“. . . after that, N’Keeea left without another word. That’s all I can tell you about this end,” Brooks concluded. “The T’H’Tul are an old and distinguished Hev clan, but apparently that doesn’t mean much to the others outside of lip service.”
The figure before him towered almost a foot taller than he was. Even for a Nolem Sepht she was large.
Commodore Siilon grimaced, the serrated beak hidden behind her lips looking only a little less intimidating, even after all these years.
She was not actually present; if anyone else had been in Brooks’s study, they’d not even have seen her. But she appeared as she did in life, projected into the world via augmented reality.
Their communication was one of the most difficult and expensive variety; real-time across many light-years, opening the tiniest of ripples through surface space to send a tight-beam through zerospace.
“No, based on our information,” she replied. “It means very little to the Red Hev clans. And the P’G’Maig are very well-known opportunists, even falling on their allies if they see a good opportunity.”
“Are they due for a factionalization?” he asked. Many Red Hev clans tended to grow, then split into factions as parts grew too distant, culturally dissimalar, or resources grew scarce. Or just because they felt like it; a culture of violence usually created major internal strife.
“Unlikely. Certainly not soon enough to help us – we’ve dubbed this faction Maig Three, as they appear to be the third most powerful within the clan. The Overlord of this faction is called Ks’Kull, and he is genetically related to the leaders of four other clans, including the two stronger than his faction. Their coup against the prior leadership was apparently years in the making, but was achieved relatively recently, and they have solidified their positions. For this reason, we believe they are in a period of relative stability – the pickings haven’t gotten slim enough, nor their situation dire enough, to cause infighting.”
Brooks took a deep breath and sighed. “So much for that. Why do they have such a seemingly personal vendetta against the Tul Clan?”
“That we don’t know,” Siilon replied, her tentacles slipping back in a gesture of annoyance, before returning to their normal disarray. Many Sepht were fastidious about their head tentacles to the point of vanity, preferring them to stay thin and lithe and lacking muscle, but Siilon was in a sharp contrast – hers were as thick as his wrist at their base, and strong enough together to break bones if they got around something.
“What is the strength of Ks’Kull’s forces in the system? Do they have strategic reserves?”
“Reserves, yes, but we do not know the strength. The reports gathered by the Dessei Republic Fleet and Sepht Knowledge Service have seen fleets leaving and new ones cycling in, likely for refit.”
“Any repeated fleets? Bringing one out, then back in?” Brooks asked hopefully. It would indicate a potential limit to their reserves.
“Unfortunately no. Within the system their forces are already quite formidable. There are sixteen different Fronts, each commanded by a Warlord. Each Front is estimated to contain around 6,000 battleships, a total fleet strength of nearly 150,000 combat vessels, though several are depleted, bringing their total fleet strength to just over two million in the Mopu system. All told we expect them to number around forty billion within the system.”
The number was staggering, but not unexpected for the gargantuan task of taking an occupied system. And they were only the third largest within the overall P’G’Maig clan.
“We’re going to be a little outnumbered,” he noted dryly.
“Well, it could be a bit less,” Siilon admitted, the absurdity not escaping her. “A lot of those ships might have skeleton crews.”
It was a common enough tactic for Red Hev; the majority of their populations slaved away endlessly producing ships, food, and munitions, their societies being little more than roving fleets, colonizing or conquering wherever they went. It made appearing strong to be of vital importance to them, and ships often survived even if crew didn’t, meaning that a lot of their ships would be running quite lean on personnel. Especially after a war of attrition.
Things such as commodities or improving the overall conditions of their people were alien to them. Quite a difference from many of the Blue or Yellow Clans, who had more balanced societies.
“Equipment quality?”
“Very low, for the most part. The Maig rely on brute force with expendable ships and crews, having only a very low portion of more elite forces. Those of higher quality still typically are quite behind our tech – though we’ve gotten some reports of them fielding things that are first-class. We’re not quite sure how they might have been acquired.”
Shaking her head, Siilon gestured to him. “I’ve sent you all the specifics, and reviewed them myself – let me just give you my assessment.”
“I’d certainly appreciate your view on it. It is more your forte than mine.”
She made a doubting wriggle of her tentacles. “You could be a Commodore yourself if your leaders realize that they should treasure one who can lose so much and be stronger for it. As the old human saying goes ‘what does not kill you makes you stronger’, yes?”
“Perhaps,” Brooks agreed. “But I wouldn’t like the extra paperwork.”
Siilon barked a laugh. “I use aides for all that. I haven’t looked at a form in years!”
She turned more serious. “But my view is that this is not a fight to be taken. Ks’Kull loves bloodshed, even if he is a coward at heart. While their forces have low morale and commonly retreat, they regroup just as quickly and re-engage with overwhelming numbers.
“As for the Tul clan – Ks’Kull will not stop or be dissuaded from destroying them, I think. The most you can hope for is that he may allow some of the civilian Tul population to leave – enough that they might continue to exist.”
“If they do they’ll lose their T’ title, and probably become known as J’ – remnant cowards,” Brooks said, frowning.
Siilon looked surprised at his knowledge. “That is true. It would be a stain on their clan they will likely not outlive. But if they choose death, there is not much we can do,” she said. “As much as I hate that. I understand the feeling of dishonor, but to sacrifice their people for it . . .”
“Alien minds,” Brooks said wryly.
Siilon laughed again. Her neutral color of a pale blue mottled a darker shade with amusement. A metal patch covered her right eye, with an ugly scar rising from it. The trophy of combat with a pirate fleet on the edges of Sepht space.
She could have gotten the scar repaired, and her eye replaced. But she hadn’t, instead just fusing a sensor plate to the orbit.
He’d asked her why in the past;
“Because I want everyone to know I don’t care,” she had told him.
Letting the memory slip away, he focused on the moment. “I agree, though,” he said to her. “I’ve got a bad taste in my mouth and we haven’t even gotten there yet.” He hesitated. “Has your mission been a success?”
“Aye,” she replied. “Through our trade contacts, we have been able to contact the Maig Clan, and received their assurances that you will receive an audience. I have made some notes of the best Fleet Fronts to consider approaching from, as their attrition extends even to leadership – one way to keep potential upstarts in check. So many of their command staff are rather green.”
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The tentacles that covered her head twisted in a way that indicated her disgust. “It isn’t much. The Maig are treacherous. But at least they won’t just shoot you down in surprise when you arrive.”
“Now they’ll just have their guns pre-aimed,” Brooks said. Half-jokingly.
“If they do, you know I’ll come for them,” she said. “And more importantly, they know that. We don’t want war with them – by the depths, who truly wants war? But should they attack one of our vessels, under a banner of truce, then the Sapient Union will retaliate.”
The question was just how much the Maig would care, Brooks thought.
“But I do not trust them any more than you,” Siilon admitted. “So I have sent a scout ship to the edge of the system- just to check things out and make sure there’s no obvious traps set up. She’s one of my fastest and should arrive only a few hours before you to look for such signs.”
“Thank you,” Brooks said. “But that’s a big risk. If they are attacked, you’ll be held responsible.”
“I trust you to keep them safe.”
She put it on him, but he knew that Siilon had her own contingencies in mind. He could guess what, but it was a large risk even for her . . .
“I sure wish I had your flotilla here,” he said, wondering if she’d volunteer more.
“I would love to be there, but for now my government is taking a hands-off approach. We rejected the T’H’Tul ambassador, after all, and working as go-between for your government and the Maig seems to be all the politicians feel they owe you.”
She was disgusted again, but he knew that she had always hated political games, even if she was good at playing them.
“You should see our newest Artillery Ship, Chilled Blade that Cuts from Afar,” Siilon said. “Her slugs can reach 12% higher velocities than any comparable ship in the combined fleets.”
“I hope I never have to see her in action,” Brooks replied with a smile.
Siilon’s expression went more solemn.
“Best of skill to you, Brooks. Next time I get the drinks, eh?”
The call was ended, the augmented reality image of his friend disappearing.
----------------------------------------
“The Mark 41 Combat Armor is a highly-advanced suit,” Pirra said to the line of volunteers in front of her. Her eyes went down them all, imparting the importance of her words.
“It is a very good piece of protection, but it is not perfect. Hits to primary plate spots-” she gestured to most of the torso and limbs, “will stop most small-arms fire. But the joints are weak spots. They’re still rated against pistol and submachine gun fire, but a heavy rifle round won’t even be inconvenienced.”
One volunteer raised a hand. “You say the plates will stop most small-arms rounds?”
“That’s right. Lower-quality armor-piercing rounds are not likely to penetrate the armor outside of ten meters. But the highest-quality armor-piercing rounds are able to penetrate consistently out to almost one hundred meters.”
She saw nervous glances exchanged between the volunteers.
A younger man cleared his throat. “And if we were to face Hev boarders,” he asked, “what kind of round should we expect?”
“From Hev?” Pirra said. “Low-quality. Their armies are too vast for the most advanced tech to be standard issue – the cost would be astronomical. Especially in the case of the P’G’Maig, who are more of a collection of associated armies with logistic division societies. We estimate that their military forces make up almost one third of their society.”
Again the nervous glances, and Pirra cleared her throat. It was a high, odd sound to humans, she knew, and got their attention.
“This unit is not a Combat Response team,” she said calmly. “You are only being educated and prepared in case the situation requires all the manpower we can muster. But if you wish to opt fully out of potential combat, you may do so without repercussions. We won’t make you continue this training if you are not comfortable.”
Her eyes settled on a man, young by his looks, bordering that fuzzy area where he seemed too young to be here. He seemed the most nervous.
“No, ma’am,” he said. “I’ve passed all the physical tests and high-stress co-operation training. I’m ready to defend my ship if need be.”
Pirra accepted that with a nod, and then looked across the rest of the group.
“You’re right to feel nervous, right now,” she told them. “But this is why we train. Training will instill within you confidence so that if we should face any threat, you will be able to do so as effectively and safely as possible.”
Her words went over them, and she saw nods, as they braced themselves.
“Good,” she continued. “Now, head into the prep room through there, and we’ll begin to fit you with armor.”
The unit saluted, then turned and marched through the door. It was only six of them, and in a moment she would give the same overview lecture to another six.
First their overview of combat strategies, a brief summary of the Hev and their biophysiology – not that dissimilar to Humans or Dessei, really – and their fighting styles, then onto their own weapons and armor.
Each volunteer unit usually consisted of people who had enlisted together, or else people matched by their systems to put together the most effective unit possible.
She checked her system for messages and saw two; one was from Dr. Y, concerning her own last-minute check-up, and she saw that he had cleared her for combat duty. Not a surprise there.
The second was from . . . Oh Sky, she didn’t have time for this.
“Send the next team in,” she sent off to the coordinator AI. She would have to get to that second message after she was done here.
The next group came in; among them, she was surprised to see, was a Dessei. She knew most of the others of her people on the ship; there were less than a score of them on the Craton. But it took her a moment to place this young male.
He was new, she recalled. And here for Detachment Training – Lieutenant Kessissiin. She had forgotten about it, in all her new workload and the hustle of their current mission.
The rest of the team were a good mix, she thought. They had more confidence than the last team, and as she went through the explanations, they listened intently.
“Now,” she said. “Go on and get fit for armor. Except you,” she said, pointing to Kessissiin, who nodded. “I need to speak with you.”
“Of course, ma’am,” he said. The request seemed to have caught him off-guard, but he took it in stride.
As the others left, she stepped closer. Her pupils were red, as were most Dessei, nearly brown. But his were a striking yellow, and his top feathers were a dark red. Combined with his build, it made him almost the standard of Dessei masculinity.
But his face was scruffy.
“You need to trim,” she said sharply, reaching up and gesturing to both sides of his face.
He blinked his large eyes. “Excuse me, ma’am?”
“You just came for detachment training, so I know you learned the rules here. Dessei facial bristles are to be kept neatly trimmed – just like in the Dessei Republic Naval standard.”
“My apologies, ma’am,” he said quickly. “I will correct it as soon as we are done here.”
Assuming none of his bristles got caught in his helmet, some of his were long enough.
Ah, well, if they did, it’d be a lesson for him. It was very painful, and could be distracting in combat, so he’d learn the hard way in training.
But he didn’t try to make an excuse, she noticed. Not that many would have worked; it took well upwards of a month to get as shaggy as he looked. Most humans would barely notice it, but she did.
“Go on, then,” she said. “You still need your armor.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He saluted smartly, turned, and walked out.
“Send in the next-“
She got a notification that she’d gotten an urgent request.
Looking at it, she took a breath for patience. Guess she’d have to deal with this now.
She opened the door with a wave and in trundled He That Squats on Yellow Sand.
He came up to her, then snapped a salute; one of his head tentacles flipping neatly onto his top.
“What is so important, He That Squats on Yellow Sand?”
“Ma’am, I’d like to know why I was rejected for the Volunteer Combat Response corps.”
Oh, she really didn’t have time for this.
Squaring up in front of him, she started counting reasons.
“You have no combat training,” she said. “You haven’t been tested in any of the courses-“
“I’m an Abmon,” he said. “We all fight.”
And it was true, she knew. All Abmon were expected to serve in war and pass through at least some basic training. It was a response to their populations being significantly smaller than most other sapient species. Their stricter and more difficult-to-meet conditions for living just made it more resource-intensive for them to exist off their homeworld. They did it; they’d settled other systems, but with the population disparity, they felt they needed every possible soldier in case of attack.
One day they’d feel secure enough not to do it, even if their biology meant they’d always be outnumbered. But she could see their reasoning right now.
None of that, however, meant that He That Squats on Yellow Sand was a fit for their volunteer force.
“Your health records still indicate you do not meet our standards,” she said.
“In speed,” he said, bitterness creeping into his words. “But in strength I can take five humans.”
“That is true, but bullets don’t care,” Pirra said. “And we cannot fabricate armor of sufficient quality from scratch in the time we have. Nor can we provide enough medical drones with Abmon-specific kits to meet your potential injuries. On top of that, you are an armory officer – your posting is important in case of a boarding action. So my answer is still no. However, you can sign up for the non-combat repair Volunteer teams. After the action, your strength would be quite useful-“
“With respect to the work, Lieutenant Commander, I don’t want to be on a non-combat team,” Squats on Sand said.
“That’s the only team I will accept you on at this time,” she told him.
The alien tilted back, his sections rotating so three eyes were set on her.
“I am not afraid,” he said.
She met his look, and crossed her arms – a human habit, but effective enough. “Your bravery is not being questioned,” she told him. “It never has been.”
The Abmon tilted back fully upright, seemingly in thought. Though she could not read his mannerisms at all, and even her translation pack was not as complete as she could have hoped.
“Very well, ma’am,” he said.
His five legs trundled him to the door, and Pirra took a deep breath.
“Send in the next team,” she said after a moment.