“You’re too serley stupid to notice one missing.”
“Maybe you ought to gren sa talamec to .”
“That’s enough, people.”
When the Confederation first started integrating the di’Taykan and the Krai into what was predominantly a Human military system, xenopsychologists among the elder races expected a number of problems. For the most part, those expectations fell short. After having dealt with the Mictok and the H’san, none of three younger races—all bipedal mammals—had any real difficulty with each other’s appearance. Cultural differences were absorbed into the prevailing military culture and the remaining problems were dealt with in the age-old military tradition of learning to say “up yours” in the other races’ languages. The “us against them” mentality of war made for strange bedfellows.
Conscious of Lieutenant Jarret webbed in close beside her, Torin shied away from that last thought. Not that sex with a di’Taykan could be considered anything but the default...
Is that going to keep cropping up during the entire mission, she wondered. ’Cause if it does, a therapeutic mind wipe is going to start looking pretty damned good.
“We’re over Shurlantec and have picked up an escort—they look like short range fighters from here. Ground in seventeen minutes.”
Captain Daniels’ announcement drew her attention back to the situation at hand. “Listen up, people, and I’ll go over our dispersement pattern one last time. Squad One down to the ramp to the left. Two to the right. Three along both sides. When our civilians move out, Squad Three falls in behind. One and Two spread out enough to cover full flanking positions. Remember we’re supposed to be a ceremonial guard, so weapons remain at parade rest. I don’t care if the Silsviss come up and bite you on the ass, do not respond. We’re here to make friends, and we do not blow away, blow up, or just generally put holes in our friends. Is that clear? What is it, Checya?”
The heavy gunner lifted a miserable gaze to her face. “I feel naked without my exoskeleton. I never fukking landed without it before.”
Throughout the platoon, the other eight HGs nodded in agreement. “And thinkin’ of Checya naked ain’t helpin’,” one muttered.
“I know how you feel, but orders say small arms only.” She glanced aside at her own KC-7 and smothered a smile. Small was a relative term—the KC just happened to be the smallest weapon they carried, excluding knives, fists, boots, teeth, and brain. A Marine was expected to survive dropped naked into enemy territory and that expectation had kept a few alive. It had probably killed a few, too, Torin realized, but since the Others didn’t take prisoners, it really came down to whether or not a person died trying.
And that’s just cheerful enough to make thinking of sex with the lieutenant a preferred option.
Her implant chimed, and she hit the master webbing release. “We’re down. Let’s go.”
Under cover of the resulting noise. Lieutenant Jarret leaned close and murmured, “I’m not questioning your decisions, Staff, but why such a complicated procedure? Why not just march them down and line them up.”
“Two reasons, sir. First, the Silsviss are impressed by military prowess, so we’re showing them we have every intention of defending our civilians even though we won’t have to. Second, if we leave this lot standing around for too long with nothing to do, it won’t be pretty. I said, swallow it by landing, Ressk!” She sighed. “I did warn General Morris that we were a combat unit.”
“You worry too much, Staff. This’ll be a break for them.” The word break had occurred to her although not in that context. Break bones, break bottles, break up negotiations; yes. Enjoy standing around in a dress uniform while diplomats made decisions that eventually they’d have to risk their butts to enforce; no. But all she said was, “Yes, sir.”
At the base of the ramp, the
“Maybe you ought to gren sa talamec to .”
“That’s enough, people.”
When the Confederation first started integrating the di’Taykan and the Krai into what was predominantly a Human military system, xenopsychologists among the elder races expected a number of problems. For the most part, those expectations fell short. After having dealt with the Mictok and the H’san, none of three younger races—all bipedal mammals—had any real difficulty with each other’s appearance. Cultural differences were absorbed into the prevailing military culture and the remaining problems were dealt with in the age-old military tradition of learning to say “up yours” in the other races’ languages. The “us against them” mentality of war made for strange bedfellows.
Conscious of Lieutenant Jarret webbed in close beside her, Torin shied away from that last thought. Not that sex with a di’Taykan could be considered anything but the default...
Is that going to keep cropping up during the entire mission, she wondered. ’Cause if it does, a therapeutic mind wipe is going to start looking pretty damned good.
“We’re over Shurlantec and have picked up an escort—they look like short range fighters from here. Ground in seventeen minutes.”
Captain Daniels’ announcement drew her attention back to the situation at hand. “Listen up, people, and I’ll go over our dispersement pattern one last time. Squad One down to the ramp to the left. Two to the right. Three along both sides. When our civilians move out, Squad Three falls in behind. One and Two spread out enough to cover full flanking positions. Remember we’re supposed to be a ceremonial guard, so weapons remain at parade rest. I don’t care if the Silsviss come up and bite you on the ass, do not respond. We’re here to make friends, and we do not blow away, blow up, or just generally put holes in our friends. Is that clear? What is it, Checya?”
The heavy gunner lifted a miserable gaze to her face. “I feel naked without my exoskeleton. I never fukking landed without it before.”
Throughout the platoon, the other eight HGs nodded in agreement. “And thinkin’ of Checya naked ain’t helpin’,” one muttered.
“I know how you feel, but orders say small arms only.” She glanced aside at her own KC-7 and smothered a smile. Small was a relative term—the KC just happened to be the smallest weapon they carried, excluding knives, fists, boots, teeth, and brain. A Marine was expected to survive dropped naked into enemy territory and that expectation had kept a few alive. It had probably killed a few, too, Torin realized, but since the Others didn’t take prisoners, it really came down to whether or not a person died trying.
And that’s just cheerful enough to make thinking of sex with the lieutenant a preferred option.
Her implant chimed, and she hit the master webbing release. “We’re down. Let’s go.”
Under cover of the resulting noise. Lieutenant Jarret leaned close and murmured, “I’m not questioning your decisions, Staff, but why such a complicated procedure? Why not just march them down and line them up.”
“Two reasons, sir. First, the Silsviss are impressed by military prowess, so we’re showing them we have every intention of defending our civilians even though we won’t have to. Second, if we leave this lot standing around for too long with nothing to do, it won’t be pretty. I said, swallow it by landing, Ressk!” She sighed. “I did warn General Morris that we were a combat unit.”
“You worry too much, Staff. This’ll be a break for them.” The word break had occurred to her although not in that context. Break bones, break bottles, break up negotiations; yes. Enjoy standing around in a dress uniform while diplomats made decisions that eventually they’d have to risk their butts to enforce; no. But all she said was, “Yes, sir.”
At the base of the ramp, the
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