“You wanna do what?!” I ask, incredulity tinging my voice. The sun is high in the sky still, and Geni found me just as I was leaving the mess tent.

“A party,” repeats Geni, calmly. It’s hard to reconcile the intimidating, serious assault squad sergeant with someone who would seek me out to organize a celebration. Before becoming a kicking-ass machine, Geni was a heavy machines’ operator in one of the myriads of mines in the state of Minas Gerais. I reckon she could get out and push the damn machines by herself if they gave her any problem; Geni is ridiculously fit, muscles so big and defined that she looks like a bodybuilder.

The hard-bitten sergeant worked on the kind of operation where poor maintenance means crumbling tailing dams hanging over unsuspecting cities, rivers and the workers themselves — ready to spill tsunamis of deadly, highly toxic material. It has happened before, killing whole cities in a Pompeii-esque calamity and poisoning rivers for decades. And when the tragedy finally happens, all the companies enriching themselves disappear, unwilling to shoulder their responsibility; the translation of an idiom accidentally identical to one of the company’s name actually is “worth it”. The Unity fortunately condemned many of the dams — there were hundreds spread through the state. It seems that you have to reach the galactic scenario for people to comprehend that being careless about your own business is fucking stupid and that environmental laws aren’t mere inconveniences. No, it’s not fucking worth it.

“Don’t look so surprised, Lieutenant. We’ve just won a tough fight, we deserve a celebration,” she goes on when I’m stumped for an answer. She speaks with the mineiro’s penchant to shorten words, but it’s far from the worst accent I’ve had to deal with. “I know you’ll have to head there to pick some new doodads — congratulations, by the way. I heard you’re one of the first to open a magi-slot in the unit.”

I’m not sure if I have explained it before, but the Chip works to better our integration with it. The way he goes about it is trying to expand and unlock our capabilities. As always on the galaxy, there’s a technical and a magical way of going about it. Besides some specialized units, we’re oriented to let the Chip expand both of them at the same time though there are some trade-offs to it. The Chip has an easier time upgrading us after we’ve gone through life and death situations — don’t ask me why. It opens and purifies our forgotten mana channels and strengthen its connections through our body and nervous system.

“Thanks, Geni. Diego and his big mouth, hm?”

“You don’t know the half of it,” she replies, chuckling.

I actually leveled up my N.O.O.B. Chip integration rate as I had already unlocked a mech-slot earlier. That’s how it goes usually, either unlocking a magical and a mechanic slot or unlocking three of the same category. As the Chip levels, it learns how to artificially help strengthen your slotted skills — two of mine have gone up this time. Take a gander at my record if you will.

[https://i.imgur.com/JbKEsuo.png]

“I guess we did beat them… But why are you the one raising this subject with me?” I ask with curiosity. Not hostility; I never want to get on Geni’s bad side. And she did kind of save my ass yesterday, didn’t she?

“The Lieutenant Colonel got smoked pretty bad and his aides are running around like headless chickens while HQ doesn’t send a replacement. No one’s sure if they will be able to re-brain him…” she answers, giving a helpless shrug.

Well, “Re-brain” is not the scientific term. I think I should explain this one. Some things, magic can’t repair — well, it can from what I’ve heard, but only if you’re an specialized 10-slotter and can cast mana-demanding spells moments after the severe brain damage has occurred. It looks like they are a mix of healing and time spells — yeah, but you can’t go back to the future or anything like that, don’t push it.

Our AI Overlord’s medical technology is awesome, but not without its limits. They can regrow limbs easily even if it takes some time. I actually learned that Rudá survived the meteor spell that took his leg; he was one of those sent to Main HQ to regrow it. I heard his mates have saved the torn leg (frozen) to prank him when he’s back (soldier humor, go figure). Anyhow, brain damage is a lot trickier to repair. They have rules about it, and will only regenerate someone if they can get at least 90% of brain integrity back. Hence, the slang ‘re-brain’. There’s no Takeshi Kovacsing your way out of a burnt brain, unfortunately.

“Shit. How is the butcher bill looking?” I ask as I remember the piles of bodies and wounded that were all around just a few hours ago.

“I think it’s 77 dead, 40 something undead, and a lot of regrowing all around.”

Again with the slang. I’ve mentioned before that there is no such a thing as a fantasy undead and I wasn’t lying. That was one of the few myths that turned out to be pure fiction — well, that and sparkling vampires. Undead is the slang for people who may or may not be re-brained; so they’re not alive, but maybe not dead either. Even if someone is rebrained… Minds can take a while to parse through the experience, it’s one of the most studied and less understood aspects of life. Is there a soul, what’s its function if it exists, and can we lose it during re-braining? Don’t ask me; I only know that around half of them ask to be dismissed from duty and are granted completely new identities if they so desire.

“Bad, but it could be worse, couldn’t it?” I say, remembering Fridy said we had 200 people in dire straits.

“No doubt, Barro. If you hadn’t stopped the Barker’s mythic, it could have been a complete route,” she replies, pointing to the area where the giant is now held captive. Although I used it to persuade the Caipora Cavalry to do deliveries the other day, I’m still embarrassed to be assigned any credit for it. I only tried not to die and help where I could.

“Yeah…”

“But you haven’t answered me yet, quartermaster. Can you, or can you not get the supplies?”

“I’ll have to face the Market, sergeant, it won’t be easy. But things have calmed a bit around here finally, so I’ll just take Tom and get together some good trading materials.”

“I’ll send some people to escort you. There’s no telling if the Barkers still got people behind our lines.”

Stolen story; please report.

I grimace at the thought of an ambush and nod in agreement.

“Thanks, Geni. Tell them to meet me at the motor pool in an hour, please.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant Barro.”

Saying our farewells, I head in search of Tom, who last I heard was helping my direct boss on FOB Pantera, Captain Castanho. After querying his position through the net with my internal computer, I head towards the stables, wondering what the hell are they doing there. Getting closer, I see a lot of Caiporas, Tom and other junior members of the Quartermasters struggling to embark the overgrown peccaries on a g-truck. Frowning at the unexpected scene, I turn to the best area to find the Captain: away from work. I’m successful, naturally. There he is, scratching his balls with an air of superiority as a despondent Sergeant Aiowara tries to reason with him. I approach and overhear some of what the Caipora is saying.

“Captain, please listen, it’s a really bad idea! They go berserk on transports. We should either ride them there or give them sedatives,” Aiowara speaks slowly, as if talking to a particularly not bright child.

Poor bastard, for when did Castanho ever lend an ear to reasonable arguments?

“I hear what you’re saying,” says the Captain (he truly didn’t, or he would be offended by Aiowara’s tone), “but those are my orders. Your… mounts must get back to base to take their sup’ shots. If they don’t, who knows what kind of ecological disaster they could release on this world?”

Those would be the suppressive shots, or sups’, designed to break down bacterias and such after they leave the hosts’ body to make sure we don’t accidentally provoke an environmental crisis by taking a shit in this alien worthless planet. That’s actually a pretty major war crime according to treaties between major players in the galaxy. We all have to take the sups, and they hurt like hell even though the doctors say they shouldn’t. Medical nanites repairing severe damage to the body don’t feel as bad as those according to some troopers who’ve had their shares of both.

“Hey, Captain!” I barge in. “Sorry to interrupt, I’m just gonna take Tom to help me with something really important, okay? Ah, and I think sergeant Aiowara’s observation is important, what if the peccaries damage the truck and get loose?”

My attempt to smoothly help myself and the sergeant falls flat before my haughty, uncaring superior.

“That will be a no to the two requests, Rafa,” he says. I hate when the prick tries to act like I’m his buddy — I hate his guts though I hide it well. Call me by my damn rank, disrespectful twat. “I’m afraid I must strictly adhere to my orders, and Private Tom’s strength is important to to this task. You may take… Corporal Cainã with you.”

I groan at the thought, “No sir, it’ll be all right, I’ll figure something out. Thank-”

“I can’t let you short-handed, Rafa. Take Cainã with you, that’s an order.”

“… Yes, sir.”

He whistles —— is there a more demeaning way to call someone? ——, he whistles to the group and singles out Cainã, making a come hither gesture. “You’re with Rafa, Corporal on his… important mission? Heed his orders.”

The bastard doesn’t even care about what I’m doing — well, that’s one point I shouldn’t complain about, I guess. The slimy, sloppy corporal gives a poor excuse of a salute, and I’m saddled with the dolt.

“With me, Corporal,” I say tersely and begin to power walk away before the Captain can figure something else to ruin my day. Cainã is a ‘vanilla’, human like me, and hails from the North of Brazil (from where he should have never left). He is the bastard son of one of the region’s many ‘grileiros’, people who use a clever forced aging trick on paper using crickets (grilos) to fraud land deeds to take over empty land; not that they don't expel people who occupy it with violence before. I know because the idiot boasts - yeah, he boasts - about it.

“Okay, Rafa,” he replies, making me stop abruptly. The dullard stumbles into me. I turn back in fury, ready to rip his head off.

“That will be Lieutenant Barro, sir or his galactic majesty to you. Whichever you prefer, Corporal. Don’t push it, or you’ll get another mark on your record.”

“Yes, sir!” he answers, straightening up and standing in attention. I glare at him and turn back, just to hear the asshole mutter, “Jesus, so uptight…”

Repeat with me: I will not backhand the bastard. I will not. The amount of backtalk this witless corporal can produce is enough to drive me crazy. I have never given a subordinate a bad mark before him. Whereas Tom is helpful, amiable, Cainã is insufferable and always tries to evade anything that resembles work. Only Captain Castanho could concoct a reason to put this idiot forward for a promotion to corporal.

I’m nearly growling and people get out of my way fast as I head to my base, sending messages to all the others quartermasters begging for some good trading material. I get the grav-cart I stashed beneath a pile of junk, having to glare at Cainã for the useless sod to help me unload it. I make a tour through our armories and stocks, but I’ve gathered only middling things from them and my fellow quartermasters - a couple outdated exo-gears, one laser carabine that survived the Giant’s attack and a few miscellaneous human-made magical items — likely far more valuable than the rest.

I’ll need credits in the Market, but I’ve been hemorrhaging valuable trade materials on this last week. First our failed push, then the Barkers’. Hmmm, maybe the Barkers can both be the problem and the solution? We’ve made a huge pile of the equipments we captured from their dead, or that was left behind in their retreat. I’m not sure what some are, but everything that looks remotely interesting gets put on the cart.

With only ten minutes left, I decide to head to the motor pool to meet with Geni’s guys, followed by the useless, surly corporal. I smile when I see Diego in all of his goofy form, talking loudly and posing with his shotgun, Helena. The smile diminishes on my lip when I see his companion, however. I can’t catch a break, can I?

“Hey, Barro!” Diego notices me as I stare and waves me closer. “Do you remember Private Jones?” he asks, pointing to his Caipora partner.

“Hard to forget - well, not so much after the two concussions he probably gave me,” I answer as I approach, trying not to be as frosty as I feel I want to be; I think I fail.

“Ah, you were the armory guy!” the short fella takes my dark mood in stride, giving me an infectious grin. He was the maniac that brought down the Giant, improvising and linking tank mines to cripple it — and nearly dooming us all in the process. His skin is a tad lighter, and he’s a bit taller than the Caipora average, standing at 1,65 meters (5’4 feet) tall.

“Yeah,” I concede, feeling it’ll be hard to keep being negative with such a cheery guy; some people have this kind of personality, yeah? Just makes others feel at ease with little effort. “What kind of a name is Jones for a Caipora?” I ask him, curious and he reacts as if it a common question, giving a little shrug.

“Mother knew some of the were-coyotes and went to work as an undocumented immigrant at America. I was born there, so she gave me an American name,” Jones explains. It’s far from a complete story, and the coyotes are widely known to be shifty, untrustworthy mythics. Many would-be migrants, Brazilian or otherwise, have been abused and abandoned in the desert lands between Mexico and the USA. But I won’t pry into his personal life like that. I can be an asshole sometimes, but not so much.

That’s when I’m reminded I have an asshole under my command.

“Was your mother a wh-” Cainã begins and I snarl before he is finished, closing a fist to give him a piece of my mind.

“Calm, Barro!” Diego lunges to hold my shoulder with an iron grip. I have to settle for giving the piece of shit corporal a murderous stare.

“The fuck is the problem with you, man?!” the slimy weasel complains, wide-eyed at my reaction.

“Chill, lieutenant! No need to hit the cunt on my account. No, she wasn’t a prostitute. But she was pregnant from the Caipora’s traditional Spring Celebration back in Brazil, so she’s never been sure who my father really is. Things can get pretty wild on the parties. A in-the-know friend of hers accepted to stand in as my father. But we’re a tribal people, you vanillas take that a lot more serious than us. I’ve got nothing against whores either — like them a lot actually.”

In-the-know is how the mythics used to refer to each other and the few people who knew of their existence back before the Veil was thoughtlessly broken by our AI Overlords. Well, that’s what the history books say, but some smart folk have pointed out that their negotiations with the governments got a whole lot easier because of it. Well, let’s save that conspiracy theory for another day.

“Corporal Cainã, if you feel the urgent need to speak something, I suggest you get that urge and shove it up your arse. If that’s impossible, you’d better raise your damn hand and wait until I give you permission to speak.”

My tone is deadly serious, and now more than ever it is pretty clear to the scumbag that I’m officially out of patience for his shit. Cainã just nods in muted apprehension.

“Damn, Barro! Didn’t know you had it in you! That was a pretty good snarl, 6.5/10!” the werewolf applauds me, grinning, back to our game of grading.

“I’m glad I have your indispensable approval, Diego. Help me load this stuff and let’s quit wasting daylight. We should be back today still, though I have the impression that this will look like weeks to me.”

***

The small grav-truck is driven by Cainã - waived of the need to ask permission to speak when it has to do with the road. Besides him sits Jones, a flamethrower at his lap and a bag full of (explosive) goodies at his feet. I’m sitting at the gun enclosure at the top of the truck cab, next to Diego who swivels the mounted machine-gun from side to side, keeping a watchful pattern. The weather is warm, but the wind brings a smile to my face, one of the first of the day so far.

“Hey, Lieutenant,” Diego snaps his fingers to catch my attention. “Obstruction in the road ahead.”

“Oh, no. Here we go again,” I mutter as I look ahead to see what he has observed.