Beads and Brass: Tales from Metella

[7734]

At present, we're about nine thousand words in, possibly twice that in background notes, and I've actually come to really enjoy the project, as well as working with @7734 on other random projects (like ZeppelinQuest.) It's actually interesting how it's become much less cynical and arguably more grounded as it's developed from his influence and that of others, albeit not by all that much. Maybe if this goes on, I'll be able to write a longer, more developed history of this and see how it's developed. Also, to have a multi-year long writing project that I'm actually proud of and doesn't drive me to drinking every year around my birthday.

Click to shrink...

On my end, I was actually fairly surprised to actually have original, virginal IP come sailing across my metaphorical and literal desk. My Discord server basically exists as a sort of a general literary clearing house, versus places like the PLOTserver and the SV Annex. When you have an idea and need a colletive hindbrain, you come over to my place and get it batted around. By this point, we'd done a little bit of everything- @Strypgia frequently comes over to hash out bits of Advice & Trust, we have a semipermanent KanColle presence thanks to the pouring fountain of waifushit writefriend that is @theJMPer and the more litterary works of @CompassJimbo, and if CERTAIN PARTIES get around to publishing then the Index/Railgun series would shortly be falling under our banner too.

Either way, here I am looking at something new come over the transom, and it's not bad. Well, I'll caveat that- it's NothingNow's work, and for him it's pretty damn solid, which means that I disagree with the style a bit and have to turn the lit crit goggles on for it. Still, it's an idea, and it's a little dark to start, but I've got a semi-private channel to bring stuff up in. So, it comes up, and we kick it around a bit. That original proposal, well, it had promise. It might have been in danger of turning into GRIMDERP, THE REVI-SEQUAL, but I'd been there and done that and not had fun with it. So we kept batting it arround.

At that point, I gave it a channel and watched it sorta happen. The idea quickly went from "McHale's Navy in Grome" to "Terminal Lance meets the Bronze Age" and it only got better from there. GATE, as already mentioned, had come up- and had met with universal derision. To anyone who hasn't actively avoided the military or news with decent sourcing on it, GATE is a clusterfuck that combines every mistake in American foreign adventures from Vietnam to the day after tomorrow. The idea of making a parody- not a fanfic, a legit, full blooded parody- struck a chord. And, as anyone will tell you, the first rule of parody is ruthlessly mock your source material. Don't let the 2lt roam free- lock him into a political marriage when he's not looking, and make it work anyway! Give the whatever people some characterization, not just a set of animal ears! Problem scientists everywhere!

When the cold light of morning shone on the project, I was quietly amazed to notice there was actually enough useable material in the drek to work with, so I decided to keep the ball rolling. The original author can't write enough to keep the concept alive, so it was time to do a Plan B- farm it out. The entire plan was simple- keep the idea moving, so it would keep growing even if people were unable to actually write for it at any one time.

So far, plan's working.

 

[7734]

Groaning as he rolled over, Pellas looked out over his nook in the Great Hall. His platoon had been talking point for the final explorations and surveys for the road to finish making its way to Metella, and when they'd arrived and done all the reporting to the impromptu embassy/headquarters there, things had devolved quickly from there. Specifically, they'd devolved into a rather large banquet, which had involved toasts, and feasting, and more than a few propositions and challenges from the locals that assorted members of the platoon had taken to with gusto. As the night had died down and things happened at the front, Pellas had to grab one of the terps and hash out sleeping arrangements for the platoon. Since they were the guards of Lieutenant Tim, they got a place in the Great Hall, while Tim was stuck up in the throne room/main quarters of the family.

Saying the architecture was confusing was an understatement and a half. Pellas hadn't walked in expecting a Disney-styled castle, but the building was a far cry from anything remotely fortress-like. Wide, flowing steps on the outside led to an antechamber, followed by the Hall itself. Not just for dining, the Hall had been designed from the start with a central hearth and pillars holding up the high roof. The kitchen was to the left, along with the servant's quarters, while the right led to the sleeping-place of the retainers. Dead ahead led to the throne and council room itself, while just off that was a set of small, private chambers for the family according to the drone survey of the city. Once the feasting was done, though, rush mats were provided the guest soldiers, and most had dozed off without a thought.
Now that the morning light was creeping through the skylights, the Staff Sergeant for the what was quickly becoming the Trouble Platoon started looking around, counting noses and boots. After a few seconds, he gave up, snorting in aggravation as he noticed that most of the familiar, camo-covered forms he was supposed to be tracking were covered in local blankets, local women, or usually both.

"Mmmmmurrrrrrrrr?"

Groaning quietly, Pellas included himself in the category of people that needed to be reminded about the dangers of the locals, especially the ones with longer faces and or fluffy cat ears. No matter how many times the various nerds yelled "Impossible" on the topic of what were apparently catgirls, they both existed and seemed aggravatingly persistent in their efforts to skew the burgeoning shipping container of statisticians work on crunching numbers for the area. Still, it wasn't so bad- not like the time he got really wasted and woke up in one of the bars/brothels hip deep in lamia and catgirls. That particular incident would have been legendary, if Pellas ever had a chance to get a few more ranks under his belt so he could share it.

Which reminded him, he needed to get up and check on Lieutenant Tim. Groaning quietly, Pellas pulled on his battle rattle and checked the pistol in his holster carefully. Not many of the NCOs actually bothered to carry a backup, but on their third run out one of the guys had stepped in a nest of laser stoats and all hell had broken loose. It didn't hurt that a spare piece was pretty much guaranteed not to get checked at the door, and there was always the possibility of Shit Going South at lightspeed.

At the door to the throne room, or whatever it was called, there was a guard on duty. After a few vague gestures and saying "Lieutenant Timothy" a few times, Pellas was finally allowed in. Another guard protected the royal family's chambers themselves, although this one understood who Pellas was looking for. Fortunately, the Lieutenant was awake, along with the crown prince- Crytus, if Pellas remembered correctly.

"Morning, sir." Staff Sergeant Pellas said, saluting crisply. Lieutenant Timothy returned it, waiting to hold his head in his off hand until after he finished the motion. Wincing, Pellas recognized the inbound hangover, quickly handing over a small bottle of generic ibuprofen.

Giving his Staff Sergeant a thankful look, Timothy took two dry before beginning to speak. "Good morning, Pellas. Seems at some point last night, I might have made an agreement to take Prince Crytus here back to the base at Metella."

Pellas' eye twitched carefully. "Sir, how much of the local language do you speak again?"

"When I'm drunk off my ass on mead, a lot more than is probably safe."

As Timothy watched Pellas' eye-twitching get ramped up another gear, the Staff Sergeant replied tightly. "So, this has not been at all planned."

"No."

Pellas' hand flew up into his face, and he was dearly thankful for his lack of hangover. "Son, do you have any idea how much of a charlie-foxtrot you've made?"

Timothy shook his head slightly, and led the impromptu trio out into the main hall, where the sergeants and corporals were rousing the rest of the troops. "Yes, I fucked up, Pellas. I know I'm gonna catch hell from Captain Baker, alright? Just… Well, tell 'em to grab a few of the translators from the Kwee Hratha, and warm up the ovens. We can't try to impress them, because they won't get it, but if we lay out a spread at the mess hall then it'll send a message they're going to understand."

"Right." Pellas sighed. "Right."

"If it makes you feel better, we now have more diplomatic experience with the Meledli than all the diplo-nerds back at the camp."

"No, sir, it really doesn't."

"Great; I thought maybe one of us would feel good about this."

---

Back on base, the communications container was practically glowing from the amount of panic that had been inspired. The "so things are happening" message had to get sent up to the General and Colonel, sent back down to Captain Baker, sent around to Captain Rudolph so he knew that they'd need the guys on the firebases to be doing their jobs tonight, and locked in a very small closet with the diplo-nerds who were tearing their hair out over some upstart Lieutenant stealing their job from them.

Meanwhile, the General, Colonel, and Captain Baker were closed up the second's office on the Metella side. Once everyone had gotten their mugs of coffee and papers were appropriately shuffled, the door was closed and the necessary glances were made, the General quietly sighed out.

"So, this is presumably a bit of a mess. Luckily, I haven't been terribly busy, so I have time to hear all about this little kerfluffle."

Translation: If I don't like what I hear, this counts as the shitter.

"We've been working on establishing a road network with the main local polity, General. Currently, our plan is to shore up the local kingdom and improve their soft power projection by improving their internal trade. Some of our officers are working on boat designs for longer-ranged work"

Translation: We're not sure how to help them fight without doing all the work, so we're making sure if we have to fight we can.

"Good choice. I take it there wasn't an adequate existing network for communications?"

"No, sir. Just some footpaths through the local temperate rainforest. Lieutenant Timothy Walker, the cause of this particular meeting, has actually been leading one of the patrol platoons who do the survey work for the roadbed."

"Noted. Captain Baker, do you have any opinions of the young man?"

Captain Baker nodded, steepling his fingers around the warm mug. "Lieutenant Walker is my best officer right now, General. He's the most fluent in the native language, understands most of the customs, and generally runs into the least trouble on his patrols."

Translation: He can in fact tie his own shoes while chewing gum. The others, not so much.

"I take it there are occasionally problems, then?" the General asked softly.

"No sir. Just medical issues coming up occasionally, and an uncomfortably large number of incidents of certain venereal diseases, but thankfully nothing serious."

The General looked at the Colonel. The Colonel looked at Baker. Baker chose an inoffensive point to look at that was vaguely in the direction of Lieutenant Tim since he was the reason Baker was in the middle of a large mess of brass.

"Really now. Anything infectious?"

The Colonel hid a gulp behind his coffee. "Lots of lice so far, some crabs and a case of HPV according to the docs."

The General took a long pull on his coffee, and the tension in the room slowly faded.

"So, Colonel, what are your thoughts on the matter of having the crown prince of our allied city-state meet with us?"

The tension in the room, after its brief reprieve, decided to go straight back up into orbit. There were few situations with less inherent risk than answering a question you had bumped up the chain once it had been sent back to you- like jumping on a grenade. After all, the grenade might be a dud.

"I am tentatively in favor of it, General." the Colonel said, laying himself out carefully. "At some point, the topic of a visit of state was bound to come up, and to be perfectly frank we're at the point of societal development in the region that even a thirty mile difference such as is between us and the capital of the region can have massive shifts in custom and dialect. At present, the picture Lieutenant Walker has presented shows a group ready and willing to negotiate, even though they know the balance of power doesn't favor them. Even though the decision seems to have been made in the heat of the moment, I think that it's worth taking advantage of."

The General nodded, and looked at the Colonel and Captain Baker.

"Gentlemen, I will be honest with you- there's a fair amount of political pressure sniffing around our current deployment. Given the current political atmosphere, scraping together an MEU and putting them incommunicado in parts unknown has been creating what I'll call a fair number of issues. When I'm not in Washington making sure nobody suspects anything, I'm trying to make sure all the ducks are in a row for when this eventually goes public. This is not easy, however, I do understand why you've called me here today."

There were two sets of white knuckles on coffee cups.

"So, Colonel, here's what I'm going to do, and eventually put into writing. Everything on this side of the portal, that's yours. There's a few departments you can't handle directly, but for them and the scientists let them do their own thing unless it becomes a problem. Not like Medical makes problems, but other than that, I'm going to assume that no news is good news. Use your best judgment. It's a lot of responsibility, yes, but assuming nothing interesting happens I should have this whole thing more properly farmed out soon enough."

At this, the General stood up, and saluted.

"Now, with that settled, I think it's about lunchtime, no?"

 

[7734]

Looking out of the house they'd purchased for the embassy in the capitol, Bear sighed and pushed his hand back through his hair. It was a nice enough house, even if it only had five rooms. Still, no matter how nice it was, it wasn't worth watching Wyta go full Sorcerer-Queen getting it set up. Showing her the Mickey Mouse cartoon with the brooms had been a mistake for so many reasons- not the least because she'd enchanted a pair of boots to chase the shins of anyone who wasn't working when they were supposed to. At least she'd begged away tiredness and gone to bed a half hour ago, giving Bear time to whip together the computer system to the patch job power system the combat engineers had whipped up. So far, the microwave receiver/transmitter on the roof was working almost to specifications, and he could access his email.

Bear didn't want to be able to get to his email, but those were the breaks of life. Still, when he was done and shut the laptop off to go to bed, there was something niggling him in the back of his head on the general drone mapping briefs. There was a rather large peninsula to the south, and the long-flight drones had been picking up more than a few beach campsites. They were all too far to send a foot expedition after, but the locations were all near potential meteorological stations, such as freshwater streams and calmer inlets.

Going to bed that night, Bear thought nothing of curling up to Wyta under the covers. It was cold, and the house was located not too far off the main thoroughfare that led down to the proto-docks. On nights when the wind blew in, it got cold, pulling out all the heat from the future embassy.

---

There were three bells in the city, and they were all ringing when Bear was woken up by getting bodily thrown out of bed by his wife. There weren't many things that could worry Wyta, but the bells had her scared pale.

"Get up, get up!" she was yelling, pulling on pair of trousers angrily. "Hurry!"

"Was' happening?"

"The bells are ringing, dumbass! Get dressed and wake your helpers up! We don't have much time! They might not have landed yet!"
"Wyta!" Bear growled, grabbing his own clothes as he started sliding into them quickly. Pants, boots, good enough for a panic situation. "What is it? What's happening?"

"Raiders!"

That's when the first explosion went off in the distance. There were a lot of timbers to an explosion- from the crack of rifle fire, to the thud of cannon, to the cardiac thump of a bomb. This was the last, but not the last detonation.

"Scorpions…" Wyta muttered, moving forward with a shawl half-pinned over her shoulders to preserve the idea of modesty. "Who the hell would come this far north with scorpions!"

Bear shook his head, pulling on a blouse and grabbing his pistol out of the nightstand, before going to the bunkroom and banging on the door.

"Everyone up! There's an attack!"

Not ten seconds later, the front door was getting battered on by someone who sounded heavy, angry, and was yelling incoherently. Wyta's cursing picked up a native flavor, while Bear just pulled out his pistol and put two through the door. Frowning, he glared at his pistol, and the Mark 23 looked back at him smugly.

"Now I know why they gave me this gun before I read all the paperwork…" he muttered, before Johnson, his assistant came out the door in a set of ratty cammies.

"Fight?" she asked, sniffing at the gunsmoke.

"Yeah, fight. Grab your guys and do Marine things, I gotta call for help."

"Yessir." Johnson said, going back in to grab her gun and give one of the still snoozing privates attached to the station a swift kick in the leg. "Mendez! Get up and start loading magazines! Hennessey, grab your gun! Fitz, there's a window low enough to get into off the kitchen- cover it!"

Bear barely heard them as he made his way to the office. Getting in and powering everything up took minutes that felt like hours, as intermittent gunfire rang out from the two main shooters. Moments later, Wyta was at his side, swearing profusely as she started pacing the room. After working up a blue streak in three languages and starting in on English, she turned to her husband.

"Bear- how long until your Americans arrive?"

"Don't know." he replied, grumbling as the software loaded so he could make a call. Damn Skype knockoff. "I'll be putting the call in soon- less than an hour, I hope."

"Great. Fucking great. There's six boats out there, and three of them have the scorpions they're lobbing firepots at us with, and somewhere out there is some gods be damned priesty magey guy, and he's warding all the ships! If I so much as sneeze, I'm going to turn into a lightning rod!"

Holding up two fingers for silence, Bear grabbed the phone receiver he'd patched in as a mic for the computer. "Hello, this is Lieutenant Bear, National Ocean and Aeronautics Agency. No, I cannot go to the automated switchboard. I am reporting an attack on Outpost Zero Niner, hostiles confirmed and engaged. I need to speak to the Colonel, or whoever's in charge of-"

As the handset clicked, Bear kept talking as he started speaking to Authority. "-the watch. Colonel, this is the Capital City Embassy, and the city is under assault. This is verified by local sources, yes. Current known force composition is three ships with some kind of light artillery and magical support, along with a ground compliment of unknown size. The magical part is verified by sources, yes. Yes sir, Wyta's with us here. No, she is currently unable to serve in that capacity. We need support, sir."

A moment later, and Bear choked out a laugh. "Sir, I'm not sure about that question, but I know I don't want to find out. I'll keep the line open in case you need to call again. Embassy out."

"What was so funny?" Wyta asked, glaring.

"He wanted to know if we had more bullets than they had soldiers, and if we could use that fact. I told him I didn't want to find out. They're gonna have to send the forces in two waves- they only have one platoon in the wings they can take without collapsing the defenses, plus the armor. We're inside range on the gun artillery- once the guys get here, a few shots from the one-five-fives should shake the boats up, and let you get to work."

"Great." Wyta pursed her lips. "Now I've got to be subtle. Their warlord isn't great, but damn does his shit pack a wallop."

Nodding, Bear took a moment to reload his gun and the magazine from the box of .45 in his desk, before moving to the front. Lance Corporal Johnson was there, and it rattled his nerves to see a bayonet already fixed on her gun.

"Hey." she said, looking at him out of the side of her face. "Listen, get to the back. Hennessy says there's someone asking for sanctuary."

Moving quickly, Bear got to the kitchen, and hissed. Aside from three dead raiders, their wicker shields not stopping Hennessy's bullets, there were a dozen or so people out behind the house, hands on their head. Looking at Hennessey, Bear growled and made a snap decision.

"Go on, help them in." he said. "Wyta! There's people behind the house- get them inside!"

Some yelling later, and soon there was a passel of children scrunched up in a tight ball in the office. Shaking his head, Bear looked to the sky. "Here's hoping the cavalry comes soon. Mendez! You wanna teach kids to load magazines?"

 

[NothingNow]

Wyta and the Wretched Wedding
(Week 14)

In retrospect, I probably should have known that my wedding was going to be a strange one. But even knowing that, I doubt I would have imagined being on another world getting married in a royal palace smaller than my old college dorm.

"Well," Wyta said as she came up from behind me, "How do I look?"

I turned around and took a second before I spoke. Seeing my wife in traditional Meledli garb, her hair braided with silk and flowers was a treat to say the least. "Like the princess you are?" I said hopefully.

She thought for a second before unconsciously tossing her head back. "I'll take it." She said, before surveying me and my dress whites. "Also, that looks good on you."

With Wyta now dressed, we were led to the small plaza where most of the festivities would happen.

Wyta's father and stepmother Leuthea (who was only a little older than me,) were already standing in the plaza, as was a priest, standing around a stone altar. King Aede and the priest both said their bit, which Wyta didn't translate for me, before one of the king's people led a Derpy Ram in. With the help of others Wyta and I tied, the creature in position on an altar, and was then ceremonially bashed it into unconsciousness using a stone hammer right to the center it's weird sort of tapir with horns head.

Wyta's stepmother said something as well, and then I was prompted to hand her a knife I had purchased for the occasion. With practiced ease, she plunged the knife into the ram, and ripped open its ribcage before beginning to probe around with the tip of the knife for its heart. The ram of course was twitching through all of this, but clearly wasn't conscious. Once Wyta had found the heart, she quickly plunged a hand in, and cut the heart out before raising it and the knife over her head for everyone to see.

Placing the knife down on the altar, she held out the still beating heart, and shoved a finger in the aorta before marking my forehead with the blood of the ram. It was disgusting, but I did my best not to shudder.

"Now you do it." Wyta said to me quietly as she shook the heart in her hand for emphasis. It splashed more than a little blood on my coat, which I hoped I could get out later.

Nodding, I pulled off a glove, and after getting a decent amount of blood on my finger, anointed my smiling wife. After that was done, Wyta placed the heart into a lit brazier on the altar and let a butcher go to work on carving the ram up while we washed our hands of blood in a bowl of water that had been brought out for the purpose.

With the sacrifice done, it was time to eat. The banquet was interesting to say the least. My wife and I were shoved in between her father, stepmother and brother on one side, with the ostensible ambassador and the Lieutenant from our honor guard on the other. With only Wyta for decent conversation, I almost missed the force recon guys hiding in the back. Walker apparently got assigned the detail because he knew Crytus already, and could be trusted to not fuck things up despite being an O-1. That Wyta, Crytus and I all noticed him staring at Wyta's younger sister Euenia apparently wouldn't ruin this.

"So how much longer do we have to be at the banquet?" I asked Wyta discretely.

"So you're that eager to go to bed?" Wyta said with a smirk. "We could get away just fine if we snuck off, but there's the bath before we can do that."

"And the water is still warming up?" I replied.

Wyta nodded. "And I don't want anything leaking out while I'm getting washed. I'm not Arwi, and my sisters would never let me live it down."

"That would be bad."

"I'm already getting shit because we live in a tent." Wyta said, "I don't need little Chalcippe finding something else to make jokes about. She's a fucking terror as is, and Leuthea needs to discipline her daughter more."

This only triggered an argument in Meledli between the king and his wife on one side and Wyta and Crytus on the other. Being that I couldn't really follow it, and the two of them seemed to have the king under control, I had no real choice but to pay attention to the Lieutenant next to me. Unfortunately, that Lieutenant was Timothy Walker.

"So what's NOAA Corps like anyhow?" Walker said, "I'd literally never heard of you guys until I came here."

"From my experience, you go to remote and usually miserable places and help scientists do science." I said. "Occasionally there's a cool billet like Hurricane Hunting coming up, but you never get it."

"So where did you go anyway?"

"Alaska, Samoa, Antarctica, and Denver." I replied. "I'm stuck here for the rest of time now, but compared to the last five years it's not bad."

"How could Samoa be bad?" Walker asked.

"Everything's expensive and takes a month to get there." I replied. "What's really sad is this is the first place I've lived in since I graduated from OCS where my mail arrives on time and the internet hasn't sucked."

Walker took a moment to think about that. "That's pretty fucked up."

"You deal with it." I replied.

"Is that why the Drives of Wonder are so big?" Wyta said, as she butted back in.

"'Drives of Wonder'" Walker said. "Is that your uh…"

"My morale drives." I replied. "The internet at Amundsen Scott sucks, and occasionally you feel anti-social. Naturally, you bring shit. Like every Jackie Chan movie up to 2011."

Walker nodded.

"You did remember the laptop right?" Wyta said before daintily ripping off a chunk of mutton chop with her teeth in the fashion of only the most refined Meledli women. And the local cat people. Needless to say, looking over my wife's sauce stained face, I can see why the bath was after the banquet and not before.

"Yes, I brought the laptop." I said. "We can finish off Tiger and Bunny if you want, but if you could do the ear thing first."

Walker gave me a look as my wife laughed. "He really likes having clean ears." Wyta said, "More than my siblings anyway."

Walker just nodded and decided to strike up a conversation with the Ambassador while Wyta and I continued in our own conversation until it was time to bathe.

Honestly, getting bathed by a bunch of your inlaws wielding rags and bars of soap is even more of a traumatic experience than it sounds. They'd at least remembered to warm the water up, and explaining to my father in law and brother in law what a circumcision is is another experience I'd like to avoid. All in all, it cemented my opinion that a church wedding would've been much nicer even if I wasn't exactly a believer, and I wasn't quite sure Wyta could actually step foot in a church without either spontaneously combusting or starting a fight with the padre.

Needless to say, when I was reunited with my similarly grumpy wife and shoved into her bedroom, our first thoughts weren't so much sex as they were a nice cuddle and attempting to watch stuff on my personal laptop. Wyta fell asleep fifteen minutes in anyway, and after closing my laptop, I followed suit not long after.

 

[7734]

Shaking his head, the Colonel shuffled through his printouts and came upon the roster of platoons on duty. The call from Lieutenant Bear had just come in, and he was in a tight spot. Response was very much a necessity in this circumstance, but the question was, with what, and how.

To start, there was always the base perimeter to consider. Right now, Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie companies were manning the three line firebases, with the artillery platoon backing them up. That took up three of his six companies of infantry and weapons, right there, leaving Delta, Echo, and Foxtrot. Delta was right out- they were currently deployed piecemeal on foot scouting up the north fork of the river, mapping the area and seeing how the locals were jumping. Echo had just got off a similar mission from the south fork, and he'd given them liberty to spend a week on the town. Trying to round them up would be impossible, and worse, would take too much time.

Then there was Foxtrot. Foxtrot was also fairly recently returned from a mission, but since letting two companies of Marines loose tended to do a number on the local economy, they weren't deployed yet. This, of course, led to the question of timely arrival. Only a quarter of the MEU's trucks were ready to go in the required timeframe, which translated to one rifle platoon and the useful bits of a weapons platoon. Barring anything terribly unusual, the Colonel couldn't see the mortar or AT sections being brought to bear on what should be fairly unarmored ships. They'd go, mind, just in the second wave of vehicles. Moving on autopilot, the Colonel grabbed the base phone, and started talking down to the dispatcher on the ground floor headquarters.

---

Lieutenant Timothy Walker had, over the bare handful of weeks he'd been in-theatre, developed a number of new and exciting habits.

None of them involved anything more than "fuck" when the intercom in his room started yelling at him and his roommate to get up and out as fast as they could. Timothy was the faster of the two, and it wasn't long before they were caught up with the rest of Foxtrot Company, with Captain Baker and the Sergeant Major. Trucks were already lining up, and the armorers had been passing out rifles and ammo for rucksacks like it was free sample day at the candy shop. Moving quickly, Timothy found Baker, saluting loudly.

"Walker, Vegas, about time you got here!" Baker yelled, pointing at the trucks. "Coast City's under attack! Vegas, your boys are loading the trucks up- ammo and water only! Walker, you're the first wave in- get in there, find the embassy, and sit on it! Sergeant Major Washington, where the hell are the LAVs?"

"Just got word from the top, sir. LAV's need to get gassed and loaded- first wave in's riding with the Abrams!"

"Then where are the Abrams?"

As the sound of four gas turbine engines roared to life in the distance, Washington shot Baker a look. Nodding, Foxtrot Company's Captain nodded carefully at the main battle tanks coming down the road. As they pulled up, their leader, Major Marston popped out and dismounted to look at Baker. After a round of nods, Marston started off with a quick look at Walker and Vegas.

"These two the LTs for the infantry?" he asked, looking them over critically.

"Ayep."

"Great. Radio for me is Channel 15, the rest of the tanks are on Channel 13. Don't expect us to come into the city proper- we're supposed to try and take out their shipping with high explosive. If we do get in the city, it'd be blue on blue the second we pulled the trigger, and I'm pretty sure there's not a building there we'd notice going through."

Timothy nodded, and looked at Vegas and Baker. "Everyone's loaded?"

"Just about." Baker replied. "Your squad radios are keyed to Channel 7, Vegas' are on Channel 9. Walker, you've got the Assaultmen with MGs. Armorer's over there- grab a ruck and get in a truck! We gotta go!"

Nodding, Timothy ran for the armorer's table. It didn't take long for him to find the officer's ruck, full of everything he'd be needing. Shouldering it, he ran off, jumping in the back of one of the waiting trucks. Moments later, he had his radio out, and keyed it in carefully.

"Walker to platoon, come in all units. We ready to motor, over?"

"Squad one, Pellas in command. We're good, over."

"Squad two, Crusoe reporting in. Let's get going, over."

"Squad three, Sampson reporting! Time to kick some ass!"

"MG squad one, Staff Sergeant Cornell in command, over."

"MG squad two, Sergeant Richards reporting. Good to go, over."

"MG squad three. Sergeant Hancock reporting, over."
Walker nodded. All his guys were here, and it was time to go. Going up to the back window, he knocked on the metal next to it. "GO!" he yelled, making the universal hand wave for the command. One thumbs-up later, the truck lurched into gear, and the first wave of the rescue mission was off.

---

Twenty minutes later, Timothy was sitting in his plate carrier, nervously checking and re-checking his kit. His magazines were full, his radio was on and working, his pistol was holstered, someone had thrown a tomahawk in his kit just because and that'd been put on his belt, his canteens were ready, plates riding right, and both his NVG and optic were on steadily. Still, the nerves were driving him mad, making him fidget with little twitches.

"Sir." one of the lance corporals said, snorting. "Calm down, sir. Get yourself all wound up is how you make mistakes."

"I know, I know." Timothy replied, sighing. "It's just… ah…"

"Rock fever. I'm familiar." he said, droll. "Here."

Holding out his hand, the lance corporal handed off a Rubik's Cube to the lieutenant. Fiddling with it, Timothy looked over carefully to the junior NCO.

"You've done this before." he said, accusatory.

"Well, yeah. Cut my teeth on the Khyber Pass. We might fuck around off duty, but when the shit starts flying, we gotta know how to catch."

Nodding, the Lieutenant started fidgeting with the Rubik's Cube as the truck rumbled on. He'd almost solved the thing when the truck came to a stop outside the small city gate. Honestly, it looked more like a swinging chunk of fence than anything that would stop a truck, but trying to blow through it was probably a bad idea.

"Marston to Walker, come in Walker." Timothy's radio said, crackling. After slinging his rifle and getting out, waving all his NCOs over to him, Walker answered.

"Walker to Marston, we're here, over."

The pile of NCOs looked at him carefully as the conversation progressed.

"Great. The track around the left side of the city looks better for us, so we'll be taking it to the coast."

"Acknowledged. Good hunting." Timothy replied, before going out to grab a stick. Scrawling a rough circle in the sandy dirt, he looked at his subordinates carefully.

"Alright, anyone been here before?" he asked, before getting a round of 'no's. "Great. Well, good news bad news time."

Starting to scrawl on the improvised map, Lieutenant Walker explained the city's layout carefully. "Good news, there's maybe five streets and points of interest we need to worry about. There's the road in from this gate, the one from the sea gate, and the meet at the center here-ish. From there, there's the riesfre, or market. If we can camp up a weapons squad there, that'd be awesome because we can send anyone we find there. Across the square from that is a heavy fence- inside that's the palace. I'm taking a rifle squad in, and I want to park a weapons squad on it because they're probably going to be going there to try and loot. Down towards the sea gate is our embassy, and if we park a weapons squad to hold the building, we can probably use the rifle squad to get everyone back to the palace."

The NCOs nodded, and a quick round of pointing, inquisitive looks, and toe scuffing decided who was going where for this adventure.

"Bad news time." Lieutenant Walker said, highlighting the areas between the roads and places he'd marked. "Everything that isn't marked is basically a shantytown. No roads, no sight lines, very clogged. If you get lost in there, radio in and we'll try to find you if there's anyone free. Any questions?"

Another round of shook heads. Snapping down his NVGs, Timothy grinned. "Let's do this, then."

 

[7734]

Approaching the gates to the city, the first platoon of Fox Company brought their rifles up carefully. Terra Incognita never seemed so hostile in the flickering firelight, the top of the beachside wall dotted with orange flames. The gate itself wasn't much of a gate- just a collection of light timber fitted to a frame, and nailed in. It was disturbingly similar to a cattle gate, more to keep the beasts in than to keep attackers out. No matter- the Marines went through it as if it wasn't even there.

As they entered, the group got ready to split apart at the central square. Each one of the three rifle squads was covered by their assaultmen, and loosely in the center was Lieutenant Walker. Pushing through the unknown, one of the men started coughing. A few odd looks, and resulted in Pellas screwing up his face.

"Someone lit a pile of shit on fire." the Staff Sergeant said over the radio. "Nothing dangerous."

Moments after saying that, a massive blast echoed out over the city, prompting more than a few of the troops to hit the deck. Sticking his head up from the dirt road carefully, Walker squinted at Sergeant Crusoe.

"Sir, that was an Abrams." Crusoe said, grinning slightly. "Would you like a hand up, sir?"

"Sure." Walker muttered, getting up and checking his optic. It was still on solid, and his NVGs were clear. "Let's keep going."

It wasn't much longer before they hit the central square, along with the first real opposition. About two dozen soldier-ish people were lounging around, most carrying iron-tipped spears and wicker shields. As the Marines moved into the square, a sergeant of the enemy's group yelled, carrying a full bronze shield and gesturing towards the Marines with a lot of uniteligiable shouting. All Walker needed to hear, though, was "Ixslaz!"

Loot.

"First squad, drop 'em!" Walker yelled, waving his arm as he directed the troops. "Second, with me, Third, grab a Weapons and head for the Embassy! Move!"

As a dozen-odd riflemen opened up, Pellas ran to the fore, trying to focus their gunfire so they didn't hit any civilians. It didn't matter much, though- a wicker shield wasn't much against an iron spear, and versus bullets the only question was if it blurred the silhouette enough to provoke a miss. Soon, the only thing left in the square were bleeding bodies and spent brass. Half the troops were already gone by the time the firing stopped, trusting their leader to know how much firepower to bring to bear. Soon, the group was shortened, and shortened again until it was just Second Squad, a Weapons squad, and Walker's runner and guide.

Among the troops, it was Crusoe who spoke first. "So, we're going in there?"

Walker snorted quietly, looking at the palace and the thin wall that separated it from the rest of the city. "Yeah. Not sure how many are in there, though. Do we have flashbangs?"

"Some." the Platoon Guide said, rolling his shoulders. "A few frags too."

"Don't issue the frag grenades." Walker said, shaking his head. "They're going to be right on top of any civilians in there, remember? It's gonna be just like last time, only even more messy."

A round of nodds, before Crusoe grinned. "So then- kinda tight, lots of civvies, probably a goodly number of enemies. Is anyone thinking what I'm thinking?"

There was a round of confusion before one Lance Corporal looked over at Crusoe and started making angry gestures. "No. No. We are not doing that. That was a horrible idea in Afghanistan, and these aren't angry goatherders! C'mon, man!"

Crusoe's grin got the Lance Corporal made Walker slightly nervous for a minute, before he spoke up. "Squad, fix bayonets!"

Walker's hand slowly rose up to meet his face, clipping his NVGs on the way. "Just… Get ready. Put the machineguns on the fence or something... "

"Yessir."

***

Taking a drink and bringing his night vision off, Lieutenant Walker took a drink and pulled up his radio. The Abrams were still banging around outside the walls, and everyone had gotten themselves ready to go in.

"Ready?" he asked, looking at his handful of NCOs. After a barrage of nods, he stood up and yelled.

"GO GO GO!"

The rifle squad, before perched around on the ground, sprung into action. Moving up to the entrance of the palace, a flashbang went in, followed by it's signature detonation and screams of pain from the handful of door guards. Moving through, the Marines shot the downed guards before charging through the thin curtain that separated the entry from the hall up to the central room. Pushing through it, the leader went through gun blazing, only to be thrown back. Coming out from the curtain was a pair of warriors far more armored than the wicker-shield wielders from before- and unlike them, Walker swore he saw a bullet skate off their polished bronze shields.

As one of the pair advanced, one of the Marines dived sideways, trying to shoot around the enemy's apparently bulletproof shield. Turning, the raider moved to stab him, but a second and third Marine charged in, lunging with their bayonets to go for his neck. In the back, Walker could only hiss, keeping his ear open to the radio and hoping nothing went wrong. In front of him, though, the second soldier turned and broke for the door, one of the men putting a bullet in his back before he passed through. Weapons at the ready, the group waited on their leaders while one took care of the foolish Marine who'd dived around a shield.

"The fuck was that?" Crusoe asked, picking up one of the shields. "I know I hit it!"

Looking at the lead-smeared bronze, Walker groaned. "Magic. Fucking magic. It's always fucking magic."

"What do you mean, fucking magic?" Crusoe snapped.

"Alright, 'if shit doesn't make sense, fucking magic' is probably why." Walker explained, slinging his gun at the low ready. "Back when I was watching one of the notables get hitched to the weatherman, she kept using it."

"You're serious." Crusoe muttered.

"In his defense," the platoon guide said, smirking as he politely took the shield. "It's not like you were sober for much of it, or paying attention to anything except the catgirl waving the fan. Can't blame you- she had wonderful tits."

Crusoe sputtered, before some of the men chuckled. Grinning, the guide got ready to throw the shield in, waiting for the laughter to die down before he chucked it in and the group poured through. Moments later, they were firing like mad as they fanned out in the Great Hall. Even Walker brought his gun up when he saw the disaster they'd plunged headfirst into.

As a whole, they didn't have very good intel going into this. The expectation had been maybe a dozen, two dozen of the easy targets they'd blown through not ten minutes ago.

To be fair, the first wave was two dozen of the wicker-shield raiders. It was the second with a couple using bulletproof bronze shields that caused concern, as well as the two with iron-looking shields that stood by the throne room door carefully taking cover.

"Back up! Back up!" Walker yelled, funneling his men behind the curtain into the way they had come. As Crusoe chucked a flashbang, the last of them dived through, staying flat on their gut as the guide yelled at them to open fire. There was a burst of light that almost ignored the curtain, before bullets cut it down. Pushing forwards again, the squad re-emerged through the door, only for Crusoe to scream as a javelin caught him in the shoulder. As the squad's sergeant went down, the thrower caught a return bullet, as the few who'd come in from beyond the Great Hall got shot. As a few rifles went down, the squad relaxed- before the Iron Warriors charged. They had been guarding the throne room before, but now they had charged, leaping across the room in a bound and hacking wildly with their swords.

Ducking aside, Walker hissed as his arm caught the edge of one of their long spears, before bringing his rifle up and tapping bullets at the Iron Warrior as fast as he could. It was no use- the man's vest, covered with heavy brass scales, used the same magic as the shields to reject the bullets out of hand. Unlike the shields, though, Walker saw a grimace of pain and a cracking sound as a rib broke. In a moment of clarity, Walker saw the truth of the spell that the enemy had been throwing around like candy- it didn't stop bullets. It stopped penetration- the force of the shot was still there.

"Keep shooting!" Walker yelled, rolling as the spear jabbed towards him. The Iron Warrior was firmly dedicated to killing him, and chopped down with his spear in anger. Bringing his gun up to block, Walker hissed as the heavy blade bit deep in the gun's mechanism, bending the stock he'd gripped. Twisting to the side, he lunged in to grab the Iron Warrior's leg and pulled himself towards the man, frantically drawing his pistol at the same time. Three shots up under his armored kilt later, and the Iron Warrior went down with a slight cry of pain, as well as an exit wound near the edge of his jacket. Rolling out from under his now-dead enemy, Walker picked himself up and looked over at the other Iron Warrior, who was literally getting pushed into a wall by streams of bullets- until one deflected up into his head, putting him down for good.

"Sound off, who's hurt?" Walker yelled.

"Crusoe's downed, the guide, uh, Piccilio? Yeah, Piccilio's got a helluva slash in him, and we've got Thomas and Martinic doing first aid. Jimmy got cut up too, when he did that dive."

Shaking his head, Walker groaned. "Well shit. Corporal… ahh, can't think. Corporal Danube, grab three guys and keep an eye on the wounded. The corpseman's in the market, see if you can get them there. Rest of you, c'mon. We're going in."

 

[NothingNow]

So since the research for the upcoming chapter is taking so long, have a list of the books I'm reading for this (which will be updated as I have more to add) hopefully this is interesting on its own.

• The Political Machine: Assembling Sovereignty in the Bronze Age Caucasus - Adam T. Smith (Princeton University Press, 2015) Also, other Project ArAGATS resources.
• Coins, Bodies, Games, and Gold: The Politics of Meaning in Archaic Greece - Leslie Kurke (Princeton University Press, 1999)
• The Art of Not Being Governed: An Anarchist History of Upland Southeast Asia - James C. Scott (Yale University Press, 2009)
• Brotherhood of Kings: How International Relations Shaped the Ancient Near East - Amanda H. Podany (Oxford University Press, 2010)
• Against the Grain: a Deep History of the Earliest States - James C. Scott (Yale University Press, 2017)
• A Global History of Child Death: Mortality, Burial and Parental Attitudes - Amy J. Catalano (Peter Lang inc., 2014)

 

[NothingNow]

Up in the Mountains​

(Week 15)​

Getting posted to Metella was probably the best thing that could have ever happened to my career, even after I'd signed up to be part of a Human Terrain Terrain team. You figure you'd get sent to Afghanistan, but instead I was in a village five days north of the nearest road on a completely different planet. I was also part of the team handling first contact with this specific village as a test-run to see if we could fuck this up less. So far, this wasn't turning out to be very hard.

"I can't believe you're taking pictures of them." One of our interpreters said as she sat down on a stone near a corn crib. "What if it actually does steal their souls this time? The Nokli aren't the most forgiving people, even if they look like lowlanders."

"And they'd like to see what they look like, which makes my job that much easier." I replied as I photographed some of the houses. "Arwi, why don't you go bother your husband or something? He's probably already making pancakes for the villagers."

"Of course he is." She said, rolling her eyes, "Doctor Corlett, we should join them since it smells like the rest of the food is almost ready. Why are you taking so many pictures anyway?"

"Documentation." I replied. "This is the biggest first contact event my people have had in a long time and the first with agricultural societies outside New Guinea in a few generations. I really don't want to cock this up."

"So you're recording everything?"

"Yes, I'm taking photographs and getting some video. Simmons is taking notes on everything else."

"What's the point?" Arwi asked. "With as tight as you're becoming with the lowlanders, they'll all be taken down to the valley before my children are grown and I doubt that many of the girls here will be as lucky as I was and get bought by a Marine."

"That's even more of a reason to get as much information as we can." I said as I turned to photograph more of what looked like the village temple.

"All this is doing is making it easier for the Meledli to reach these people like they did mine, while guns and roads will just help them cut out the middlemen as they hunt for labor." Arwi said. "I understand that you're trying to change them as Aede's ancestors did before, but can you do it fast enough?"

"I don't think I've ever see you not be a bubbly blonde in public." Corporal Johnson said as he walked up. "I like it."

"Well, you know how I am around men. And Wyta." Arwi said as she perked up. "Overfed lowlander bitch…"

"They made clay bird with the pheasants for dinner." Johnson said as he put his hand on his wife's shoulder, "And I know you love that."

"Anything else?" I asked.

"Boot's running the griddle and the Nokli have stew and some plums." Johnson said.

"That sounds good." Arwi said.

Dinner was good, and as we sat around with the elders exchanging stories, I finally got around to asking where the Nokli were from originally.

"That's easy." Arwi replied before any of the elders could get a word in. "They're relatives of the Meledli, and are the descendants of the people who fled to the hills to avoid King Aede's ancestors. They're like the rest of us hill people. Cast-offs, escaped slaves and ne'er do wells who went out of the lowlands and into the forests to avoid some tyrant or another. Of course the Meledli still see us all as uncivilized cat fuckers, even if they're the ones who pay extra for them."

"I'd like to hear them say that though." I said. One of the elders did that head-tossing shrug, tossing his black hair about.

"And I'm one of them." Arwi replied. "Well, I mean my father was Arawas, but my mother was Nokli."

"Right, and the Arawas are?"

"Those perverts with top knots who fuck sheep and full-bloods, and speak that godawful language." One of the elders responded.

"So that's why you get along with the Marines so well." I said as I looked at Arwi.

Both of the Johnsons gave me a murderous look, and I dropped it.

"But could you be more specific? That's a pretty wide description." I said to the elders.

"They also shave their faces and make their summer shoes from bast instead of leather." One of the elders replied almost helpfully. "They live uphill. Occasionally we raid them and sell them to the lowlanders, sometimes they do it to us, and sometimes we both raid the lowlanders when their king is weak. We also trade for saltfish and tools, but that's just a fact of life."

I switched back to english, and looked at Arwi. "I'm guessing they're not going to be big fans of Crytus' love affair with roads."

It took her a good five minutes to stop laughing. "They'll probably move." Arwi said, also switching back. "They'll buy the best axes they can and clear new land a few days away from the road, or skip the clearing and just give up corn. It's what my village did when I was a child."

"They gave up corn? What was their main grain?" I asked, scratching my chin.

Arwi shrugged. "Grains are the things you can make bread with, right?"

"Close enough."

Awri shuddered. "Acorns and chestnuts. Lots of acorns and chestnuts. You'd roast them on a rock, and then you'd grind them up into this dusty flour and dump it in with the stew to thicken it. Also, parsnips."

"Sounds delicious." Johnson replied.

"It's not bad when you get used to it, but it's still just stew or turnips all the damn time." Arwi said. "Not that the lowlanders are better off, since they're taxed and forced to grow corn, and give meat to their ruler."

"Yes, because one ear in ten is so steep." her husband replied.

"It's the principle of the thing, and I'm not sure it's something the lowest of the lowlanders would understand." Arwi replied.

"We've both been to Afghanistan, and we've seen this sort of thing." I replied. "Aside from the raiding, Crytus is actually kinda marginal as far as warlords go."

"So what defines your warlords, then?" Awri asked, chuckling.

"Politics, firepower and usually drug money." Johnson said. "Plus there was like actually a war on, and they'd use that to try and get legitimacy from a government that couldn't just enforce its will."

"I don't really see the difference." Arwi replied.

"Crytus isn't looking for any of that from the US, and we could roll over him in a weekend if we honestly wanted to, even with just the equipment we already have here and the fuel to actually use it." Her husband said.

"But you don't." Arwi said.

"We've been fighting two wars of a scale you can't even comprehend on our homeworld for the last decade. We're tired, and wars are expensive. Especially in places like this, and with people like this." I said as I swung an arm around for emphasis, "The General is happy with us just holding the portal and doing missions like this to see what else is out here, either to trade and find some way to justify the cost of occupying Metella for the next forever or just to get whatever data the scientists are so giddy about."

"Didn't Lieutenant Bear say the data he was getting was priceless?" Arwi said. "Shouldn't that be enough."

"Yes," Her husband replied. "Just don't tell the republicans. Or my parents."

"When the hell are we going to meet them anyway?" Arwi said. "I want my goddamned honeymoon."

"After Doctor Corlett is satisfied with the material he has, and the LT decides to head back." Johnson said as he looked at me. I swallowed nervously.

"We should be done in a day, and be headed back after that." I said.

 

[7734]

Gesturing towards the road that lead towards the embassy, Pelas groaned quietly. He'd heard two flashbangs go off inside the palace, and the echoing gunfire out of it wasn't helping sooth his nerves either.

"C'mon. Sooner we can get the embassy secured, the better." Pellas called, leading the way for the loose group of Marines. Moving through the city was hard, though. Everything seemed quiet. Too quiet.

Yes, those words were usually an invitation for a Giger-esque alien to come out of nowhere in an attempt to rip and tear, but at this point it would have been welcoming to see something they could fight. Urban fighting was hell on the nerves, and they never knew what might be lurking in the buildings, waiting for them to turn their back so a spear or axe could be used to attack.

They knew they were close when they found the first corpse. He'd been on the roof of a building, and had fallen off when the bullet hit him. Trying to seize the high ground was a good idea, but when a marksman could see you, the marksman could kill you and there was nothing a short rise like a building could do to save someone from that. As they pressed further in, it quickly became obvious where the embassy was.

"Careful, now." Pellas muttered. "Hey! In the house! We're friendlies!"

Moments later, a soldier came out- one in familiar tan cammies, and not some exoctic uniform. Keeping their rifle at the low ready, they slowly moved forward. It was a little disturbing when Pellas noted the blood on their bayonet, but he steeled himself and waited for the American to get closer.

"You're part of the relief party, right?" the soldier asked carefully. "I'm Mendez."

"Yeah, we're the relief party." Pellas called. "Let's get inside."

---

Pacing wildly, Wyta looked over at the new companions the little house had grown. Fourteen additional warm bodies, plus the four that were here and their own unusual weapons, meant she might just have a chance at breaking out and taking care of those ships. If she got close enough to the ward source, she might be able to use a smaller spell to get the ward source to drop his focus, at which point she'd break out the greater magics, like earthquakes or something. Earthquakes might be a bit much, though- she needed the city to stay in decent shape. Maybe liquefying the earth so it swallowed them up? Yeah, that would work.

Now all she had to do was find a way to slip a word in edgewise against the conversation Bear, the black man who had come in with the rescue force, and Johnson were having.

"So there's artillery, right?" Bear asked, as another series of booms went off. "That sounds like artillery."

"We brought the tank platoon." the black man replied. "They're supposed to be fighting the ships, but it doesn't sound like they're shooting enough. Something might be wrong."

"Staff Sergeant Pellas… do we have a plan?" Johnson asked, her nervous energy pulsing. "We've got rounds, but this isn't a great place to stage a last stand."

"We're gathering people up by the market." the now-named as Pellas man stated. "If we get them there, along with the valuable equipment, you'll have machine gunners all around to support. We can always get another house."

"Great." muttered Bear. "Well, we've got spare hands to carry gear, so that's not going to be too big an issue."

Choosing that moment, Wyta stepped in carefully. "I can help, some."

"Thought you said you couldn't do anything without getting fried?" Bear asked, curious.

"Something's up with the ward. It's…" Wyta shook her hand. "You know that quote from the guy in a blue box?"

"People assume that time is a strict progression of cause to effect, but actually, from a nonlinear, non-subjective viewpoint, it's more like a big ball of wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey... stuff" Bear supplied, recalling the Doctor Who quote.

"Pretty much that." Wyta said, shrugging. "Only magic."

Snorting, Pellas looked at Wyta very carefully. "What kind of magic?"

"What do you mean?" she asked, glaring at the NCO.

Pellas sighed. "How far away do we have to stand not to get hit with the backlash?"

A little hand-waving later, and Wyta grinned. "Ten feet, ish."

"I hate to break up the meguca party, but how is this going to help?" Johnson asked, her face stern. "Can't exactly point her at the enemy and expect results."

"No, but if I go down to the beach and start blowing their ships up, that'll concentrate them nicely. Besides, fucking pigs probably already started capturing slaves." Wyta said, grinning. "Figure if we open up their ships, might get some net profit out of the deal. Or just my father's idiots back."

Looking back across to Bear and Johnson, Pellas began planning carefully. "We've got fourteen guys, and six in the Weapons. That's two machine gunners and four AGs… twenty total. Say we send six of the rifles and two of the AGs with the guys here to the market with your refugees. The rest come with us, and we go down and save anybody in the boats, then Wyta here wrecks them and we try and draw as many as we can into a killing field."

Looking over, Johnson sighed. "Where'd the squad sergeant go?"

As a burst of rifle fire went off from outside the building, the Marines moved quickly to see Sergeant Hancock holding an arrow in his arm, and a screaming enemy soldier he'd maimed down the way with a short bow and stone axe. Putting two on target reflexively, Pellas sighed.

"Guess that answers that." he muttered. "God, this is a right mess."

Bear's wry smile bore out carefully, and he looked at Pellas. "You thought it would be literally anything else?"

"Hope dies last, Lieutenant." the NCO replied, groaning. "Lance Corporal Johnson, change of plans. Think you can take some guys down with, er-"

"Wyta." Bear interjected.

"Yes, her. Make it four guys, and take one of the machine guns. Make sure to not die and all. Looks like I'm taking this lot to the market."

Johnson nodded, her frayed hair bobbing in time with her head. Looking over the guys, she pointed at three guys, as well as the machine gunner who hadn't been leering overmuch at the refugees in the back. With Wyta leading them towards the shore, they disappeared into the smoke without fanfare. Turning, Pelas looked at Bear.

"You mind leading the way?"

A shrug later, and Bear started guiding the group back down the straight road to the market. It was time to go, and hope the few assigned to remain could hold the building. It was a well-founded hope, and while those might not hold up so well these days, it was all they were going to get until the city was clear.

 

[7734]

Sitting carefully in the village, a young Marine looked left very carefully. Nobody was there. Then he looked right, scanning the street for any officers, NCOs, or civilians. A rustle of leaves was all he got. With great paranoia, he checked behind him. There was a wall of a house. Sighing in relief, he pulled open his satchel, and got out his lunch. First up was a peanut butter cup, along with an apple. Slicing the apple to eat the peanut butter, the Marine smiled and finished that up, before eating the core and putting the litter back. Next came the dangerous part, though.

"Hello!" a cheery voice shouted from right by his elbow, and the Marine sprawled backwards, bagel flying. Leaping over him to catch it, the local girl saved the bread from falling in the muck of the road, messing up her tunic and skirt in the process. Standing up, she moved in to tisk at the Marine for making her need to leap to save what was now her lunch.

"Hey, hey, ease up!" the Marine yelled. Trying to get to his feet, he lunged for the bagel and missed, nearly ending up on the ground. The local girl laughed at him, before skipping away. Striding after her, the Marine got up next to her, and started waving his hands angrily.

"You can't just take a guy's lunch!" he yelled, looking at the girl angrily. Her response was a chuckle, and bumping his shoulder. Turning, they kept going until they ended up at one of the local buildings that was fairly permanent, with log corners and a foundation, with heavy cedar planks making up the walls. Ducking in after the girl, the Marine had to let his eyes adjust from the relative light to the dark, illuminated only from a few shuttered windows by the back of the building and a small firebowl, raised from the floor. At a table, the girl sat fiddling with a small charm, the food sitting there on a small metal plate.

"Hey!" he yelled, before his brain kicked in. "My lunch!"

Blinking, the girl smiled at him. "My lunch, now."

"You could have asked for it!"

The girl started. "Really? When I go to the food place, they don't give me any."

The Marine groaned quietly, and rolled his eyes. "That's because they don't serve civies there. If you ask one of us, outside the mess hall, then we'll probably give you something. Its tax-deductable, so…"

The girl's eyes widened. "You don't get taxed on things that go to the Temple?"

The Marine shrugged. "Yes?"

"What's your name?"

"Martel… Thomas Martel."

"And you can get more bread, right?"

"Yes…"

The girl smiled, standing up and giving the Marine a bow. "I am Jenevie, Apprentice Priestess of this temple. What would you like in return, if you were to bring a portion of bread unto the temple once a week?"

Martel shrugged. "Hmm. Can I get my bagel back first?"

Breaking the bagel into three, Jenevie put one portion onto the plate, one onto the table, and one to Martel. Nodding, Martel ate his piece, while Jenevie put one piece into the fire and ate the next piece. This done, she smiled at him and leaned back, content.

"Do you want to take a seat?" she asked, smiling. "If you are interested, we still have a little beer."

"Okay...." Martel said. "But, why?"

Jenevie smiled, and grabbed the small skin of beer off a shelf.

"Well, you are a patron of the temple now. It would be quite rude for me to not grant you some hospitality." she said, smiling. "Besides, when they learn I got a patron, the old man will finally let me out sometimes!"

Martel just raised an eyebrow, and took a sip of the beer. Aside from the musty, goat-like taste, it reminded him of chewing on barley soaked in honey. Handing it back, he watched Jenevie take a sip, before corking it and putting it on the table. Sighing, he just checked his watch, before standing.

"Well, it's nice to meet you, Jenevie, but I have to be at the barracks soon."

"And you as well, Martel."

---

It was two days later that Martel discovered he'd made a mistake. The means of this learning were a Master Sergeant coming down on Bravo Company like a ton of bricks, plus the joy of an attached staffing lieutenant. Apparently, there'd been a couple of issues back at the town- including one very junior temple helper and a priestess who wanted to see him. One uncomfortable humvee ride later, and Martel was standing outside the temple with three loaves of bread and a case of beer. Knocking on the door, he was surprised when a different woman opened it with a wide smile.

"Come in, come in!" the woman said, smiling. "You're the new patron of the temple, yes?"

"Ah, yes?" Martel said, stepping in over the threshold carefully. As a tingle went through his skin, he smiled carefully. "I bought the bread, ma'am."

"Oh, thank you!" she said, smiling. "You can call me Corn Woman."

Martel blinked, and nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

"Oh, you must be new to the temple. Don't worry, I promise I won't be up to any mischief. Jenevie, darling! Come over- your good friend brought the bread!"

---

Outside, the intelligence officer driving the humvee grabbed his radio and looked at his assistant. As cliche as disguising a captain as a sergeant might be, it generally worked if they didn't say anything.

"So… that new priestess." the Lieutenant said, looking at his boss. "Call it a hunch, but I don't think she's what she says she is."

"Considering I heard half of that and she didn't ever say what she was…" the Captain muttered.

"So, should we put this in the 'spooky things' folder next to the hunting god prophet that got pissed when we were building the roads to whateverthehell they call the capitol?"

"Yeah, and this feels about as funny as last time."

"Yeesh." muttered the Captain. "Why did I have to work HUMINT?"

"Because we don't have a magical SIGINT yet."

"We need to get on that."

"Yep."