“Y’know, word’s been going around that the Poslushi have come up with some nicknames for us. Well, us and the rest of CAST’s operators, anyways. They call us Reapers. They call the Chinese black-ops Ghosts, and they even make some mention of Banshees.” Simmons said.
“Eidolons, probably.” Darren suggested.
“That’s the thing; the Poslushi aren’t afraid of Eidolons. Sure, the ones handling them don’t like them very much, but they’re unbothered as a whole. Whoever these ‘Banshees’ are, the Poslushi don’t like them at all, even less than us.”
“Oh. Hmm.” Darren nodded.
“And another thing,” Sparrow added, “the Poslushi are discussing odd topics over the airwaves, something regarding isolations? It’s probably that they’re coming down with some tropical disease, but at the same time…” he shrugged suggestively.
“So, keep your head on a swivel is what I’m hearing.” Darren said.
“Indeed.”
Then, Pavlov burst into the rec room, holding a stack of papers. “Hey, Darren. I found the files.” he said, holding them up. Darren took them without a word and began flipping through them.
“Files?” Simmons exclaimed, looking over Darren’s shoulder. “Is that McCu–”
Darren held up a hand, shutting her up. Then, he pointed his head almost imperceptibly towards the CCTV camera in the corner of the room. Simmons got the hint and quieted down. If McCullough truly was corruptible, it was best not to let him know something was up.
Speaking of something being up, as Darren skimmed through the dossier, there was something… off about it, which he couldn’t quite pinpoint. Somewhere in this mess of words, there was an error. Reading more intently, it still eluded him. Then, Simmons put a finger on the page. To an outsider, she may have been reading, but Darren saw what she had seen. McCullough had graduated from the Astronaval Academy at Hoxxes in the spring of 2126 with full honors.
That couldn’t be right. No one had graduated from Hoxxes that year. The school hadn’t been built yet; it wouldn’t be fully completed and opened until the fall. Still, his certificate checked out, and he had, after all, made his way to the command of one of the more prestigious craft in USSAC. Perhaps there had been an error, and someone typed a six where there should’ve been a nine, or some other innocent mistake. The military was full of innocent mistakes; they were half the reason soldiers didn’t come home.
It was nowhere near enough to truly prove anything, and Darren didn’t want to imagine that the man he was effectively at the mercy of, being a denizen of his ship, was truly corruptible. Maybe the Dynastic Commissariat had made a mistake; maybe Spatha had misjudged their abilities. After all, corruption was omnipresent in any government where it took root; it was simply impossible to eradicate it in one organization without continuing to the remainder of the ruling power.
A rapping at the doorframe snapped Darren from his thoughts. He looked over to the rec room’s door to see the master-at-arms leaning in. Darren and the others snapped to attention, saluting. The dossier fell out of Darren’s lap, but by some miracle didn’t scatter its papers.
“Rally up in the conference room; you’ve got a new assignment.” he said matter-of-factly, then left without another word. As soon as he was gone, Darren picked up the dossier and gave it back to Pavlov for him to return. Then, the rest of them proceeded to the Bunker Hill’s conference room. During the trip, Darren noticed that fewer people were carrying crates of supplies. In fact, the more he looked, the more empty first-aid boxes, vacant tool kits, and useless magazines he saw strewn about. Ominous, he thought to himself.
In the conference room, their assignment was detailed upon: they were to relocate to one Fort von Richthofen, allowing them to not only act as advisors to the Bundeswehr and Russian Army, but to also have quicker travel times to and from the front. They weren’t the only ones doing this, of course; contingents of the SAS were being stationed at bases belonging to Commonwealth nations, while the VDV and Sternjaeger were assisting EU countries. However, US Special Forces would be the only ones deployed near-universally, at least until the conscripts flooding into the front from Earth were brought up to speed.
When all was said and done, they were given some time to pack, and then they were sitting in a C-300, its great thermojets emitting a high whine as it maneuvered itself on the Bunker Hill’s topside flight deck. Technicians darted to and from the mammoth cargo plane, topping up its fuel tank, attaching the ultra-tension launch cables, checking for any signs of wear on the outside of the craft. When they were done, they stood aside and gave the all-clear, and just like that, the cables were let free and the C-300 shot forth, flying off the front of the ship. For a harrowing moment, the aircraft descended out of sight, but then picked up speed, climbing past the flying carrier and drifting almost serenely into the deep blue sky.
—
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The title of Interim President of the Russian Commission was an interesting one, that was for sure. The name stemmed mostly from the fact that the Commission was essentially a provisional government, established following World War III but never deposed in any following election. Instead, the Russian people did as they had been conditioned to under centuries of kings and petty tyrants, simply voting the ruling party back into power over and over and over again. The Commission didn’t do anything to stop this, obviously; why enact a change that would put themselves out of a job? It meant that, in practice, the support of the people for the ruling Russian Progress and Change Party was all but guaranteed, save a generally disorganized opposition that rarely posed a threat, and clout within the party was what truly mattered in the end. Come election season, if one could find themselves on top after the RPCP Convention of Electors, the office of the presidency was a given. This was how President Leonov and every man and woman in office since the fall of the Federation had come to power.
Leonov sipped his tea gingerly, then set it down as the phone on his desk began to ring. He picked up the phone and gazed at its display. The ID on top was simply KUZNETSOV. Leonov wrinkled his nose in disgust, but answered the call anyway.
“What is it?” he started off.
“Mr. President, I sense there’s little point in formalities right now, and thus I’ll get straight to the point. Supply convoys to the Omen front are arriving late. Only occasionally are they fully-stocked and some fail to show up at all.”
“The General Staff is already aware. We’re doing our best to find the root of the problem.”
“So you’re weeding out the moles, then?”
Leonov cocked his head to one side. His next words were clipped and measured, no emotion discernable. He didn’t like what Georgy was insinuating. “I’m sorry, Admiral?”
“It’s simple military rule-of-thumb: one time is an accident, twice a coincidence, and three times enemy action, and I’ll tell you plainly that we’re currently down a lot more than three boatloads of supply. Undoubtedly, there are enemy spies inside of CAST, if not within the Russian government itself. It would be prudent to begin looking, Mr. President.”
“We are handling it as best we can, Admiral, but I will not start another purge because of your suspicions. You would be wise to remember who is President and who is not. You’re only lucky that your area of assignment became so eventful so suddenly.”
There was a pause. Then, “I am aware of that. Of course, I don’t wish to challenge your authority, Mr. President. However, I am only to suggest that in this case, the more paranoid of our society may be right. We haven’t a clue how large this threat truly is, and should it prove bigger than we can handle later in time, we cannot ignore it now. Unfortunately, drastic measures may be required for this–”
“Out of the question,” Leonov growled, “I will not turn this war into some political scheme so you and your little clique of armchair generals can play kings! If you’re trying to take power from me, it won’t work, and I suggest that you learn your lesson before I demonstrate to you what Russian politicians are patently competent at!”
The line went silent. Then, dial tone. Leonov slammed the phone down and facepalmed. The Polegate assignment was meant to be a backwater assignment, a time-out of sorts, where the upstart officer could do his little training exercises in peace and learn his lesson. Instead, the Polegate Sector was the flashpoint for the Second Contact War, and now Admiral Kuznetsov was more dangerous than ever. The usual solution for a serious threat to power was too overt now; Leonov couldn’t make him disappear without being seen as a tyrant by the party and torpedoing his own support for the next election.
But time would tell if the wayward oligarch would make any dangerous moves. Right now, despite his rising fame, Kuznetsov simply hadn’t the party support to oust Leonov in a bid for President, and his rather abrasive political persona didn’t win him any favors with the Convention, which saw him as far too rough-and-tumble to allow into office. Leonov had seen other rebels in the government destroy themselves by being too radical; perhaps Kuznetsov would follow the same path.
Right now, the only thing that could be done was to wait and see what would happen. Nothing was certain at the moment, and the problem may well resolve itself. However, Leonov would keep a very close eye on the Admiral. Just in case.
—
Wakizashi was being merciful today; Rapier would have to thank her later, when he could get his thoughts together long enough to do so. The sting had long since worn off, but its aftereffects were powerful, leaving Rapier struggling even to remember his own name. Sometimes they wore off, sometimes not. Rapier hoped that it would be the former, and that he wouldn’t join the ever-growing ranks of the Stock Caste, the mindless, permanently-enslaved Poslushi who dared to defy a Broodmatron and now were no more than beasts of burden. In a brief lucid moment, he could feel the bit choking him, feel the weight of the yoke on his back. The members of the Stock Caste were worked to death out in the great fields and pit mines of the agro-worlds; he wouldn’t last a day.
The sting had enlightened Rapier to some of Wakizashi’s better qualities; even now, her voice was warmer and more assuring, her wisdom greater and to be followed more, and her body more lustrous and attractive. What color was she, dark copper or the far more attractive tyrian purple? Rapier concluded that it had to be the latter. He would also need to apologize to Wakizashi; yes, she had struck him, but he was in a state of disloyalty that he shouldn’t have even considered allowing himself to slip into. The assault was nothing more than a way to force Rapier back to his senses. Now, he was back on his resting cushion in his room recovering from it.
Ulo had left in his quarters another jar of amber Sele tea, the faint smell of fermentation rather pleasing to Rapier’s antennae. The beverage was served hotter than normal, as was the custom when serving to an ill person. Ulo had even been considerate enough to chop up a Therusea broadleaf into the drink, adding an extra note of flavor to the tea alongside Therusea’s memory-enhancing properties. Rapier sipped it gratefully.
From the doorway, Ulo cooed. “Are you feeling alright? Wakizashi wants to talk to you about your… incident, preferably while you’re still recovering, for whatever reason.” his translator spoke.
“I’ll be…” Rapier paused, trying to remember what he was going to say. “I’m ready to go.”
“Do you need help standing?”
Rapier struggled to stand, but seemingly couldn’t muster the will. “Yes, please.”
The four-meter Aralu lumbered into the room and practically picked Rapier up, walking him through the tall corridors of the Tethylen. Rapier hated feeling this weak; he was a proud Soldier Caste of the Idrisat Brood. He had… done something… ah, fought his way up from the bottom of the ladder to command his own flotilla. His brood had no prestige or power to its name; he had won his position through sheer merit. Now, he was being guided through the halls of his own ship like a larva still learning to walk. Still, if it meant he could speak with Wakizashi, he would endure it.
Wakizashi looked up from the bridge console as Ulo and Rapier entered. Rapier noticed that something was wrong when it came to her being there, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. “Ah, my dear Captain-General. All is forgiven, my subject; I only wish to speak with you now.” she said, gesturing to a seat beside her. Ulo gently set Rapier down in the chair and left without another word.
“Now, while I am a most forgiving liege to you, I simply cannot allow people to speak or exude such evils in my presence, yes?”
“Yes, Broodmatron…” Rapier trailed off.
“So, I will, while your malady wears off, be tutoring you on the joys and virtues of unwavering service to your superior. With luck, you will never have another thought of rebellion in your mind again! Is this not fair, my subject?”
“Fair and just…”
“Good, Captain-General. Now, repeat after me…”
It was then that Rapier noticed, to his annoyance, that Wakizashi wasn’t purple. She was, indeed, dark copper.