is already leaving Italy; they are preparing for a drawn-out event. "AFCENT is deploying assets in the region. It is a show of force, but they will act if our troops are fired upon."
The main door slams open as a warrant officer barrels through it. The room turns to him, staring in silence. He lifts a laptop in front of him, towards Major Rook. "Sir, you need to see this."
"I hope this is of vital importance, son," the secretary says over the line.
"Our SkyGuardian drone is in the sky, and we found an army," the warrant officer says. He connects his computer to the central hub and displays an aerial feed. Thousands of tents form an encampment with rows of colored pavilions, surrounded by wooden palisades.
Analysts take screenshots of the camp, drawing estimates on their tablets in silence. They whisper to each other, doubting their own results.
Infantry formations march in perfect unison, armed with swords, spears, and shields. Large trebuchets, catapults, ballistae, and other siege engines are visible in the rear.
A flying monster crosses the feed – a griffin like the few who attacked earth. Its rider orders the beast down, and it lands in the middle of the camp before the largest of the tents.
"They could be fielding a hundred thousand men, sir," the senior strategic analyst says. A woman in Washington confirms their estimates. "Assuming comparable movement speed with Earth's medieval era, they could be here tomorrow."
"We poked the wrong beast," someone mutters. Whispers fill the war room. Another quips to his neighbor, "The only problem I see is we don't have enough ammunition."
Major Rook takes a step closer to the screen. "We would be outnumbered two hundred and fifty to one. What reinforcements can we expect?"
"My battalion cannot expend more companies from Iraq," a colonel says. "The response from the locals has been… more turbulent than expected. Our men are already stretched thin; any more would endanger lives."
"I agree, colonel," the secretary says. "We chose to limit our deployment to not alarm foreign nations, but that ship as sailed. Generals, what are our options?"
"The sixth fleet is already in the Mediterranean Sea," a general says. "Earth-2's portal can be in the range of the USS George H.W. Bush within seven hours. Our Ospreys can deploy marines to the portal in ten."
"The 101st and 82nd divisions are still waiting orders in Greece," another general says.
"President on the line," a woman says, handing a phone to the secretary. He brings it to his ear and listens for a long minute. He tries to argue, but the president cuts him off. He hands back the phone and ponders silently for what feels like an eternity.
"I want the sixth fleet in range as soon as possible; any further actions are delayed until otherwise informed. Trust that reinforcements will be with you as soon as possible, major. In the meantime, you'll have to make do with your two companies," the secretary says. "Our technological supremacy will need to be enough. This meeting is adjourned. Generals, I will see you with the president in fifteen minutes. Major, our foothold in the new world is in your hands; do not disappoint."
The line to Washington cuts off. The major steps in front of the screen and turns to the attendance. "Alright gentlemen, I want options to dismantle their assault preemptively. Re-evaluate all our defense measures. Simulate a frontal assault from their troops. And call back our A-Team; I want solutions on their hierarchy."
"Can't we try negotiating?" Naomi asks, the words escaping her. Rook turns to Naomi, and she feels her throat dry up. Now that she has attracted attention, it could not be worse to explain her thoughts. "We expected to find scores of monsters, but they are humans. We are making great progress with the POWs; we could be able to delay whatever they are planning."
"I won't trust 'could' and 'delay' when we're attacked on both fronts," Rook responds, her tone final. "We are at the forefront of humanity's future. There is no guarantee that the portals emerging from the remaining labyrinths will be in our grasp. If we fail to assert control over these savages, then Russia or China will. And when they do, they will see nothing but land and resources, without regard for the cultures."
'Give it a month, and we'll drop a sun or two on them,' Naomi thinks. She shrinks into her seat, repelled by Rook's unyielding gaze. She catches a glance of a first lieutenant, a smirk on his face. He fidgets with a small bronze emblem – a shield adorned with a pair of weapons: a sword and an axe. 'What emblem is that?'