Crossin this here Jordan: A Coalition Soldier Quest

Before we get started, firstly, I want to ask you all a question. Why do we think we know things?

There are many who would say that they are "awake." Perhaps they've read the Kybalion, or works by Carl Jung on the Collective Unconscious, or any number of Aleister Crowley's pieces of literature. More broadly, perhaps they've read works by Rand or Nietzche or Sanger. Marx, perhaps. Perhaps some authoritative figure or counter-cultural figurehead or another equally important person said something intelligent that really resonated with them and changed their worldview. Maybe they've substituted one religion for another after coming across the best apologetics they've ever heard of. We're all calling each other sheep, thinking we have the answers. That somehow, we can substitute information for knowledge. The irony, the arrogance. The audacity, really.

"Truth will set you free."

"Wake up, people."

"Everyone that doesn't have the worldview that I have, they are the sheep."

"I'm the open-minded one."

I have a lot of information, and so do you, and pretty much everyone else out there with some exceptions. But that information cannot be confused with knowledge, with awareness, with being "awake."

I'm not particularly knowledgeable, not really. But maybe I can share a thing or two, and you'll all go on to accrue true knowledge, and I as well. Wouldn't that be great?

To have knowledge doesn't mean to memorize definitions and facts and whatnot. That's information. That's like me saying that the skull and crossbones means poison because I read it in a book once. Completely short-sighted and misses the point of symbology. Symbols represent many things depending on their context, and to go out and hand people information instead of knowledge would have people regurgitating by rote definition what I told them it means rather than increasing their knowledge.

When you think of a skull and crossbones, what do you think it means?

Those who have true knowledge understand what is meant by this question. It is a question of creativity, of insight, of intuition. That is the key to true knowledge. Society has got us all backwards, thinking that because we learned a definition that we are somehow knowledgeable. All we've learned is a symbol without exploring the possibilities. People will call themselves open-minded, when really we're all being trained to be closed-minded with a set of perverse incentives and polarizing discourse, to disregard everyone who doesn't see things our way as being the closed-minded ones, as being the fools who know nothing.

It's all right if this doesn't make sense to you. I'm asking a lot here.

I'm asking you to think.

There's no system you can look up that will help you, here. No reference material that will give you all the answers.

There are plenty of Mystery Schools and Occult traditions that claim to have the answers, too. Am I awake because I know the Seven Hermetic Principles, then? Am I awake because I've got a bit of a hobby, studying Occult literature?

We've learned symbols and assigned meaning to them, when to have knowledge means doing the opposite, to surpass that limited understanding. Someone who is awake can extract meanings from life due to their understanding, perspective, and awareness.

The skull and crossbones, to someone with limited understanding, is just a Nazi symbol, same as the Swastika.

"This is what it means, here's how to use it, here's what I'm telling you about it, it doesn't mean anything other than what I told you."

If you can't extract meaning from things without other people telling you what those meanings are, without any creativity or insight, then you aren't awake.

Insight flows from knowledge. Throwing in a bunch of Occult references because I learned them is nothing but a display of ego. People with true knowledge don't need to go around scooping up all the information they can get their hands on, though that is certainly helpful at times. Perhaps you're something of a Magician, yourself, in which case, you likely will have been nodding along during this discussion, nothing particularly objectionable spoken.

I hope this has been of some use for you, whoever you are. And don't worry. Details will come.

AN: I have gained the trait "Weakness: Dialogue." The rest of this vote shall be addressed in time.


The return journey was as uneventful as usual. She'd made up her mind, however, on speaking with Savage and the regulars, not with any particular intention to jockey for social positioning, but rather, to get to know them as individuals. And besides, she did make a promise to speak with him, and it was time to stop putting it off. Afterwards, she would start figuring out this curse situation, run a diagnostic, and beyond that, start figuring out a way back home. Waiting around to be rescued didn't sit right with her, not when there was no guarantee one would be coming to begin with, and especially not with unknown threats lurking about. The sooner, the better.

Once again, idle thoughts faded away as Dorete entered a meditative state, resting.

Waiting.

Hours later, the asteroid she was using as a bunker for the men breached the furthest spheres of detection. Her cue to wake up and course correct.

As she entered the space bunker, she pulled up Squad B's radio channel. "Five Bravo, this is Eight Bravo. Suit up and meet me outside Rear Exit 2." Not waiting for a reply, she started tunneling a conference room for them, in the style of those shitty briefing rooms everyone had to sit in for trainings.

Speaking of things that got old with exposure, it turns out Zero-G environments also make the list. Additionally, there was limited documentation about the effects of long term exposure in humans that, although not conclusive, influenced her decisions to exert a mild telekinetic field throughout the living space of the asteroid bunker. Now everyone could walk around. Wonderful.

"I'm outside, and what kind of jackass uses proper radio etiquette in this situation?" Came Savage's admittedly savage response.

"My kind of jackass, I guess. Come over here." She waved him over. "Private conversation time."

"Oh hey, there's gravity now. Nice."

Once inside, she sealed the entrance behind them. The only illumination for the room came from Savage's SAMAS, the lights casting the room in a harsh glow.

"So," she clapped her hands. "How's the space bunker treating you?" Test the waters with a bit of levity.

"That's how you're going to start this off? Jesus." Definitely pissed.

"I'm asking you to tell me what you're planning, Dorete. You've hardly communicated anything with me at all, jumping from one thing to another for hours at a time. I've had to keep the grunts in line, tell them I have a plan, when I don't even know what my squad mate is doing. Cut the mysterious crap and keep me informed. We should have had this conversation from the get-go."

"We're talking now." She rose her hands in a placating gesture, forestalling any outburst from what could be perceived as a flippant remark. "And I do have a plan."

"By all means, share it," Savage replied.

"Artificial protein synthesis." Sensing his confusion at the seeming non-sequitur, she continued hastily. "I've experimented and found that I can artificially mimic the processes plants use to make carbohydrates and sugars via electrokinesis. With some effort, I can keep us sustained, potentially indefinitely." She paused, graciously giving him time to process this information.

"Okay, sure. You're working on something, and we're not going to starve while that happens. That about cover it?"

She nodded, after mulling over the likelihood of interest in the formation of evaporites in space.

"And can you spare any details about this nebulous way back you're working on?"

"Insofar as there are any details to be shared, certainly. I'm going to work out the quirks of dimensional travel." A long pause.

"You can just do that?" Sounding fairly incredulous there, Savage.

"I can attempt to, at the very least."

"Do you have a time-table for when we can expect any progress from this?" She shook her head. "You'll have to forgive me, then, if this supposition of yours doesn't quite amount to a hill of beans, Christ's sake." He sighed. "But hey, maybe we'll be rescued by the 2nd​ or some others from the 1AG and this'll be a moot discussion." Optimistic.

When she prompted him about the odds of that occurring, he continued. "Prosek's friendly with us Psi-Operatives and has a rep for accountability. Story from awhile back, just before you inprocessed in fact, goes something along the lines of him dressing down and dismissing an officer who'd abandoned one of his men." Ah, she remembered the story now. "If he even suspects that we're still alive, expect him to pull resources for search and rescue operations." She sensed a but there.

"A number of factors get in the way of that, however, foremost among them being the siege that we were unceremoniously booted from. Reports will come through, but without some idea of where we got whisked off to, they won't know where to look. Performing Object Reads on the battle site will take time, and is, of course, predicated on our boys winning the siege well enough to spare personnel to comb through the shit left behind. Without that taking place, then we can't really count on the 1AG helping us in a timely fashion." The alternative, of course, went unspoken. What if we lost?

"And the 2nd​ Psi-Battalion?"

"Now that gets a bit more promising. Let's assume our COC is mostly intact, Ferrant or Reynolds gets on the line with someone higher up to spare men for a search. Last I heard, Alpha Company only had around 192 Psi-Operatives combat capable, and you can bet that number's gone down in the meantime. Alpha's 3rd​ Platoon still hasn't reformed, the 4th​ is full strength, and the 2nd​ was still reorganizing. Point being, the 2nd​ is really hurting for manpower. If they call up a couple Clairvoyants or Remote Viewers, they'd probably be able to find us. Just becomes a matter of waiting." For how long?

"And how did you figure this all out?" She queried, curious.

"This isn't my first time through. Last year of my second term. Got pulled from a riverboat patrol over in the Canadian Waterways to come die in this shithole. How the fuck is it colder in goddamn Mexico than Canada in winter?"

"One of the great mysteries of our time, indubitably, alongside how anything gets done in the Army and the holy lines of delineation between hotdogs, subs, and sandwiches," she replied, smirking. If this was the last year of his second term, he was most likely in his 30s, potentially late 20s. She would hold off speculation on his rank situation until he shared more.

"Now I know you're boot. You probably heard that shit in BMT if that accent is anything to go by. What throws me is the formality and the archaic language. It's quite jarring since it's 2199, you know. Current year." She'd successfully distracted him from his previously cross attitude with her if that verbal jab was anything to go by.

"My reasons are myriad, I assure you. Suffice it to say, I derive great enjoyment from the employment of older forms of verbiage. Provides character and gives people something to remember me by other than young or tall or sparky. 'Look at her, how quaintly she speaks.' Well, they wouldn't say that, but still. A useful affectation in a similar manner as those who pick up a Central Texan accent after a half year in Selection." The less said about 'lightning girl,' the better.

"Those are a lot of words just to say it's fun, girl." Sophia told me something similar, at a different time.

"Perhaps," she equivocated coyly. "Ah, I'm afraid I've diverted you from expatiating your personal lore, my good man."

"Expatiating," he muttered darkly. "Look here, I'm going to have to ask you to cease and desist. Stop. Halt. Abstain." "Refrain," she interjected helpfully. "Yes, that. Enough with the fancy language. Use. Common. English." Each of those words punctuated by one of the RPA's fists banging against the other.

She supposed that also ruled out Spanish. Most unfortuitous. "You besee-" "I'm begging you," he interrupted, feigning desperation.

"Let it not be said that I, Dorete, heir to the honorable house of Dorete, of my ancestral homeland of Kansas, whose seat of rule lies in Concordia, am not merciful. I am sparing you, Savage, from a ruination the likes of which you would never recover from. Remember this, for next time, I shall send my sword." Grandiose gesticulations accompanied this decree, literal U.S. 1860 Pattern saber held aloft in her right hand.

"You are a child," he replied, deadpan.

"Juvenile," she declared, as she paced back and forth, mild Telekinesis providing pseudo-gravity for her movements.

Things settled down significantly after that, Savage having extracted some minor concessions and assurances regarding her conduct, his initial hostility disarmed by her charm and sleep-drunkenness.

"As I was saying, this isn't my first time of service. Been in about 11 years now, all over the States, though mostly in Iowa by Waterloo, and up in Ontario on the Waterways when I wasn't patrolling the St. Lawrence with the 1st​ Marine Division. Tough bastards. I'm from Waterloo actually, don't think I've told anyone here that. And you, you said you were from Concordia? That's along the 81, isn't it? You a native?"

"My father's family lived there since Before the Coming, went back a couple of decades ago, my mother lived off in Missouri until she married. Basically yes."

"I see, I knew I had that accent placed. Yeah, it has been a minute since last I've been out to the New Frontier. Heard it is pretty peaceful out there." She recalled the rumors and reports of Xiticix moving in the North, of new aliens appearing out in the Blasted Lands riding monsters. Compared to actual warzones or even the metropoles in general, it was peaceable enough.

"Peaceable enough, I suppose. I spent a lot of time out in the artificial forests planted inside the walls of Concordia. They're kind of eerie, in a beautiful way. Most of the tree species native to Kansas are oaks of some description, some willows and walnuts as well. But this forest was more of a wood, no connected canopy, and filled with Eastern White Pines. Very tall trees, but they were young yet. For being so far north, one would think that it doesn't get that hot back home, but it does. Climate's been warming up nicely with the volcanic particulates in the air settling, but it is still colder than it was a hundred or so years ago."

"You haven't been out of your state, or even your city, much, I figure. There's a lot to see across the country, if only it were safer. Out west, it's just grasslands and these new forests people've been planting."

"The C.S. Air Force had a bunch of volunteers all along the 81 planting," she interjected.

"Why are we even doing that? I don't really get what the point is."

Ah, a topic within her forte. "You're familiar with the water cycle, right?" At this, the SAMAS pilot just stared at her. "Okay, we'll skip over the basics, but there's another part that people aren't really familiar with, though they really should be more knowledgeable of. Ever heard of evapotranspiration?"

"What, is that rocks sweating or something?"

"It's plants sweating, actually. Where'd you think morning dew came from?"

"I don't know," he replied defensively, "I thought it was just, like, humidity accreting on to leaves or whatever."

"No, so, what happens is, the soil holds water, either from internal reservoirs or from rain or drainage basins, and from there, plants drink it up, and some of that water goes into the air again. I swear people learned this stuff, didn't you get taught the difference between evergreens and regular plants, how the leaf design prevents water loss?"

"Well I'm sorry for not making that connection. Continue your lecture, Professor Sparky."

"This water then evaporates or is used by other plants or small animals and, in large numbers, they create these bands of air moisture which coalesce into rain again, either locally or significantly further afield. There were some studies about the Amazon and some Eastern European forests and how they were responsible for bringing water to the rest of South America and places as far away as China."

"All right, but surely it can't be that significant."

"Estimates attributed 40% of the water in South America to evapotranspiration, before the Amazon was mostly deforested, and they could tell because oxygen from the ocean and oxygen that has been used in photosynthesis are different isotopically."

"Okay, and what does this have to do with artificial forests in Kansas?" Tough crowd.

"We're rebuilding the climate, my good man. A lot of geoengineering was done trying to bootstrap the climate out of a death spiral that would have seen us all freezing to death in another ice age. Particulates that reduce reflectivity of the atmosphere, releasing so-called greenhouse gases, though I don't get why they call them greenhouse gases when they don't actually utilize the same mechanism as actual greenhouses, hence the greenhouse effect, but that's a topic for another time, as I'm sure you don't want to hear all about solar minimums and maximums and the ocean's effect on modulating climate. Supervolcanic eruptions really aren't good for humans, especially multiple simultaneous ones."

"Fascinating," he replied drolly. "And how old were you when they taught you this?"

"Children know that it rains more in forests, they just tend to forget why, or never learn. When I went back home after studying at the Academy, I realized I could feel it all taking place, and could now put a name to the process. Plants are crazy."

"And you aren't? Nobody gets this excited over climate, nobody I knew at least. Crazy girl."

She huffed. "And how were your deployments, old man?"

"First off, I'm no old man. I'm only, hold on, 2170…" he counted his fingers off, "27, 28, 29 years old. 29, yeah. Not an old man at all. What are you, 12?" 17.

"17," she replied indignantly. "And you're telling me you don't remember how old you are?"

"Yeah, whatever," he waved her off. "When you deploy, there's a timetable that holds pretty much everywhere I've gone that wasn't a warfront. First month in, everyone's doing good, taking things seriously. Perimeters get checked properly, no one decides to build a ramp out the FOB into 3 foot deep snow, the usual, y'know? 2nd​ month in, a little bit less so. 3rd​ month in, people start considering stupid shit, maybe they half-ass things, don't do as much as they should be doing, getting addicted to chess or poker or tabletop games or whatever. But by the 4th​ month, stupid ideas like building that ramp get pretty appealing."

She nodded along as he told his story, interjecting and commenting in the appropriate places to convey interest.

"I was in the backseat of an ATV with a Lieutenant riding shotgun, and some non-prior-service driving, I forget his name. This fucker shouts 'AMERICA' and hits the gas as hard as he can, and we go flying off the ramp. I bust my damn back on the way down 'cause I wasn't wearing a seatbelt, the LT is freaking out and the newbie is just grinning at us. So the LT and I pretend to be mad at him, or at least I was pretending, I don't know about the LT, and he gets tasked to a foot patrol far away from the depot for the next couple of weeks. Simpler times, girl, simpler times. My back still hurts sometimes, thinking of that idiot. And this fucker was an Airman."

The story recalled her to the time when she'd first gone to the Academy, and the antics the soldiers had gotten up to then. "I likely don't have as many interesting stories as you do, but I suppose I can talk a bit about my first road trip, before I'd turned 11. The parts I remember most fondly, at least."

He motioned her to continue.

"There weren't a lot of people. Mostly soldiers, they were still using the older armors, L and E models. Exoskeletons weren't as ubiquitous even half a decade ago, which is weird to think about. "

"You're telling me. I think the CA-1 was probably the best thing since Christ for a lot of guys. Time sure does fly."

"As I was saying, I was the only person the convoy was picking up from Concordia. Destination, Chi-Town, as you may have guessed from what soldiers would be doing driving a juvenile around. They shared a lot of stories about their time in, in-between comms checks and ribbing each other. They gave me a white hard hat with a smiley face on it. I still call the man who gave it to me the Hat Soldier in my head sometimes. But the man who really stood out, his name was Paxter, a Pyrokinetic from Texas, though I think he was faking an Australian accent a few times too. He told me a lot about what I could expect in the Academy, and the military in general."

"That sounds like a pretty normal journey to me."

"They also let me fire a railgun, got it all set up and everything for me despite my height at the time."

"They let you fire a railgun?!"

"Yessir." It was awesome. "The sergeant just said he was doing Reconnaissance by Fire. Hilarious."

"You were 12!" 10.

"I was 10!"

"You're yanking my chain here, no way they did that."

"They surely did, they surely did. Cross my heart and all." Instead of insisting further, she instead asked him if he knew the Burster.

"Paxter, that was the Burster's name?" She nodded. "Sorry, don't know anyone who fits that description." That was a longshot anyway.

"I suppose it was pretty unlikely that you would have known him. Small world, but not that diminutive." She hoped he was doing all right. He might be dead now in all likelihood.

"Yeah. You know, the Academy was still fairly new-ish back in my day, recently expanded. Lot of people didn't know if it was going to succeed or not. Lot of new things happening." A pause. "You've still got friends from those days, don't you?" She nodded. "I don't. They're dead now. Every last one of them. Bad luck I suppose. You might be thinking, 'Aha, this is why he didn't interact with the platoon at all.' Maybe. This all just stops feeling real after a while. The people, the places. When I was younger, I thought that the universe was beautiful in its vastness. It still is, don't get me wrong. But that beauty belies a viciousness and cruelty that are truly breathtaking. None of us matter to it. None of the people I cared about did. Machines breaking down." She tilted her head, observing him, any trace of levity gone.

"Every dream comes to an end... I just hope this one ends soon." She didn't know what to say to that. Thankfully, Savage changed the subject.

"I know they gave you the summary about what I could do. Psi-Tech, good with machines, blah blah. I've got mild Battle Precognition and Intuitive Combat, in addition to unconscious Telepathy and Empathy. Not enough to transmit anything, but they tested it, so whatever. How they even distinguish empathy from Empathy, I've got no idea. Point is, I'm a stellar RPAP. When we make it back, we should go for a sim. See just how good you are. I already heard you beat the shit out of almost all the Dynamokinetics in Squad B." She preened a bit at that. "See if you can beat me at my specialty."

"I am rather exceptional myself, buster."

"Who even uses the word buster? Come on, girl." I will defend your honor, Sophia.

"Hey, Puerto Ricans say buster." She stifled a yawn, leaving her open to the next attack.

"Which Puerto Ricans? You saying you're Puerto Rican?"

"I'm saying I'm going to kick your shit in," voice sweet.

"I think I've had enough trading barbs with you, Dorete. Should head on back, see how the others are settling in. Maybe you can banter with them."

"An acceptable outcome."

The two of them trekked through the darkness of the space bunker, illuminated only by the lights of Savage's SAMAS. Soon enough, Rear Exit 2 was opening up to admit them, spotted as they were by whoever was manning the top turret of the Mark V. A good opportunity to witness the efficacy of the air lock she'd constructed before her exploration of a segment of the asteroid belt nearby.

"The grunts told me you built this?" His tone wasn't really questioning, more likely he wanted her input on how she did it.

"Correct. It was a simple enough task," she replied noncommittally.

"The mechanisms aren't particularly impressive, but the time scale certainly is. Only 30 minutes for a whole goddamn air lock."

She shrugged. "It is what it is." Remembering that simple axiom brought a measure of peace to her. Maybe it'll do the same for Savage. Optimistic. "Mechanical prowess synergizes pretty well with Telekinesis, it seems. I'd recommend it."

"Right, you recommend it. Like I can just suddenly pick up Telekinesis."

"Won't know until you try!" Not technically true, but this was amusing her.

"Most people aren't Masters, you know. We don't really just 'pick up' new Psionic abilities, like you seem to be planning with this whole dimensional travel nonsense." She didn't see how it was nonsense, it was a perfectly legitimate plan utilizing known Psionic Theory in a practical fashion.

"I enjoyed this little chat of ours, despite your antagonism." She couldn't resist poking him again.

"My antagonism? I am outraged." Mercifully, she was spared from any retorts by the full transition through Rear Exit 2, wherein they were welcomed by the regulars. She disabled her helmet's sound suppression.

"We're back, my gentlemen. Hope you all didn't burn down the place while we were gone." Not that she was expecting them to, they were adults. Then again, they were also bored soldiers, and anything was possible involving boredom. She should know, she built a railgun when she was 7. The fact that it exploded the first few times she tried to fire it didn't make for a solid counterargument. The usual suspects were hanging around the center, McDonald and Beauregard, along with Escalante (the man who'd had his bullets reflected back at him) and Obermeyer (he'd been shot in the upper arm by a militiaman). Garcia was doing all right as well, if his exuberant behavior was anything to go by. Daberman was also resting or just thinking, laid back in his seat.

Stepping forward with confidence, she joined the Cavalry Scouts and company.

"Dorete. Pleasure to meet you." Obermeyer quickly stood up at her approach, reaching forward to shake her hand. He was very tall, around the same height as her father. Perhaps 78 inches. Unlike her father, he was rail thin, and didn't even look strong enough to pass a PT test. "Thanks for turning the gravity on by the way." The others laughed a bit at this, whether at the joke or the over-the-top display, she wasn't sure.

"Likewise, I don't think we've spoken before now. You don't mind if we rectify that, do you?"

"Of course not, join us, be merry. And you as well, Savage. Hop out of your tin can, why don't you?" Obermeyer had a very mellow Texan accent, like he hadn't been in his state for a long time. Affable fellow. Air Assault patch.

"If you don't mind me asking, how do you even pass a PT test? You're built like a napkin." More laughter.

"I know I don't look it, but I'm actually a grenadier. I just pass the minimum standards and max out my run time. I've been firing grenades so long, I don't even use the sights or the rangefinder. I can nail a target out to 350 meters." Impressive, considering the maximum effective range for a C-14 20mm rifle grenade is only 300 meters. She left that part unsaid.

"What's been going on on your end?" Escalante asked. "All I hear is these bastards talking shit and complaining, the moment I wake up. Wah, we're in space, wah." Definitely either Tex-Mex or plain Texan by this point. Fairly short, but heavily built, very strong.

"Oh, just chatting about how we're going to get out of here, nothing big," came Savage's interjection. "She," he continued, gesturing her way with a thumb, "thinks she can work out how to portal out of here, and if she can't, then at least we won't starve."

"I hope you all like semi-liquid suspensions of questionable texture." They all stared at her. "In other words, it won't look appetizing." They all shared a look with each other.

"Hey, we're detracting from my story here!" A chorus of replies, all variants of sorry, Escalante, came in response. "Where was I?"

"You'd just told us about how you went drinking for the 4th​ time in the Metroplex," Obermeyer assisted him.

"Right, right. So there I was, chatting up this beautiful girl, great as- uh, assets, when a fight breaks out between another brother and some Marines. Trust me, I had no desire to throw down with those bastards, but, seeing as he was Mexican and we were both Army, naturally I rushed in to help him out, and soon the whole bar has started fighting each other. Caos."

"Right on." "What the fuck?" "Bullshit, man." "Es el duro."

"No lie, no lie, right? And so we're in there, I've taken a couple slugs 'cause I'm actually a shitty fighter, and all our drinks are ruined. Worst of all, that girl ran off. Horrible. Minutes later, some MPs come in and start arresting people, and this dude, he sees they're coming in, and I don't know how he's still standing at this point, he's got a broken nose, glass shards in his chest, and looks like one of his eyes got fucking gouged out. He starts screaming, 'Run, ese, run!', calling them MPs pendejos and shit and swinging a pool cue and what's left of a chair leg."

"Jesus Christ in a pool." "Fuck."

"And what did you do?" Dorete asked, morbidly curious.

"Why, I ran of course!" He mimed sprinting, before clutching his side in pain where he'd been shot. "I'm good, I'm good. But yeah, I had to make a report about what happened, my commander had to smooth things over with the MPs, but surprisingly enough, nothing really happened. Goddamn MPs. Anyway, that's how I met Dalmida, lads, and how I didn't get demoted from sergeant for the 2nd​ time." Dalmida, she remembered, was a Radio Operator of all things. Definitely sounded like a scrapper.

"But you did get demoted again, yeah?" Savage asked.

Here, Escalante just laughed. "Funny story, that. Basically, I got into a fight with a Lieutenant that was trying to throw his dick around, disrespecting me and shouting at me in front of my men for something no one even told me about because I'd just gotten back from a Board, had to serve as a character witness for a soldier I knew, won't go into detail on his story. So this escalates, and I end up calling him a shithead and dressing him down, which was the wrong thing to do, but he was way out line. If he had a problem, what he should have done was pulled me aside to talk about it away from my subordinates. Complete shitbag. So this bumps up the chain, and they wanna charge me under the UCMJ for disrespecting an Officer, I think that's what, Article 89?"

"Yeah, I think that's the one," said Beauregard.

"Originally, I was going to fight it, because everybody knew it was bullshit, and when my command heard about that, they all started freaking out. Things settle down, and Lt. Col. Espiritu said they were going to bring it down to Company grade from a Field grade, much less serious, so long as I don't take it to Court Martial, that he couldn't just withdraw is because he's got political pressure on him from some elites to not get their shiny butterbar in trouble, but you didn't hear that from me. The whole time JAG's telling me I should fight it, but at this point, I was tired of the bullshit and didn't want to go through however long this process would be, so I figured fuck it, Company grade isn't that bad. When we finally get the process going, it turns out, Col. Myers stepped on everybody's tails, coming down from the Brigade and decided, in his great wisdom, to bump it back up to a Field Grade NJP because he looked in my record and saw that I got into that scuff with the MPs I just told you all about which was already sorted out with my Commander. And his people were all telling him, 'Sir, you can't just bring in completely unrelated shit into this, that incident was handled previously,' but he did, and he can. Fuck me."

They all winced in sympathy. "Never take the NJP if you're in the right, man!" Garcia admonished him. "Que mierda, ese."

"Yeah," Obermeyer continued, "I get that Court Martial's suck, but by accepting the Non-Judicial Punishment, you're accepting you're in the wrong. And JAG was encouraging you man, they never do that. Bumped down from E-5 to E-3 for this?"

"Yeah, I know, I know. But hey, I'll make it back whenever. Besides, all the best sergeants got demoted at least a few times, so I'm right on track." As awful as that statement was, there did seem to be quite a lot of overlap between competent sergeants and sergeants that'd been demoted.

"Not like anyone wants to be a sergeant."

"It could be worse, Garcia. You could be a Corporal." Everyone groaned at those words. Lateral promotions sucked. More responsibility, same pay. Truly the worst of both worlds.

The conversation continued on like this for some time, Escalante regaling them all with tales of questionable veracity, with the others chiming in occasionally with their own stories. She tried to pay attention, she really did, but her time was up. Out of her armor now, sprawled over three seats with a fire blanket laid over her, she fell asleep.


AN2: This would have gone on longer, culminating in the final part of the vote, but Dorete finally failed a Stamina Test.

Voting Time: Pick 2 of the following for Interludes.

[] An agent, working at the behest of a far greater power.
[] A farmer, whose harvest is measured in souls.
[] A knight, searching for their comrades in a war-torn city.
[] A monarch, chittering hives conquering all they survey.
[] A scavenger, exploiting the riches of the Exclusion Zones.
[] A sailor, braving the routes between civilization.
[] A vassal, offering their lord leal service in court.
[] A warlord, whose band roams the 66 to survive.

Along the outer reaches of the Saskatchewan forests, sprawling hives took root. It had been a unique challenge, adapting her subjects' physiological structures to survive the strain of higher gravity and differing chemical makeups of this planet's atmosphere. Alas, she had conceded to good sense and refrained from attempting to develop the systems necessary to consume and digest the native biosphere, the effort to set up compatibility far beyond what was required in the short term. Imported horticulture would suffice with sufficient adjustment.

She was not the first Monarch to arrive. Far from the first. But of all her royal cousins, she was proud, perhaps unduly so. How could she not be, when she had overseen the breakthroughs that none else had thought to consider? Within her royal chambers, viziers and princesses attended her, delivering reports on all things relevant to the welfare of her demesne. Of particular interest, the native fauna, and what innovations had been derived from their unique biology and intelligence, the benefits of which were already being reaped in the forms of said attendants.

Individual intelligences had gone extinct far before her time on her homeworld, far before her species had become enlightened enough to ponder what value could be derived from them.

For an age, there was nowhere left to conquer, and so the strife inherent to her species could not be directed anywhere other than inwardly. For the first time, an Empress arose, and her bloodline drove all others to extinction. Only her line ruled, now. Peace had been a foreign concept. But a certain degree of mutualism had developed, nothing so grand as genuine collaboration, but no further wars of extinction had been waged.

Then came the Rifts, and with them came opportunity. An endless frontier of world after world, all linked, all intertwined. She'd had no great demesne, then, merely a subservient princess with only a few attendants and barely 10,000 drones and soldiers. None of her cousins paid second thought to slaughtering intruders that entered their demesnes.

But she did.

The first breakthrough in understanding came when her soldiers had slain a lance of bipedal creatures, bearing artificial arms and the capacity to attempt to interface and order subservience, as the ruling line would, in addition to other curious anomalies. Where her cousins saw challenge, she saw promise. 87 of the creatures were captured, in varying stages of development and of both sexes. She reached out to them, seeking out which ones shared the Gift of Monarchs. In a rare display of intuition, she'd withheld from immediately culling those that weren't useful, curious as she was regarding how these creatures functioned and operated. Three of them displayed the Gift, and in another great shock, none of them were females.

She communicated with them. Questioned them. Provided for their welfare. Fumbled through their incoherent explanations of morality, social contracts, and other banal subjects.

She learned, and grew mightier than any Monarch before her, her own Psionic Potential, as the humans called it, had expanded and become more sophisticated, copying their own unique innovations.

It soon became clear to her that she would be hopelessly outmatched in any contest of arms between herself and the indigenous species. Individual intelligences, given enough time to evolve, stratify, and reform, were powerful almost beyond reckoning. She had to emulate them. To take on their best aspects and reform. Some weaknesses would unfortunately have to be introduced, but the benefits were too grand to pass up. The males, so long neglected and relegated to mere breeding, served as the basis for her first experiment in this direction. She crafted new forms for them, using the species of bipedal apes as a baseline. Her new Viziers were clumsy, fragile, with a set of compound eyes, two pairs of weak upper arms and manipulator appendages for tool usage. Further respiratory overhauls were implemented, previous forms being too inefficient to match the larger sizes of creatures on this planet, further innovated upon over generations of selective breeding. Their greatest value, however, were their individual minds.

The worker drones and soldiers, though, could not be suffered to be clumsy and fragile. Making them heavier and stronger had diminishing returns in labor and combat potential. Making them slightly less so, but allowing for the usage of force multipliers? Very promising.

After generations of such improvements, her subjects looked almost nothing like the standard for their respective castes. The Soldiers had six limbs, but now moved upright, bearing stolen firearms and with rudimentary artificial armors, with several variants specialized into operating heavier equipment and flying scouts. The Workers were bulkier, suited as they were for physical labor, with projects underway investigating the usage of mechanisms to improve efficiency. Her Viziers, a unique innovation in the history of her species, remained much as they were, though their second pair of manipulator arms had become vestigial by this point. Of them all, only the Princesses and her own form appeared anything similar to the standard, though filled with greater percentages of neural mass. Her Viziers and Princesses had been incorporated into the governing structure rather than setting off to found their own demesnes, overseeing projects and investigating new avenues for innovation. Indeed, mobility was becoming rather unnecessary, and some had made the decision to render even their legs vestigial, dedicating all their efforts to conceptual pursuits.

60 Earth years had passed since her coming. She would become Empress of this world. She had slaughtered her royal cousins who could not adapt and rendered extinct their subjects. And the humans, for their role? Serfdom seemed a fitting reward, for the ones that had so aided her, intentionally or not. After all, so much more value would be provided through service than through extinction. Those with the Gift of Monarchs would be raised into governance like her Viziers and Princesses. Those of this generation wouldn't see the value of it, but she would do what she could to preserve the unique formative conditions that made the humans so useful, despite her instinctual desire to extinguish the threat they posed.

She had concealed to a great extent her efforts, careful not to provoke the humans unduly, knowing as she did the reaction that would generate. Only a few great spires of industry pierced the skies of the Canadian Shield. Instead, she'd delved deeply into the crust of the Earth, which now housed 73 million soldier drones, 644 million worker drones, and hundreds of thousands of Viziers and Princesses. It was almost adequate, and she aimed for excellence.

They would know her as Minerva. And once she was done here? A Triumph on her Homeworld would be her due.

AN: Vassal, then Agent next.

"Why am I only now hearing of this, Ductus Moore?" He was in no mood for games or intrigues, having experienced what passed for a War-Council among the likes of the Sword of Caine.

The Ductus in question bowed low, whispering excuses in her sibilant tone, blood-red eyes glaring balefully all the while. She was a young thing, only embraced some 3 years prior. Not even a proper Neonate by his standards, and the barbaric Sabbat thought to use those as young as her or younger in their Crusades. At least she wasn't a shovelhead. He'd thought the term a joke when he'd first heard it, the practice of Mass Embracing kine to use as chaff on a battlefield. Disgusting.

"The Roses of the Crypt impetuously thought to strike without Lord Miles' and Lord Brock's retinues, my Lord Templar. If they had but waited as planned-" he raised a hand. Within him, the Beast raged, demanding that he slay her where she stood for presuming to waste his time. He struggled to keep his face dangerously passive instead of warped with anger.

"I shall be speaking with the Archbishops and the rest of the War-Council in but a few hours, dear Moore. When I arrive, they will want to know why the kine's petty Psychics are not all dead, and why half of our mightiest warriors are convalescing. I will not waste their time, and so, you will not waste my time, you understand? I don't care for your politicking, and I am ill-pleased by your…forgetfulness. What. Happened? No games, or I shall personally ensure that you'll be catching the next sunrise."

In a pleasant surprise, she showed that perhaps she wasn't a complete fool. She told him of how 6 Crypt Knights took the initiative to strike against several Companies worth of Coalition Special Forces, before striking at various hardpoints and pulling opposing Rapid Response units out of position for the true counter-assault. A bold move, and one that had failed terribly. Instead, a third of them were missing and the rest recovering from the wounds inflicted by an extremely powerful Psychic. All the while, without their support on hand, the remaining units were slaughtered as they tried in vain to fix and destroy the remaining Psi-Operatives and their forces within the city. He'd had to personally intervene and see them off with his hand-picked men, all comrades of centuries. A failure, but not critical, as the cabals managing the storms and the defensive networks stayed put under his direction. Every night, it seemed like, he had to put out the fires that incompetent fools started during the day.

"Thank you, Ductus, for your insight. Don't be tardy again if you please. Now begone." Moore bowed a final time before departing like a shade in the night. He waited, idly fingering the guard of his longsword, a replica of his old blade and a reminder of better times, until the Ductus was long gone, before following her out of the catacombs and into the city above.

Truth be told, Dietrich found the games of the Sabbat dreadfully stale. Full of sadists and powermongers and Diablerists. Crazy monsters, almost all of them. That he'd been selected at all to join the ranks of the Templars, he'd been told, was a great honor, and supposedly meant that he was well-respected and recognized for his martial prowess and deadly sword-hand. He snorted. In reality, he was an Elder too powerful to leave to their own devices. Better to make use of him.

If a younger kindred, or Cainite, as the Sabbat Vampires would say, unfamiliar with his habits were to see him for the first time, they'd perhaps think him an actor of some kind, wearing colorful clothes that were the standard in his time, when he was but a poor aristocrat teaching the fighting arts within various manors and courts of the Römisches Reich. He'd grown tired of it all, stowed away on a vessel to cross the Atlantic, and buried himself far below ground in an unforgiving desert to sleep away the ages. The Mojave, they called it now. Only to be woken up and told to join or die by a bunch of upstarts he'd never even heard of, fighting some human empire he'd never heard of, in a war he didn't care about. He'd killed them all, of course. Sated his hunger for blood. Sabbat. It was a mockery of the Faith, all these titles and rituals.

He'd missed a lot, lying dreaming in the desert for 600 years. The formation of two whole Sects. The splintering of the Roman Catholic Church. The collapse of empires. The maturation of humanity. All sent crashing down as ungodly magics swept through the world. Even sounded interesting, more's the pity. He tried not to think of his old home, lying beneath the water along the Elbe.

Dietrich strolled through busy streets, making his way back to Court where the War-Council was gathering, kindred and kine alike paying him no mind as they busied themselves with warmaking. How far, modern warfare had come. Some principles stayed the same. Just as the old chevauchees would raze the countryside to destroy the foe's will to fight and erode trust in their lords, so too would flying machines raze cities with immensely powerful bombs. It accomplished much the same thing, in the end. Like a lifeline, he clung to those strands of reason amidst the throes of madness which had taken over the world.

Only one thing stopped him from abandoning the Sword of Caine altogether, despite their religious delusions, the heretical abomination that was the Book of Nod, the insanity that comprised these supposed Paths of Enlightenment, all giving license to the evils they perpetuated in God's name.

The Antediluvians. The ancients. The reason why the Sabbat existed. He'd felt the hunger, after a scant, by comparison, 6 centuries in torpor. Archbishop Black has asked him to imagine an even greater hunger, as all the Antediluvians awoke. Hunger driving such great power as to wipe out all life on Earth in a tide of blood. The idea was laughable. The conviction in a being so cruel and calculating as the Archbishop instilled doubt in him, regardless. "Stay with us," the Archbishop had asked us. "Help us stave off annihilation." The ends justified the means, they'd told him.

He hated it, but by God, he'd stayed. He served for the promise that once the Sword of Caine had conquered the Earth, that they would be strong enough to slay their dark progenitors and preserve all of God's creations.

Perhaps one night, he'd even believe it.

AN: Agent next, then back to regularly scheduled programming.

Small arms fire and vehicular weaponry tore through the streets of Red Wing, answered in kind by the beleaguered defenders of the river port. Soldiers bearing the arms and armaments of the Coalition executed their orders with enviable efficiency and discipline. Where a squad fell, struck down by one of the few Sorcerers presenting an energetic defense of the environs, their foe was immediately answered with rifle grenades, mini-missile barrages, and HEAT rockets. No clemency was offered to those who surrendered or threw down their arms; like machines, they fell upon them as a butcher would a carcass. Outraged, the Tolkeenites fought back harder than ever, with the determination that only a cornered enemy knew. Through the night, the defenders held on. Couriers traveled via Ley Line to Minneapolis (Tolkeen, as the locals called it now). By daybreak, the enemy had fully withdrawn, vanishing into the countryside, obscured, so the residents thought, by Psychics within the unit from supernatural detection. Scouting bands pursued, enraged by this blatant assault against the City-State's (disputed) sovereignty. Contact was not reestablished.

Empty-handed and enraged, King Creed called his lords together. Just barely, they persuaded Creed to launch a full investigation before leaping into immediate tit-for-tat skirmishes. Investigations turned up interesting results. Psychics, Sorcerers and even a few Techno-Wizards of the Virtual Adepts turned up, scouring Red Wing for information. The Coalition States hadn't attacked them at all; the attack was out of character for them. An unknown individual had procured the equipment and corpses to make it convincing, as well as a few pet Psychics and spirits to mask their force and sell the act. Intended result? War provocation.

Naturally, there was opportunity in this. The agent had not expected the operation to remain completely secret, far from it. Instead, she fanned the flames, inciting ambition and unity, whispering in the right ears in various guises, telling them what they wanted to hear, helping them see things a different way. We can use this. The investigation was kept in-house, after all. With this provocation, they could coral the Union of New England and the Federation of Magic against the Technocrat puppets, once and for all. The idea was too tempting to pass up. Perception is reality.

And so, the propaganda machine rolled out. The tyrant globalist elites have finally lost their grip on their bootlicking dogs! Rise up, Patriots! They'll come for all of us. Will you kneel and be put in bondage and gelded? Various intellectuals spread rumors about concentration camps in the Coalition States, about their plans for genocide and utter annihilation. Envoys traveled via Ley Lines across the globe, financing support from the petty kingdoms of Venezuela, from the enterprising souls that braved the Exclusion Zones, from free men from Eurasia and Africa willing to establish a foothold against a major foothold of the Technocracy.

Three of the five Magical Kingdoms, as they were sometimes called, were the primary homes of one of the Nine Mystic Traditions. The Virtual Adepts held the most sway in Tolkeen, with their unique brand of Techno-Wizardry having inspired the many Minor Practitioners and petty Sorcerers of the region. The Federation of Magic, primarily influenced by the Death Mages, had delved deeply into Necromancy in order to lay the dead to rest following the Day of Judgement. The Union of New England, dominated by Hermetic Mages, with many subsidiary mystery schools, such as the Order of the Golden Dawn, held great sway on the Eastern Seaboard. The three kingdoms didn't often see eye to eye, as the various traditions didn't truly rule directly, but they were certainly massively influential on the forming cultures. Psyscape and Lazlo, however, differed greatly.

The Council of Lazlo was formed by one of the legendary Dragon-Mages that came to help humanity along with the Rifts. As humans are to the other great apes, so too are dragons to other dinosaurs. Ages ago, they'd built great civilizations across the globe beforear and cataclysm brought it tumbling down. Dismayed, those few survivors either took to the cosmos as enlightened hermits of a sort, or withered away on a changing world, sleeping through the ages, where they would occasionally enter myth and legend in the modern day. The one in Lazlo was known only as the Teacher, taught his arts to any and all that had the potential and the will. All the Traditions stepped lightly around the ancient being, and the Hollows in particular were patronized by one outside the established orders. They could not be counted on to offer aid should the truth come out.

The Kingdom of Psyscape was a different beast altogether. As far as the agent could determine, another alien being had taken the residents of the Ohio under its wing, giving the people benign commandments to do good and crusade against the forces of evil. Multiple orders had established themselves in the newly-risen polity, riding forth to slay demons and monsters across the continent. With the right framing, they could be guided to charge headlong into any danger for a just cause. Perception is reality, after all.

As far as the Federation of Magic was concerned, they would be all too eager to join the brewing war-plans; they'd tasted bitter defeat time and time again, and a chance at total victory could not be passed up. The Union of New England, too, knew the threat the Technocrats posed. Despite the heartache and strife of the recent hundred years, none could argue that the balance of power had finally shifted against the globalist elites that sought to extinguish the Mystic Traditions in a completely unexpected upset. It was all delightfully complicated. Her reports on the barbaric politicking of the factions that mattered had been picked over with great interest by her master, and none suspected her work. Not even the slug, Splynncryth, another mere oligarch that thought money could by him true knowledge.

What remaining diplomatic channels there were between the Coalition States and the various Kingdoms were already breaking down with accusations and mistrust, King Creed not giving them time to launch their own investigation into the matter.

Before her, one of the mortal necromancers stood, whom she'd inducted into a cult made especially for this mission. "My lady, your task has been completed, as requested. All the paperwork is in order, as far as the Army knows, the old equipment has been decommissioned." Good. Foolishly, the woman hadn't prepared for treachery at all. A testament to the agent's own subterfuge, perhaps, but still disappointing.

"Your reward, as promised, my servant. Freedom from delusion," the agent's voice cooed, "that you could amount to anything, in the end." Her servant's aura lit up in rage at the disrespect and betrayal. A brief duel later, and the loose end was disposed of. Mortals were such curious creatures, not worth the risk of the right people asking the wrong questions. A shame the cult was no longer necessary, it had been a novel experience.



AN: I wanted to write these because I thought they'd be easy. I was wrong, they really didn't want to be written, this one in particular. Now to get back into the swing of things.