A quiet shush broke the room’s thoughtful silence as the communication unit lowered into its tabletop housing. In three counts of his heart’s beat, there was nothing to see on the tabletop but its gleaming metal surface.
The cabal’s commander stirred. “Sergeant?”
“Sir?”
“Process the orders for the liquid teams. I want a full report by day’s end. I want the chosen mobilized and ready to deploy by week’s end. That’s three days from now.”
What? Suddenly he didn’t know how to tell Earth time? “Yes, sir.”
He reached for Steve to relay the orders. ::Deployment Friday…Saturday latest. Evaluations and recommendations are due to command before moonset. Keep the best of the best on this base, ready to act when called. If the Targolt are going hot, so are we.::
::Understood.::
The cabal commander waited until the message had been passed between the two before he resumed delivering orders.
“Leave your pod-kin on top of that,” he said. “I want you hands-on with the volunteers and their training. I want you with them every step of the way, for their protection as well as ours.”
There was no need for further explanations. Mike understood the risks everyone was taking with this project. Politics and intergalactic relations aside, the Urilqii wielded planet-busting weaponry. It was not something anyone was willing to let fall into alien hands. They needed to develop their own technology at their own pace. If history had taught anything, it was that bad things happened when that reality went ignored.
“See to it, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir,” Mike said and stepped away from the table.
Voices rose behind him in a low murmur as he departed the room. It was irksome not to be a part of the tactical discussions like he normally was, especially since he was tasked to nursemaid some noobs into and out of basic equipment training, but sometimes the top dog had to deal with shit. Such was life.
Steve reached for him. ::Am I getting any volunteers?:: Mike stopped and tugged his own personal data unit from a thigh pocket of his uniform. He ignored the personnel moving around and past him, intent on their own duties, and brought the unit to active status. A flick of his index finger moved him through his files until he found the updated one regarding volunteer skill sets and interests. The file informed him twelve of the volunteers had signed up for the liquid teams.
::Twelve.::
::Nice. Hopefully they won’t puke in the equipment.:: Questions spun in his mind. Could they handle the work?
Could their bodies handle the internal changes? How easily could humans cast off their gravity-dependant reality for a reality that included vertical movement in the same dynamics. They appeared to spend a lot of time moving left and right and with heavy reliance on gravity’s influence for confidence. How easily did they shift into a zero-G reality? Only training would answer those questions.
::Liam and Jace did unexpectedly well in the multiple dimensional game they called pool::.
::Thinking is one thing,:: he reminded the Envoy . ::Doing it is another.::
No reply came to him, so Mike considered his point made. The Envoy had many talents, but the training of soldiers wasn’t one of them. That was Mike’s strong point and why he excelled at his assignment.
::Well, that and your modesty.::
He ignored Steve’s taunt. ::Call up the ranks.::
With that, he thumbed off the unit, tucked it back into his pocket, and resumed his trek across the hall. He pushed through the door and exited into the bright, beautiful yellow sunlight.
There, he paused.
The slight breeze caressed his skin and tugged at his beard as he blinked against the glare. In moments, his eyes adapted and Earth’s vivid colors sprang into his vision. Greens. Browns. Blues.
Whites. Jewel shades and pastels touched nature’s canvas like they’d been refracted through a prism. Nebulae beauty on this small, blue planet.
In the middle distance, easy for him to see, but far enough away to constitute a zone of safety, the local fauna of Earth moved about on cautious, careful feet or leaped into the crystalline sky on proud wings.
This was such a pretty planet. Sure, it wasn’t his home world, but the Urilqii would fight until their last drop of blood to prevent its mutilation by the Targolt. Some things were too precious to let fall to the hands of greed’s rapacity. Some things were worth fighting to preserve.
He spent a long moment staring at the growing disk of darkness that slowly blotted out a section of this planet’s primary star. The menace of the Targolt approached. Mike forced himself back to business. He strode across the main grounds and sent a watchful gaze over everything in his line of sight, ensuring all was proceeding as expected. A Forward Operating Base was like a spoiled child. Too long without Daddy’s attention and it started to break things.
Noting caught his attention other than the shouted greetings, which he returned, as he headed for the flight lines. He did have a couple of pit stops to make, though. The mess hall was the first one that crossed his path.
Mike ducked inside and noted how the tables had been pushed to the walls to make room for the re-breather and thermal-maintenance equipment spread out across the center of the floor. A ring of personnel encircled said equipment. The human cook stood in the middle of the room…and in the middle of a blowout.
The portly man with swarthy skin had turned an alarming vermilion as he waved his arms about with violent thrashing motions, which was made all the more alarming by the tubular, wooden implement in his left hand. A stream of words spewed from his mouth and echoed into the room. Mike didn’t immediately recognize the language, but could speculate the words were less than friendly.
An angry mess hall leader always heralded a shitty dinner.
That, of course, shot morale to shit.
Mike caught sight of members of his Urilqii Food Service Squadron as they peeked into the room from where they lurked behind the angry human. The amused expressions vanished the moment they spotted Mike in the entranceway.
Their asses also vanished from the doorway as they fled back to their duties.
Steve held the ground halfway between the volunteers and the angry cook. He was doing his best to ease the situation, although it was obvious he didn’t understand the verbal deluge either.
“Take it easy, Marco,” Steve was saying, his voice soothing.
“I’ll make sure the tables are put back before we leave.”
Chef Marco, Mike remembered. He did amazing things with cheese. But at this moment, he looked ready to do amazing things against Steve’s head with that wood-tube-thing.
The chef spat out another stream of…Italian? Mike struggled to find the language. His memory gave a sluggish response. The man’s annoyance was over “filth” and “germs” that threatened his “excellent food.”
“Really.” Steve held out his hands in a staying gesture. “You’ll never know we were here. The floor will be so clean you could—”
He broke off and cleared his throat.
Marco looked like a surface-to-air missile primed to launch. He swelled further, if that was possible, and opened his mouth to further emphasize his ire, but, as amusing as this was, it couldn’t be allowed to continue.
Mike stepped forward. Chef Marco noticed his advance and bit off his words.
“Okay, that’s enough.” Mike flicked a telling gaze between the two. Steve’s jaw squared, but he stifled his annoyance like the good soldier he was. Marco, however, wasn’t ready to end things.
“Sergeant!” He shouted the word and wound up for another blast. “This soldier has—”
“I can see what he’s done.” He added an icy tone to his voice.
“All of it is standard operating procedure.”
“You permit this insult to my—”
Mike cut him off again. “Rest assured, the room will be cleaned and prepped for another of your excellent meals thirty minutes before service begins.” He cut S
teve a speaking glance.
Steve’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, it will.”
“But the germs—”
“And the master sergeant will have the room disinfected as the final step in the process.”
The angry cook, relaxed.
“Your concerns over sanitation are noted and taken seriously. Everyone will eat safe tonight, even if the master sergeant has to use the chemical cleaner himself. You have my word.” He slanted another glance to his pod-kin. “Right?”
Steve’s mouth tightened. “Right.”
A smile broke across Marco’s broad face, highlighting skin no longer flushed. “Thank you. I know your people are resistant to germs and diseases, but we are still vulnerable to many.”
“I understand.” Mike nodded and didn’t bother noting that the Urilqii medical teams could combat anything Earth’s toxins could throw at personnel. “Safety first. The E’ssennet adhere to that standard for your people as well as ours.”
With a virtuous smile, the chef nodded and returned to his passion. He flicked the kitchen doors shut behind him.
::Way to go, bus driver,:: Steve snapped.
Yeah, Steve was pissed. Sucked to be him.
::Morale,:: he reminded Steve. ::A happy soldier is a better soldier. And good food goes a long way toward making happy soldiers.::
His pod-kin snorted audibly as they both turned to face the wary, silent group of human volunteers and members of the cabal who’d volunteered to act as teaching assistants. Mike pasted a friendly expression onto his face and made the rounds, shaking hands and thanking them for their willingness to volunteer.
The soonest he could make his escape he did so and headed toward his second check-in point. Things in the motor pool were as he expected, stuffed with soldiers and not a pissed person in sight.
It was no surprise the majority of volunteers were here. Their species didn’t let their hands or feet leave the ground, not without some form of vehicle. Left or right was the norm. Long curves of movement joined angles instead of a simple directional shift. He didn’t understand that type of reality, but he recognized that it would be of significant value in battle against the enemy. He just needed to figure out how.
Mike’s people didn’t yet have the answer, but they would.
They had to find that answer. Earth’s residents needed to be trained and able to take care of their planet without outside assistance. The Urilqii wouldn’t be here forever.
He made the rounds again, smiling and glad-handing the volunteers, and was prevented from leaving by an invitation to join the platoon as they introduced the equipment. Since a vehicle-to-vehicle inspection was one of his duties, Mike surrendered to the inevitable and killed two Targolt with one blast.
He assisted the process of familiarizing the humans with Urilqii land, water and air vehicles at the same times he inspected the ones actively beneath his hands.
Mike wasn’t worried about the delay. Flight wouldn’t lift off with their volunteers until he got to the field. He’d been damned clear about that. However, it was with a sense of relief that he did make his exit.
He stopped by supply to retrieve his flight suit, then climbed into it. He was headed toward the field even before he finished sealing his seams.
His helmet bobbed on his hip as he approached the squadron, still folding and tucking and buckling. He noticed with pride how each soldier stood at attention behind a spotless flight suit.
His blood bubbled through his veins as his heartbeat doubled from the excitement. Any chance to go aloft brought euphoria.
Flight .
Mike fucking loved to fly. The instant his feet left the ground, he was someone else, somewhere else. He was high and bright.
He—almost fell over his own feet as he tripped to a stop.
Liam stood on the flight field.
Their eyes met…and held.
CHAPTER 7
Except for the eerie, ever-present circular shadow carved out of the sunlight by the threatening alien spaceship, the sun above looked normal. The sky gleamed the crystalline blue of an Oregon summer through which the clouds drifted, fluffy and white, and with languid ease. Sure, months from now everything would be covered in the Big Gray, but not right now. Right now, things were gorgeous.
Raptors flew above the tall pine trees, waterfowl paddled and quacked in the nearby river, and squirrels chased through the grass.
Engines and voices rumbled from the near distance. A light breeze swept the line of soldiers standing with regimented discipline on an area of cleared ground, perfection in every squared body and jaw.
The equipment before each pair of polished boots gleamed.
Liam stood among his fellows and felt like a giant ass.
As the platoon sergeant droned his welcome speech, he considered his plight. The look on Mike’s face when they’d made eye contact moments ago hadn’t been one of welcome. In fact, it was better described as shocked, maybe even horrified.
Christ, it was looking like this coming year was going to suck.
He’d clearly made a dumb decision. He was not welcome.
What the fuck had he been thinking to come all this way, to push himself into an alien military company? Then to make the tragic decision to volunteer for the military flight detachment. Why?
Because of a kiss?
One hot kiss, sure, as well as a world-changing one, but it seemed of little importance to anyone other than him. First Sergeant Mike, AKA Gorgeous, was indifferent, perhaps even uncomfortable.
That sucked. Maybe that explained his humongous mood swings. Moments ago, he’d been riding high and ready to dance on air. Man, he was feeling godlike. Flight, never his comfort zone, didn’t scare him today. He was ready to leap into the skies and do that Superman thing.
Man, just think about it. Powered flight without a plane?
Amazing. But now? He thought he might puke, which was a feeling he was more familiar with when faced with flight. Where had that excitement come from? Had someone loaded his breakfast foods with sprinkles of idiocy?
Furthermore, what had he expected upon his arrival? For Mike to surge forward and pull him into a bear hug? Okay, yeah, he’d imagined that. While the guy was in active ranks? Probably not realistic, but hell, a smile would’ve been nice.
Clearly, the guy wasn’t interested.
“…flight outside a machine will be unique for your people,”
Mike was saying. “The Urilqii understand the challenges you will face, as well as the time needed to acquaint yourself with the sensations and the equipment.”
“Indeed.” The platoon sergeant, a guy named Phil, nodded his agreement. “In truth, fledgling Urilqii don’t just leap into the air either. They need training. They get training. They get comfortable and then they get good. Look around you.”
He swept an arm in an arch. Liam, as well as his fellow flight volunteers, followed the gesture. Behind them, garbed in flight gear, ranks of alien infantry stood at ready. Four vehicles idled quietly at the very back of the half circle. Liam counted helmets and discovered each machine contained six Urilqii. They watched and waited in silence.
“What you see,” Phil continued, “is the number of troops who will assist your training and acclimation. Your equipment”—he pointed with a long index finger at the bundles at the volunteers’ feet— “will be in observation mode upon your first lift. It’s for your training and protection.
“Your suits are controlled by the sleds”—the finger now stabbed at a higher angle to indicate the machines— “so you may go aloft and maintain altitude with absolute confidence.”
A desert sandstorm slammed into existence inside Liam’s mouth.
“The individuals behind you,” said Phil, “are there to assist in the event one of you loses altitude, which can happen when a first time flyer panics from the newness. New flyers are unstable. That’s a reality.”
He shrugged before he continued.
“The suits you will use are battle-test
ed and have passed safety inspections. Equipment failure is a remote possibility. I’m not gonna lie, but the expectation of it happening are so minimal as to be near incalculable.”
Liam coughed. Was that a burp or a gag?
Mike stood with feet braced and arms crossed, radiating authority. “If you tumble, we will catch you. We will do two things. One, link the suits so the more experienced flyer can take control and stop the drop, and two, give the new flyer something to hold onto. That gives an immediate negation to the feeling of freefall.”
Liam coughed again. It tasted like puke. Not a good sign.
“If,” Mike plowed on, “for whatever reason, both suits fail, you will not fall alone and we will ensure we hit the ground first. You’ll land on our trooper to spare you as much of the impact as possible. We won’t like doing it, because it fucking hurts, but we’ll do it anyway.”
Wild, synchronized roars ripped across the area and were followed by repeated bass hoots. Hoo…hoo…hoo…
Liam clawed his heart from where it’d lodged into his throat and concluded that was the Urilqii call of solidarity. His first clue was the lack of reaction from Mike or Phil at the sound. In fact, they offered expressions of knife-sharp approval when it split the air.
“Okay, let’s suit up and fly.”
Mike’s robust conclusion, full of cheerful enthusiasm, was an obvious ploy to ease any insecurities. It didn’t help Liam, however.
In fact, he was feeling woozy. He was sweaty and hot.
Phil stepped up and took command of the instructions from Mike, who didn’t protest. Mike, however, slanted a glance toward Liam. His brows gathered over his nose and his eyes narrowed with a squint.
Liam thought about figuring out a good time to consider what the expression meant, but he was busy paying attention to his stomach. It was acting like a rodeo bull, twisting and kicking beneath his ribs with vicious intent.
Oh, shit. He held up a trembling hand.
“Let me introduce you to the slip suit,” Phil continued. “Step in and pull it up to your waist. This inner garment is the first line of defense. It works to maintain your stable temperature and blood pressure, as well as enact emergency repairs to your outer shell or body, if necessary. It also handles the reclamation process of your— What is it, Mr. Sinclair?”
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