Kyroll’s truck lumbered down the dirt road heading out the northern exit of Celna. The old red pickup's engine struggled to keep time, occasionally popping like a gunshot when a cylinder misfired. Along with the horrible tuning, the otherwise calm evening's sounds were interrupted by the squealing timing belt and the grinding clutch.

If it was Martinez’s own vehicle, he might have some concern for the old beater, but it was not, so it was in no way his issue. If Kyroll did not want to give his vehicle proper care and maintenance, it was his problem. He would have to pay for it anyway.

Lord knew he and Nelya had enough money to fix the truck; they were loaded beyond anything Martinez could genuinely fathom. Yeah, he had a rough Idea, but he grew up in an LA ghetto, not on a massive plot of land that took an entire day to traverse.

Part of Martinez thought that the dereliction of care was just another example of Kyroll being stubborn to the point that it was detrimental—but that was likely just his negative bias against the man barking its objections to the man's existence.

Martinez looked back into the truck bed at their backpacks strapped down tightly, the light snow falling and sticking to them, the bed, and the road behind them.

Martinez could no longer see Celna, having left the outskirts of the town almost a half hour before. All that filled the truck's wake was cold, frozen over grass browned from winter.

Those dormant plants were juxtaposed with the coniferous trees crawling against the rugged road. The lush greens, blues, and whites breathed life into the otherwise glacially lonely forest.

“So where are we going anyway?” Martinez asked, turning back toward the front and looking at Kyroll. “It seems odd that we aren’t going to hunt on your land.”

“Do you have to ask questions?” Kyroll grumbled after shaking his head. “I get that you are trying to make this work, but it’s not like we need to chat.”

Martinez rolled his eyes at the comment. Why did Kyroll have to be this obtuse about these concepts? Not only were they attempting to find common ground, but also the question itself. Even a layman would wonder why they were not going to utilize the thousands of square kilometers he and Nelya owned.

In Martinez’s mind, it made no sense at all. Why own all that lush, untamed wilderness if you would not traverse it? Nelya, Lysa, and he had already been on a hike to the far side of their property. It was beautiful, and plenty of stags were out there; they saw thousands in a single afternoon.

“Yeah, I kinda do if we are going to make this attempt work. I genuinely want to get to know you,” Martinez replied.

Kyroll sighed in annoyance, a grimace crossing his face for a few moments before he waved his hand flippantly, “Fine, I will humor you.”

That was not the ideal way Martinez wanted the old soldier to treat his attempts, but he doubted their propinquity would improve fast enough for him to get much better, so the Human would take what he could get.

“Alright, so why are we not using your property as a hunting ground?” Martinez repeated but a bit more poignant.

“I have a better place. Just past my job site, there is a reservation; no hunters have been there in years, and they won't be for longer,” Kyroll explained, pointing at his datapad mounted to the dashboard, which showed off a large area labeled as Iritala reserve.

Martinez looked at the map, taking in the details of the sprawling forest they were deep inside. Funnily enough, unlike the map Lysa used when navigating from the airport, this one was set up using good old MGRS(Military Grid Reference System).

Martinez chuckled slightly at that; maps using this system are uncommon unless you plan to travel long distances overland, not roads. Hopefully, Kyroll will handle the map when they reach the reserve. Martinez could shoot an azimuth and use a compass, but it was not his specialty.

“So besides your company, no one can make it there?” Martinez questioned, following the roads on the map to the reservation, noting that all of them passed through sections labeled logging with several standard years going forward and back in time distinguishing zones.

“That’s right,” Kyroll nodded. “It will just be you and me for the next few days. Sounds great, right, big guy?” He finished tapping Martinez’s chest with the back of his knuckles.

Martinez wondered how genuinely great that would be. He assumed the trip would likely be as pleasant as pulling teeth or possibly closer to getting kicked in the gooch.

His assumption of how pleasant things could be was only soured further when Martinez tried to break the next bit of awkward silence with further conversation. To his dismay, Kyroll seemed to have burned out his willingness to chat. No matter what he did to keep the old salt talking, all that was returned were curt answers that ended the conversation attempt quickly.

Do you like Music? No.

Do you enjoy your work? No.

What did you do while in service? I can’t tell you.

Eventually, after growing tired of Kyroll's repugnant personality, he decided to ask something stupid to get a rise from the old salt.

“Do you have a barbed stick up your ass?” Martinez questioned coyly.

Kyroll shook his head and sighed before answering in his familiar cold monotone, “No.”

Jesus fucking Christ, what is this guy? A fucking robot? He did not even smirk at the snarky comment.

Martinez had met drill instructors with more personality and gravitas. Even they could laugh at a joke or at least make fun of you back. But not Kyroll. No, it was all business all the time; that or he just truly did not care about the jab.

It did not matter at this point. Martinez had been trying to bridge their gap for thirty minutes, and if anything, they were drifting further apart, namely, because Martinez was starting to get pissed at the cold bastard.

If Martinez continued to slam against this brick wall of a man, he would flip his shit. That would do him no good at this point. So, instead of losing it on Kyroll and emphasizing yet again the importance of them being capable of basic cordialness, Martinez simply gave up for the time being.

Was it the best thing he could do? Likely not. Would the Marines back on the Jericho ever let him live it down if they learned he simply folded? Not a snowball's chance in hell.

Kyroll was not a grunt Martinez could order around with the weight of the title Doc. Pushing any harder would make the tumultuous situation even more volatile, so taking the tactical retreat was likely the wise option for the time.

Leaning back against the seat, Martinez flicked open his datapad, hoping he could doom scroll on military forums or possibly watch a video, but no dice. This far out in the boondocks, there was insufficient signal strength to send a text, much less do anything over the data net.

He should have seen that coming; Nelya’s house was the same way, and wherever they were going was even more remote. His only other option was to read the medical journals Shiksie had made him download.

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

Perusing those was an option, but with recent memories of Shiksie being dredged up when he attempted to open them, he chose a wiser choice. The Human leaned on the oldest and most sacred traditions of any military man with time to kill.

Sleep.

The Marines especially deified the act, having mastered its practice beyond any reasonable amount. In the dirt, rocks, hammocks, spare tires, up-armored roofs, and even waist-deep in a muddy foxhole, Martinez and the Marines had slept like babies in them all.

Because none of those seraphic options were available, he laid the seat back and told Kyroll to wake him when they arrived. A sharp grunt was all he got in response—at least, it was something.

Watching the powder fall outside, and the bows pass like a movie, it did not take long for Martinez’s eyes to weigh on him like anchors and sleep to find him.

Vehicles were a soft spot for the Devil Dolphin; sleep came easy whenever he was not driving. He was unsure if it was the rumble on the engine, the subtle rocking of the frame, or that he could go with the flow for those few moments. But what he did know was he found them as hypnotic as a lullaby.

—-

The thunderous slam of the driver's side door ripped Martinez from a blissful dream of him and Lysa lounging on a beach. The metallic clang instantly crushed the scenery of the crystal clear water, bleach-white sands, and Lysa splashing in the water while wearing a micro bikini.

Why was it that whenever Martinez was getting blissful sleep, something had to ruin it: ambushes, injured grunts, drunk morons, incompetent leaders, and now his pseudo-father-in-law.

Did God have it out for him or something?

Martinez’s ingrained reactions caused him to shoot up and reach toward the dashboard, where his STTK and rifle would be staged in an up-armored vehicle. But after jamming his knuckles into the nonexistent equipment, he yelped like a beat dog and realized where he was.

He was not in some dusty ambush on Verilon, readying to repel an ambush from the Farq. It was just Kyroll being an asshole yet again.

“Vuric, wait here. I’m going to tell the supervisor where we are heading,” Kyroll sniggered, relishing Martinez's pain with a cruel grin. “And try not to beat up my truck anymore. It’s not trying to hurt you.”

“I know what that means, you ass,” Martinez winced, rubbing his hand, feeling the sharp pain of soft tissue wounds. At least he did not break or dislocate his finger.

“I know, and I don’t give a flying fuck, Lurip,” Kyroll shrugged and walked toward some building on the far side of the clearing he had parked them in.

Lurip? That was a new one. Based on context and the vile hiss in Kyroll’s voice, it was an insult or slur, but he had no idea what it meant.

After triple-checking his aching finger, Martinez looked outside the cab and spotted Kyroll amidst the bustling work area. It was strange, to put it mildly.

The camp almost looked like a military outpost, but enough details were different to make it evident that was not the purpose.

The dull khaki building Kyroll was heading toward was a prefab used often by the GU, the Military, and penny-pinching companies. Prefabs were enjoyed because they were cheap, could be folded into a half-meter by half-meter cube, and could be carried by two men.

Overall, the buildings worked fine in what they did. Just don't expect to live in the lap of luxury.

The rest of the camp was bustling with life. Trucks filled with logs went to and fro, weaving into the dozens of roads linking to the camp. Expertly traversing the massive industrial transports, men traveled between the other amenities scattered on the outskirts.

Circling half the clearing were a chow hall, barracks, Gee-dunk, head, motor pool, and what looked like some kind of recreation center. These were all built of massive timber, likely made by the workers.

Based on what Nelya had told Martinez about the lumberjack job Kyroll had, it made sense that the outpost had all these amenities. It would be difficult to sell such a dangerous job to people without them. You had to meet all the B’s to keep people happy, which was universal regardless of the species.

Peeking behind him and over the bed, Martinez saw the rest of the camp, almost a mirror image of the other half. But unlike the other side, this one had a detail that instantly drew the Human's attention: an armed guard of all things.

Lazing about in a chair facing halfway in and out of the camp, the brown and green-furred alien let their HR-8 carbine lay across their lap. Now, that was a weapon Martinez had not seen in a long time—not since his unit's last stint with the GU Army.

That carbine is the primary weapon of most GU forces. While the Human military opted for the man-made C-7, he did not detest the laser blaster. It just did not compare to good old-fashioned gunpowder and lead.

What the Guard was protecting against was a complete unknown, but it could not be the threat of someone shooting back; he wore no armor, helmet, or camouflage—instead, he wore a simple bright orange jumpsuit with a belt bursting with charge packs.

He likely was charged with something similar to how Humans in the Arctic had guards for wolves or polar bears. What megafauna was out there to justify the presence was beyond Martinez; he did not know enough about the area's ecology to even guess.

Now that his mind was keyed in on the details of weapons, Martinez quickly realized that it was not just the guard who was armed; Everyone in the camp was. Every lumberjack had a pistol on hand, either in a drop holster or tucked dangerously into their waistband.

The excessive armament was not the only thing that raised a red flag in Martinez’s eyes.

Why were there so many Aviex?

Besides the guard, every person he had seen at this camp was of that rare platinum species.

The sheer quantity, while odd, was not the unnerving part about it. No, they were all watching him and were not attempting to hide it. Thousands of blood-red eyes stared at him with suspicion as they flowed past the truck and to their destinations; each look was coupled with pointing and conversations centered on the stranger in their midst.

Being in the open with all these armed men made Maritnez feel like a fox stuck in a trap. What he would not give to have a loaded rifle right now, but the weapon Nelya lent him was in the truck bed, and he barely knew how to operate it.

Trying to escape the stares, Martinez sunk into the seat, hoping the men outside would just forget he existed. But he was never that lucky. That only made the men adjust their paths to get a peak at the interloper in their midst.

Martinez knew the glares, glowers, and curiosity had to be because of Kyroll. His squad knew about him before they had ever met, and because these lumberjacks lived together for weeks on end, they also had to know about him.

It only made sense. The military operated the same way. Word had its ways of getting around, be it the E-4 Mafia, the Lance Corporal underground, Barracks parties, or hours upon hours drinking together. At times word seemed to travel faster than the speed of light if you used those methods.

Hell, Martinez had used that effect to his benefit more than once, spreading around hints of surprise inspections just so the Marines could be ready. Was it morally right? Martinez could not say, and he did not care. The Marines were his boys, and these Lumberjacks were Kyrolls, so whatever lies he spread around were reality to them.

After almost half an hour of trying to ignore the Aviex stares, Kyroll exited the prefab control building. Martinez could barely see him initially step outside and turn around, but once he did, the Human sat up, hoping Kyroll would not see him cowering from the judgemental stares.

It was odd; Martinez was perfectly fine with getting shot at, stabbed, blown up, going wrist-deep in guts, or fondling a dude's balls and checking for stragglers after a nasty night with a barracks bunny. But hundreds of people staring at him like an interloper skeeved him out.

Martinez watched Kyroll hoping the old man would pull the lead out of his ass and get him the fuck out of this camp. If Kyroll had spotted Martinez’s pleading look, he did not acknowledge it.

Instead, he turned about and waited as Burkla slinked out of the prefab and walked up to Kyroll. They chatted for a moment or two. The two men made almost no motions or gestures, so determining what they were talking about was impossible, but something unsettling transpired.

Burkla handed a massive black duffle bag to Kyroll while accepting a credit stick from Kyroll.

“What the fuck?” Martinez muttered, wondering what they were doing that looked like a drug deal.

Both looked right at him as if they heard him speak, causing a shiver to crawl down Martinez’s spine. Without missing a beat, Burkla smiled that same Cheshire grin as when they first met—when the Aveix man had insinuated a desire to kill him.

After Kyroll snapped at him, Brukla crawled back into the prefab, leaving Kyroll alone in the snow. Kyroll took a moment and looked out over the camp, at his datapad, and then toward Martinez.

Even at this distance, his sigh was visible and full-bodied. Whatever thought just crossed Kyrolls mind was something he was not happy with, but after tucking his datapad away, any hesitance melted instantly, replaced by his usual stony demeanor.

Kyroll was up to something. Martinez hoped the man could look past his issues for the sake of Lysa and Nelya, but this smelled dirty. And as the good old saying goes, if it smells like shit, looks like shit, it probably is.

Whatever Kyroll had planned for him, Martinez would be ready even if he had to stay up for the next few days and keep his pocket knife under his pillow.

For now, Martinez knew one thing—he had to get into that duffle bag.