Damn, what a party it was. I still remember it fondly three weeks later. The stuff I bought from the Market was out of this world - pun intended. I even managed to hook up with a girl at the end of it, the Kurupira that fought besides me on the Barker attack. Turns out that Tom wasn’t wrong, there really was a connection back then. Foot fetishists, die of envy; I hear those are some of the happiest people since they learned Kurupiras exist — and most inconvenient too. My pickup was a gol de placa, if I may say so myself — a goal so amazing it’s worthy a commemorative plaque; I just wish I could remember it (Editor’s Note: eye-witness report they were both very drunk and barely capable of speaking). Brazilians, surprising absolutely no one, use a lot of true football expressions. I say true football to refer to what Americans call soccer - it irks us something fierce when the egg-ball sport is called football.
“Hey, boss! Don’t open that one! I can see the mana-ghosts churning from here,” warns me Tom, making me freeze. I swear this is your fault, I get into these situations because I get distracted writing this shit. I decided to open this one in particular because I could feel a compulsion to look away fighting against my mind’s defenses. A courtesy of the Mind Steeling Ritual, most likely. Well, as you can see, I’m not the one with new toys; Tom has finally opened a slot and gone through a ritual Reader suggested for him, Mana Attunement.
Mana Resonance Ritual
Allows one to understand and interact to an extent with mana-ghosts imbuing objects and places.
Note: Makes one 9,7% more prone to forced possession.
I gingerly let the crate I was about to open back into its pile and accept the manaphobic gloves Tom throws to me.
With these, I can open the crate safely and see that it indeed was mislabeled. My Monocle can’t identify this one, but something is off. It looks like a magical stick - but a magical stick that oozes menace somehow. Murder Stick it is.
“I’d set that aside for the spellcasters to take a look, lieutenant,” advises me Tom, and I grunt in agreement, going back to sorting the last cargo sent to us.
Much has gone on in these three weeks. Some good things. Major Delavega and the Snakes fired their first shots in anger when they suffered an ambush and the major was promptly shot dead, chest vaporized by a heavy lasergun. I mean, the good thing is he was brought back, of course. The Snakes’ Trasgo officer was confirmed as our interim boss while they don’t find a matching replacement or LC Valente doesn’t recovers. After the experience, Delavega stopped being such an uptight prick too. The Snakes are now rotating a few squads with us, allowing our people to join their privileged G.R.I.N.D. mission whenever one of the gigantic transport ships come around. Me and Tom aren’t the only ones sporting new enhancements, either; skirmishing has picked up and the Flying Pigs are steadily gaining combat and experience and unlocking their slots. Just last week I had to go to the Market to scrounge up more enhancements. We’ve probably passed from inconsequential to very expendable in High Command’s books. Yay.
Diego pokes his head into our tent out of nowhere, furtively trying to scan our tent.
“Oi, that’s rude! Get the fuck out, Diego!” I shout at him when Tom nudges me, pointing at the werewolf.
“Sorry… But say, have you seen Clara around by any chance?” the assault corporal asks sheepishly. “I thought I caught her scent…”
“No! Out, you vagabond, we’re working here!”
Dejectedly, the mythic leaves the tent only for his quarry to uncloak by Tom’s side a couple of minutes later. I heard she’s been granted the valuable, advanced exo-gear for her mission by Walker himself.
“Thanks, guys, he’s been hounding me since yesterday… Worse than an investigative reporter, I swear.”
Tom and I chuckle at the unwitting pun and she reddens as she realizes it. What makes it even funnier is that Clara herself is a werewolf, but not of the typical kind. Weres are pretty common mythics, around half of the total population. They usually share closer kinship to species closer to their were ones, bonding together. Clara’s were species is not a true wolf like Diego’s, however; the reporter is a maned wolf were, sporting some similarity to the slender animal: beautiful red fur and peculiar long, reedy limbs. Oh, I forgot to say - she’s the reporter our glorious AI overlords selected to cover the Gnodarians and put a good spin on the aliens, and has arrive only three days ago.
“It’s nothing, you’re welcome,” says Tom, scratching his head and smiling.
“I’d suggest you end his suffering, but then I wouldn’t be able to rib him about it. So yeah, keep on dodging him,” I say, giving her a thumbs up.
“It’s just that… I’m uncomfortable rejecting him when he looks at me with those puppy eyes,” she says, bashful.
“Say, Clara, we haven’t had the chance to talk yet with all the enhancements I’ve had to beg, steal and cheat to get to our people. I’m sure there’s a reason Walker chose you, but would you care to share it with us?”
This is solid ground to her, and she smiles confidently. “Of course. I’m not a war reporter exactly, but I have covered the peacekeeping efforts in Haiti for a couple of years for a big network, including the Cité Soleil Massacre. But that was a piece of cake compared to what I did next: I went back home - to Mato Grosso - and started reporting on corruption, rural conflicts, and the illegal destruction of the Cerrado.”
“Shit, that’s the kind of thing that gets you shot by pistoleiros,” I comment, raising my eyebrows. The massacre she mentioned was one of the peacekeeping operation’s biggest crimes, and it was lead by a lunatic general who somehow became a minister later.
“It’s known to happen. Good thing that I can run pretty fast, isn’t it?” I nod and notice Tom’s awestruck expression. Diego might have just gained a contestant for the courtship of this sly lady. She seems to be in her thirties, fairly older than my Mapinguari buddy.
Talking about the center-western state, I can’t help but to remember about the day when I was cleaning a hallway, back when I was janitor at the university, and overhead a scion from a powerful family from Mato Grosso. I’d seen and heard about him before, he was polite and often greeted me when he passed. To put that in context: a professor in São Paulo once did a study in which he worked as a garbage collector for eight years and even in the same university he taught lessons at nobody recognized him because of the uniform — social invisibility. But not this bloke, he even stopped to talk with me once or twice. Which made me even more surprised when I heard part of his conversation with his landowner parent. Like it was just an inconvenience, he said, ‘Oh, the rural activists are bothering you? Just kill them’. I was petrified, but it was clear that it was nothing new or exceptional. As I’ve said, dangerous.
“I’m happy this isn’t your first rodeo, Clara. But don’t take this assignment for granted, we have learned just how dangerous it was a few weeks ago,” I reinforce the warning sternly.
“He nearly got fried, I had to save him,” adds Tom, chest swelling with righteous pride, obviously aiming to impress.
I roll my eyes at the peacocking.
“Oh, really? You’ve got to tell me more about this, guys!”
“There were a lot of guys who did more than us. I don’t know if you’ve heard about it, but they will hold a small awards ceremony tomorrow. And I’m sorry to say… we’re kind of busy, Captain Castanho is pushing us to do this sorting faster. Could you maybe come back a little later?”
Well, actually he is not. That might seem a roundabout way to ask her to excuse us, but Brazilians try to be tactful, giving justifications and expressing how sorry we are. Too much, sometimes. Cariocas are the extreme example, but it goes on in many, many states. If someone more direct like a German comes to Brazil, they can be thought of as very rude for their short, direct answers. Our way can waste a lot of time, but that’s just the way we’re wired and cordiality can be a good thing. Brazilians make for excellent diplomats — well, baring some really sorry exceptions. But we’ve all got some of these, don’t we?
“Sure, no problem. I think Diego has already gone. Talk to you guys later, I can’t wait for the Gnodarians to arrive!” It shouldn’t be long, they’re supposed to arrive the day after tomorrow and I have been trying to prepare as much as I can.
“Bye!” calls out Tom, while I have my magnificent floating garbage-can droid wave its stubby appendages - well, as much as he can. It hovers faithfully behind me when it hasn’t specific orders. It was kind of creepy at the beginning, but I’ve kind of gotten used to it.
Well, I must say I’ve only managed to have it built because we’re finally rid of Dense Artificer! Fuck yeah! I won’t miss that asshole, for sure. Hope he gets assigned to Cook’s mind-breaking home island as am ambassador. He deserves it. I have to talk with his replacement, actually, so I have Tom continue our task as I head out, already thinking of an excuse in case I meet Clara again. I’m afraid that’s the one single thing we’re always readying in advance: excuses. But I do judge Brazilians fairly hard sometimes - our North American neighbors remind me that we don’t have a monopoly on stupidity at least.
The camp has been expanded a bit with the Snakes coming more often - the work to ready their barracks fell on my shoulders, of course - and I must say that the new AI has brought some interesting changes to our little hilltop home. I can see that everything is a lot more lively, and humans and mythics of all shapes attend their duties with a spring in their step and confidence in their eyes. The spree of slot-unlocks and enhancements has done wonders for morale. I’m heading for her workshop when a Cabriola I’ve met before flags me. With twisted horns atop his human head, white fur covering the exposed part of his limbs and hooves instead of boots, he’s not particularly memorable goat-m- **BZZZZT**, Cabriola, I mean.
A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
“Sir! I need to have a word with you if you’ve got the time,” Corporal Cariri asks me, taking a moment to gaze at the floating dumpster following behind me. I see the spellcaster is fully recovered from the wound he took in the defense of our Pantera base. He’s short and stocky, too muscular for a mage.
“Walk with me, Corporal,” I instruct him distractedly, gazing from side to side to see if I can avoid an embarrassing encounter with the reporter. For some reason I feel a cold, refreshing breeze, a balm in this hot weather.
“Actually, sir, it’s sergeant now,” he tells me and I have to stop at the news. I look at him and I make the connection that the lower temperature is a side—effect of one of the Rituals I’ve managed to snag on the Market, the Icemancer Initiation Ritual. Not bad at all.
“That’s very good to hear, sergeant. Congratulations on it and on your enhancement.”
We exchange salutes and a handshake, but I soon motion him to accompany me.
“How can I help you? Oswaldo, isn’t it? The assault boys talk a lot about you,” I say, leaving clear by my tone that they do so in compliments.
“Oh, I was being detached to work with them from time to time, it was always exhilarating,” he says and I nod. Not that I had him pegged for an adrenaline junkie, people can surprise you. “Captain Bumba ordered me to warn you about one of the boxes…”
“Oh, don’t worry, we’ve separated it already. It’ll be waiting for you back on Armory 2.” Armory 2 is not the tent where we fought the Barkers; it is placed next to Pantera’s Command Center and it’s where we store the most dangerous weapons, artifacts and enhancements. “Is that all?” I ask as we approach the tent, skirting the firing range our new AI has asked us to create. Lieutenant Bumba is focused, rapidly casting fire-spells to test out a new rod our AI built, and there’s someone else on the opposite side testing incendiary rounds. The xenos will have a lot harder time if they attack us again, Bark burns if you catch my drift.
“Actually, I wanted to talk with you about another matter. But it can wait if you’re busy.”
“If you’re not busy, stay with me and we’ll have a word after I do this errand.” The sergeant nods and we reach the tent.
“Hey, Fiddler! You’re in there? Is it safe to enter?” I call out from a distance, stopping at the red line drawn on the blue, dirt floor and following the instructions fixed to the large tent’s exterior. I’m happy to say she had Reader buy her advanced tent with her own funds Fiddles Maniacally is a sweet, sympathetic AI, but she tends to… fiddle maniacally with dangerous stuff. I heard she accidentally burned out Major Delavega’s eyebrows when he came visit her for the first time. He was not pleased; I, on the other hand, laughed my ass off. If she hadn’t won me by then, she’d surely have after that stunt.
“Yes, yes, come in, Barro!” she says, enthusiastic as always. It’s so good to have an AI that doesn’t call me ‘Shit’ and is willing to actually work with me. Life’s been a lot better since she downloaded to Dense Artificer’s old body.
“How are you doing, Fiddler?” I ask as we enter the Workshop, we see her fiddle with one small replicator, one arm inside it. The Workshop is replicator central, and she has two bigger ones currently churning out something we can’t quite see as they are turned away, the conveyor belt taking them somewhere to the back of her domain.
“Oh, hey! Barro and Barro’s friend! How can I help you boys today?” As we look them over, I notice again how she has already screwed all the fine filigrees on Dense Artificer’s former body without batting an optical sensor. Acid stains, violent short-circuits, and super-heated fire have marred the designs badly in the one week she’s had to work with it. Her vain, idiot predecessor took more time playing with his android-body than helping the 2nd Regiment.
“It’s sergeant Cariri, ma’am,” the Cabriola introduces himself, nodding to Fiddler. The support AIs are not strictly in the chain of command, having a good degree of independence to follow and accomplish orders.
“It’s good to meet you,” she replies, removing her arm from inside the replicator and deftly screwing it close, each finger serving as automatic screwdrivers. Seems like she’s already began fiddling with the android body too.
“I’m here because of the dumpst-, I mean, the drone, You said you wanted to check him over, see about overhauling its VI and its functions…” I say, parroting her words back to her. She can be a bit forgetful. Well, it’s not like AIs actually forget things, but they get put on the back-burner until all other projects are solved. Fiddler - she always has new projects popping up.
“Oh, yeas, how silly of me. I hope you get more drones soon, Barro, I love to tinker with them.”
“Doesn’t that void warranties?” I tease while the sergeant looks at our interaction and my drone slowly floats towards her.
“Warranties my metal ass,” she hums as she changes one optical sensor to look it over. “Interesting machine echoes, I’ll put some goodies on your friend and then you can come back and talk to me about warranties,” she replies, miffed, and I grin in response. The AI designers have to be able to deal with echoes and ghosts to gain the position.
“Sure, Fiddler, I trust you. Just don’t forget to see the VI thing. I’m kind of surprised you didn’t have to download a VI into it, that’s what Reader had told me to expect.”
“Your VI’s proving to be resourceful, I’ll just have to see if isn’t overtaxing itself or damaging the drone because of its lack of experience. Of course, a dedicated VI might be on the cards about the time you improve your Control Module to have 2 drones working in tandem.”
There’s a clank as the dumpster bumps into her hip, having picked up a bit of speed surprisingly. Her droid body is heavy though, as the Caiporas discovered when dragging it, and she’s unfazed, just patting the drone’s top in response.
“All right, I’ve gotta go then. Thanks, Fiddler.”
We trade pleasantries and soon we’re off the Workshop, and I’m heading back to help Tom, Cariri still in tow. Damn, I never thought that an ice elemental ritual would come so handy, I’m not even sweating with the icemancer by my side.
“I can’t even compare her to Dense Artificer, she’s on another level,” comments the Cabriola, and I have to nod at that.
“Damn right, I think he was bottlenecking our advancement quite a bit,” I reply, shaking my head when I remember the asshole. I’ve told you before that for the sheer bad luck of having the unlucky numbers 4 and 13 on the Delta 413th Army we only get assigned AIs who are not quite in the head. Fiddler, for all her competence, can get a bit maniac, as her own name states. At least she has the normal two names the AIs use instead of the three of that pretentious prick. “It would be a pain to have him help with the Gnodarians too,” I add, reflecting on my upcoming herculean task.
“That’s what I’m actually here to talk to you about, sir.”
“You, Oswaldo? What do you mean?” I ask, honestly puzzled.
“Well, sir, you know we don’t have anyone experienced in diplomacy with aliens, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” I say, wondering why he of all people is talking to me about it.
“Well, Command thinks I’m the closest thing to it,” he says and my inquisitive glance spurns him on. “Mythics couldn’t always depend on human courts to solve conflicts. Sometimes the judge simply doesn’t get it. A Chibamba kid, for example, needs to be with its mother or it whithers and dies. A father can’t get custody of the child, but the courts don’t know that. That’s why we had Mythic Peacekeepers wherever there was a mythic concentration. I used to work as one. I began by stopping my extend family members from gutting each other, and eventually I got invited for the job,” he tells me and I remember the memory of his acceptance on that organization from our merge-trance weed. He motions for his horns when he talk about Cabriolas fighting, reminding me that they lock horns and stab the hell out of each other. They are fearless bastards. And stupid too **BZZZZT**. Haven’t I left this damn thing working on the Dumpster droid with Fiddler?
<
<
Hells, now the thought police will follow me around everywhere. But I dismiss the screen and turn back to Cariri.
“So you’re saying… you’re used to cooling down things?” I deadpan and he groans.
“I haven’t met them yet, but I already believe that the Gnodarians will be allergic to those jokes. It’ll be on my reports too,” he retaliates and I take a hand to my chest, hurt at his fabrications.
“If we’ll be working together on this, sergeant, you’d best get ready. I hope you won’t give me the… cold shoulder.”
He groans again and asks to be dismissed. I walk alone the rest of my way back to Armory 2, laughing my ass off.