Darren, while in the barracks thinking, had come to the conclusion that he hated Omen. It was awfully hot and humid, the thick tangles of trees made off-road vehicular travel all but impossible, and the native Ovinis were taciturn, if not outright hostile. What was supposed to be a quick shock-and-awe campaign to force the Combine to the negotiating table and get the boys (namely Darren and his platoon) home by Earth’s summer had instead turned into a brutal slog that continued for the better part of the last two months. Someone was undoubtedly going to be demoted for letting the front stagnate.

Pavlov’s voice snapped him from his funk. “Hey, Hardwell. Found another of your ‘light reading’ pieces.” he said, handing Darren another personnel dossier on the good captain. Darren made sure no one was watching before he opened it.

“Where do you keep finding these, Pav?” Darren asked, skimming through the document.

Pavlov smiled, his golden right canine glittering in the light. “I can be persuasive when I need to be.”

Darren stood up from his bunk and shook his comrade’s hand. “Thanks, man. I’ll need to make a call.”

“Finally talking to him about it?”

“No better time, I guess.”

Pavlov shrugged. “Just don’t get the brass too mad.”

Darren chuckled. “When aren’t they?”

“I mean it.”

“I’ll be on my toes.”

“Good man.” Pavlov slapped Darren on the shoulder and left for his own duties. Alone once more, Darren tried to reason out how he would navigate this undoubtedly-difficult encounter. This new piece of evidence was all the more damning; a string of reprimands and reproaches from USSAC High Command against Captain Devon McCullough over the last few years, pertaining to everything from wasteful usage of supplies to needlessly endangering marine units aboard the Bunker Hill during the opening stages of the Omen Campaign. It was worrying, but Darren still hoped against hope that his superior would be somehow exonerated. Still, he had to make the call.

With shaking hands, Darren retrieved his PDA from its place on his nightstand and put in a request for a dialogue. A few minutes of agonizing waiting later, the PDA flashed a stylized icon of a soldier in Army camo holding a magnifying glass. CHECKING FOR NETWORK INTRUSION, a line of text underneath said. Darren quickly made sure that he was fully groomed, reassuring himself just as the call finally went through.

The face of Captain McCullough shone on the screen, a middle-aged, grizzled visage chewing an unlit cigarette. His eyes flitted to and from the camera as he typed on various keyboards.

“What is it, Staff Sergeant? I’m more than a bit busy.”

Darren panicked and blurted it out. “Irregularities, sir.”

“What?” McCullough blinked in confusion.

Darren mentally kicked himself, but there was no going back now. “Sir, I was looking through your file and I found a few irregularities with your background. I imagine you know what I’m saying?”

McCullough’s gaze turned up for a moment, and then he laughed. “Oh, that. Yeah, people ask about that every other month. Some clerk mistyped the information on my graduation; I have the addendum on file if you want it. And, since you’re probably about to ask about my reprimands, guilty as charged, but every military has its mavericks, and I’m a fan of judicious firepower applied wherever needed.”

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Darren nodded; he couldn’t say he disagreed with the captain’s opinion. “And you know about that document we recovered?”

“Corruptibles?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The Poslushi equate unorthodoxy with disloyalty; it’s a symptom of their neo-feudal system. I’m one, not the other. Believe me, I love America as any other man does.”

“Alrighty then. Guess that’s all. Can you send us the addendum?”

“Gladly. Dismissed.” McCullough smiled warmly as the feed cut. A few minutes later, a document appeared in Darren’s inbox. His worries assuaged, Darren left the barracks to find the rest of the platoon, glad this little goose chase had reached an end.

—

“You know, the Combine truly is better than even I imagined. This adventure is such an opportunity for the both of us!” Wakizashi mused.

Rapier, his eyes intentionally semi-vacant, did his best to imitate the habitual boot-licking of someone stung one too many times, though he could hardly call this war an adventure. “What kind of opportunity, my Broodmatron?”

“Why, the opportunity for advancement, of course! Once this war is over, we’ll return home as victorious Viceroy and loyal retainer! Tales will be told of our civilizing exploits for generations to come! I might even be able to supplant that old Judge of Pollanide!”

Don’t get too greedy, Rapier thought to himself, but dared not so much as dwell on it. While he had healed from his sting, it had served as a chilling reminder of how much worse than death sting-stupor was. At least those who fell in battle would die as themselves.

“What a beautiful fate…” he said rapturously.

“That’s not even to speak of those on the ground. Oh, to see the joy in the Broodmatrons’ eyes when we tell them how their sons died with honor!”

Rapier knew an old human quote from a man named Patton about this exact situation, but he couldn’t quite remember the specifics. “How honorable indeed!”

Wakizashi seemed to remember something. “Ah, yes, speaking of honor, the Underjudges are just clamoring to pitch in and help us! Everyone from Pollanide to Aralush with a ship or levy to spare is raising them and sending them our way.”

Finally, a spot of hope for this damnable slog. “Ah, what good news! How much would that be?”

“Not even they know! This Armada of the Small really earns its meat, yes?”

Just like that, their reinforcements had a name. Rapier had to admit that it was a good one. “Indeed it does. Though, do they know with any level of certainty? Just so that I may requisition the correct number of supply barges.”

“Worry not about the logistics; I am assured that their freighters are working triple-time to keep them well-fed. And, as for the exact numbers, I’d prefer to keep that one as a surprise. Rest assured, though, it’ll be more than enough.”

As an officer, Rapier didn’t like surprises; the last one he got led to his court-martial, and the one prior to that was an improvised explosive device in a package addressed to him during the Recivilization. “I love surprises.” he declared, trying not to choke on the words.

“Oh, I’ve many in store for you, pet. All the better for my favorite subject.”

Rapier’s antennae perked up. “Your favorite, ma’am?”

Wakizashi put a hand out pensively. A long pause, and then she spoke. “It’s nothing but ruffians and freeloaders back on Pollanide, that Pos-damned Khopesh and her sycophants included. I won’t pretend that I don’t know why she put me out for Her Dominance’s consideration. You’re the first Poslushi I’ve seen in quite a while that… cares. About honor. Sometimes, it feels like we’ve left behind our chivalry and replaced it with arrogance. You haven’t; I respect that.”

Rapier looked down at his console. The next words to leave his mouth were genuine. “That’s the nicest thing a Broodmatron’s ever said to me, ma’am.”

“I know you’re mistreated, and I know that I sometimes let my pride get the better of me, and I get carried away trying to be someone I’m not. You deserve better. Pos, I’m truly damning myself… can you forgive me?”

Rapier spun around slowly in his chair, coming to face Wakizashi on her throne. Her eyes were vulnerable, pleading, even, and her antennae were folded back with despair. This truly was a strange situation; normally, a male would apologize to a female for making it necessary to apologize to the male.

“You are forgiven.” he uttered quietly. And yet, deep down, he knew that he wasn’t good enough. He could repeat the words to himself until Poslush’s sun flickered and faded, and he would still be lying.

Deep down, he didn’t know which of their duo sickened him more.