Kirby snapped her fingers. “Uh, by the way, Nico, you can sleep on my couch if ya need. Let the drones pick up all the gross shit?”
“That will be quite generous given what is occurring in the last place I slept. Given that my existing bedding will be mostly incinerated, the discarded body parts are only one of many problematic facts that afflicted my living situation, so I thank you for your consideration.”
Bryluen shook her head. “Alright, all of you—I’m going to bed, because I am an old lady who needs her beauty rest. Try not to get eaten any more tonight if you don’t mind.”
The others said good night to Bryluen, and continued chatting in the hall for a time as the small automated drones set about cleaning the hall and Nicadzim’s bedroom. After a time they each retired, Kirby helping Nicadzim gather a few things to take with him so he could crash on her couch.
11. Firefighting and Formalities
Eight squads of twelve armored figures slid through the underbrush. Each was clad in full-coverage plates whose rigid dedication to convex angles did little to distract from their elegant craftsmanship and worshipful attention to subtle detail. The soldiers’ elbows, knees, feet, and gauntlets were sealed in sound-absorbent coating allowing them to climb, crawl, and stalk silently. Their long, rectangular shoulder pads extended out past the joint, and the flared neck guards on the backs of their helmets gave them an intimidating profile.
In their hands they each held slender, black firearms and long straight blades slung across their backs. The leader of each squad held their blade in one hand unsheathed, the tempered edges a matte blue in the shade of the undergrowth. In their other fists they held sidearms—essentially a pair of brass knuckles that projected bolts of energy outward from between a pair of prongs. The warrior in the rear of each squad bore a pack on their back containing the squad’s banner, both a woven flag and a device that securely transmitted their location to the orbiting ship when activated.
The platoon of Qixing Gate Sentinels had been rapidly laying traps throughout the forested reaches of Gru’Thiall. The world’s orbital surveillance suite had detected an unknown contact, and the Sentinels deployed to confront them. Visual confirmation from one of the surveillance drones confirmed a similarity to the recent threat reported by the Human CSOE. The Sentinels were to eliminate every available target. The wide enemy advance rushed like stampeding luxan through the jungle toward their uncertain goal. Gru’Thiall was uninhabited, its surface watched by the Gate Sentinels due purely to its proximity to Compression Gates on the border of Qixing territory facing the galactic rim.
The Sentinels’ commander directed the squads to disperse and prepare their positions for a holding action, impassive through their opaque chevron-shaped visors. Each squad toted a heavy weapon, either a rapid-fire self-propelling munitions launcher or a coilgun mounted on a slender swiveling stand. The heavy weapons were set up on the edge of a long incline overlooking where the enemy was soon to pass.
Sonic and flash projectors were set up to disorient the foe on the approach toward the heavy weaponry. Sharpshooters climbed into thick tree boughs, and the others took cover behind trees, rocks, and berms. After a minute of frenzied activity, the Sentinels disappeared from sight, their sudden stillness and the density of their surroundings allowing them to go unobserved. Orbital data continued to relay the distance between the enemy advance and the Sentinels.
The Dreaded initially landed and headed off in a number of directions at once as if searching for something, before coalescing and heading out on their current course as one mass.
The Sentinels were sworn to stop them from reaching their goal regardless of the cost. The incursion was comparatively small, but all battles were dire matters and each life counted. The Qixing were outnumbered but expected as much. The Sentinels were accustomed to performing vicious ambushes and hit-and-fade attacks that harried invaders who dared set foot on Qixing worlds, often dispersing threats long before action by the Interior Guard became necessary.
The enemy would reach the front-most traps in eighteen seconds at their current speed. Hands clamped on weapon grips and blades. The launchers were armed and the coilguns silently accelerated to their idle oscillation speeds. The intervening seconds were tense, the sound of hundreds of oncoming feet building in volume as The Dreaded crashed through the purple ’ferns’ and creepers that filled the space beneath the tall Orcsha trees. The sun passing through the leaves above cast the scene in a copper tint. The foot of a rushing Gugalanna passed near a small, white device concealed in the dirt. The mine sprung from the ground and burst in a brief wave of ionized gasses, flash-frying a radius of Dreaded in a blue flash of light. The survivors cried out, but their continued motion caused more and more mines to leap and burst in turn.
The commander gave a curt command, and the Qixing opened fire. White streaks of the Sentinel’s infamous corkscrew bullets and the crack of energetic bolts sailed forward in neat salvos that cut into the oncoming enemy. The launchers began to spit exploding munitions at a rate of four a second, trailing explosions in a lazy arc through the enemy mass. The coilguns screamed like banshees. Their whirling circular frames projected a stream of miniature projectiles through the woods that struck in a devastating, disintegrating impact.
The Dreaded began to fall by the dozens due to the sudden onslaught, the mines slowing the advance as the weapons-fire mercilessly carved into the horde. A brisk, easterly gust of wind dispersed the dusty soot spurting from the rents and bullet holes wrought upon the falling Dreaded. Regardless, due to sheer numbers, the horde began to approach the Qixing front line. The line soldiery, on the hill below the heavy weapon emplacements, drew their swords and prepared for melee. However, they did retain one final trick: this was a joint deployment.
A squadron of five Astral Marine Ninurta Class Heavy Walkers burst through the tree line toward the enemy flank. Each was a chunky, bipedal war machine eight meters high. Their legs allowed them to traverse any form of rough terrain, bringing vehicle-class weaponry to the battlefield with great maneuverability. The Ninurtas hosted an array of weapons mounted to their chassis on sponsons, each of which was capable of demolishing buildings and slaughtering infantry positions. Within the armored depths of the chassis three crew members operated the walker’s movement, weaponry, and communication systems. It took concerted anti-tank weaponry to down the hulking machines—and even then their ability to crouch, side-step, hop, or even lean in and out of cover made them much more difficult targets than traditional tanks. Despite their expense and the specialist knowledge required to maintain and operate them, the Ninurta and smaller walker classes had proven excellent additions to the Marine arsenal since their introduction.
The Ninurtas opened up with dual miniguns, the soil hurtling skyward in huge swaths as ten spinning firearms unloaded thousands of rounds per minute into the enemy. Rocket mounts and a large-bore cannon on the upper surfaces of the chassis lit up as well, loosing high-explosive ordnance into the enemy mass. A pulsing plasma gun at each walker’s chin gushed energized projectiles whose light produced a glow that suffused the oily smoke coating the battlefield with an ethereal aura. The Dreaded hesitated in their advance, and began to shift some of their mass to attempt to overwhelm the walkers. In response, flames billowed from defensive armaments on the leg assemblies, wreathing the Ninurtas in a hellish glow.
After several minutes The Dreaded began to fall back, pursued closely by both the walkers and fleet-footed Sentinels. Surely, these creatures could not pose so great a threat against the full might of the allied forces?
◆◆◆
The morning the Qixing diplomats were due to arrive, Dread Naught sat on the couches in the lounge at the time Bryluen had instructed them. Each held a cup of coffee— excluding Vort, who drank green tea from a special cup better equipped to accommodate both his lack of hands and his trunk. They had all learned, in somewhat slapstick fashion, that coffee put Vort to sleep with the same force and suddenness as if he
had been struck by an elephant tranquilizer. Kirby was in pajamas with a towel holding her drying hair. Runner sat next to her wearing pajama pants and an athletic top, his bare feet on the glass coffee table in between the couches. Vort was next to them on the first couch cradling his cup with the side of his body, sipping idly from it as his eyes wheeled around the room. Across the table on the second couch Nicadzim sat in shorts and a loose shirt, drinking from a thin stream of coffee that was sluggishly rising from his cup toward the ceiling.
The confident pound of heavy shoes preceded Bryluen's arrival. She wore a charcoal tailored jacket secured by a length of silver cording. Beneath it the neat, high collar of her crisp white blouse stood out. She wore a matching tapered skirt, her pleasantly toffee-colored skin a warm contrast to the cool tones of her clothing. A few inches of the complex tattoo on her right leg emerged from the bottom of the skirt, a colorful sweep of two designs that intertwined ever tighter as the tattoo advanced from just above her knee up to its end at her hip. One design was an aquatic motif of coral and alien fish envisioned in warm colors, and the second an aerial scene of birds, floating leaves, and clouds rendered in cool tones. The brilliant colors of the artwork stood out beautifully from her skin tone. Just above her high collar, the top of her neck tattoo was visible. She wore graceful black platform shoes, her hair was neatly styled, one wrist bore a finely tooled silver chain, and understated black studs were mounted in her ears.
The other members of the team silently observed her heightened state of dress. Runner took a breath. “... so b-b-basically we were supposed to be here and dressed?”
Bryluen smiled sweetly and took her cup of coffee from a passing drone. She sipped the drink without further comment, gazing expectantly past a small, black nose ring in her left nostril. The team, excluding Vort, simultaneously rushed out from the lounge to their rooms to put on the business-appropriate attire she ensured they ordered days prior.
Fifteen minutes later they began to file back out in appropriate clothing. Runner wore a handsome dark brown suit with a crème shirt. Additionally, he adorned himself with a thin tie, cuff links, and pointed dress shoes. He had wrangled his hair into neat braids that hung down his back, appearing perfectly comfortable in an elevated state of dress. Nicadzim as well wore a suit, in his case a more traditional gray affair with suspenders over a dress shirt. He had brushed and plucked his mustache, and his massive feet were bound in black shoes. Kirby emerged in a simple green dress, wearing green earrings and flats. Her hair was neatly secured behind her head, with a decorative pin of the Astral Marine Corps. crest. She emerged into the hallway with the wary discomfort of a cat that had been sprayed with a garden hose.
Bryluen was waiting at the end of the corridor and flashed her a thumbs up, at which point Kirby let out a pent-up breath.
“Oh god, I decided to punch holes back in my ears, it’s been forever. At no time did I think about havin’ to do all this actin’ nice and dressin’ up shit! This dress is on forward, right?”
Bryluen put a hand on her shoulder as they walked together back to the lounge. “Given the slit in the back, the dress would be somewhat daring had you worn it backwards—maybe next time? Just breathe, remember that you could kill any of these people if you really wanted to, and that this is in no way, shape, or form a high pressure engagement for you.”
Bryluen paused. “Actually, don’t think about that last thing I said—when something high pressure does come around I don’t want you passing out on me.”
The team again gathered in the lounge in the same seating order, with Bryluen sitting next to Nicadzim. She sat stock straight with her legs crossed, a bastion of imperiousness worthy of Parliament.
She placed her coffee cup onto the table. “You have all gone over the etiquette packets, so I wished to brush up on a few other points that don’t usually make it into the standard papers. The Qixing, as you may know, are a people that highly respect formality and professionalism when dealing in business or politics. Their negotiating party is a rigidly organized group: one ranking ambassador who does the talking, and two secondary ambassadors, each of whom has a specialty relevant to the negotiation at hand and provides information or insight when needed. Each diplomat will be accompanied by a number of retainers both to exhibit rank and to perform mundane tasks: four retainers for the head diplomat, and two for each secondary. Generally speaking these retainers will consist of one body guard and one secretary, while the two extras afforded for the primary will be yolnfa—basically geishas.
“After initial introductions I’ll be taking the diplomats to our meeting room to do the official work, which is the complex part. The secretaries will be inside the room for that, while the body guards and yolnfas will be out in the lounge with all of you. Qixing warriors are disciplined and very externally quiet—they may just stay outside on the landing pad. That won't be true of the yolnfas, who are experts at conversation. Luckily you’re all interesting people, so don’t get nervous—no one will be bored. Rant about yourself if you need to.
“On the topic of socialization, there are a couple of things you need to understand going in: Qixing don’t discuss the personal physical details of others ever unless such a subject is volunteered—this includes commenting on tattoos, jewelry, hair, anything like that, so wait until they offer up the subject. I know that feels strange to us, but please keep it in mind. The other huge difference in conversational standards is, and I cannot stress this enough: the Qixing are extremely forward about sexuality. That sounds counter-intuitive, I’m sure, but while it is considered impolite to address someone’s physical appearance unbidden, they have almost no hangups about sex. It’s possible to be propositioned at some point, just a warning.
“In a species where it takes three to tango—in two combinations, several months apart—accidental pregnancy is rare and difficult. The Qixing thus never developed the shame complex much of humanity developed from our early history. When two curious teenagers can slip out to the barn and accidentally make a kid, it’s tougher to control your population growth. The Qixing, on the other hand, think little more of it than you or I would of asking someone if they want a sandwich. They’re almost certainly not going to ask due to this being a diplomatic event, but I thought I’d cover it just in case.”
The team paused in contemplation. Vort cycled a few odd colors as he tried to comprehend how the Qixing reproduced. Runner raised a hand. “Okay, but most important qu-uestion … could we say yes?”
Bryluen paused, fixing Runner with a stare so blank it could strip the color from a wall. In an equally emotionless voice she pushed a response through her lips. “Correct me if I am mistaken, but I believe you just asked me for clarification on whether or not it would be okay to take someone’s retainer out back to fornicate during an official CSOE function.”
Runner pursed his lips. “... o-oh, no, that’s … d-d-d-definitely ... not what I asked?”
The Operative’s face lit up again and she resumed her usual tone. “Well that’s good! Just remember this is easy on you folks—there would be ceremonial sparring with big sticks if this was a summit with the T’hròstag.”
Nicadzim leaned forward and put his hands on the table. “What … what happened if all three species arrive at one conference to have negotiated?”
The Operative sat back. “You have never seen a more wretched social labyrinth. Inter-species meeting organizers have life-long job security, trust me. I’ll summarize: Qixing think the T’hròstag’s symbolic combat is barbaric while we think it's inherently threatening to have blatantly armed individuals standing around inside a negotiating space, so the Human and Qixing body guards and the T’hròstag Champions do what needs to be done in an exterior arena prepared out of sight of where the Qixing diplomats are to enter. Meanwhile the Human and Qixing retainers socialize in an area out of sight of the T’hròstag, because the T’hròstag think small talk is immoral and any sort of sexuality is absolutely the most abhorrent thing they’ve ever
heard of to such a degree that a tell-tale eyelash flutter will upset them as if they were being actively vomited on.
“Also: the Qixing and T’hròstag find hors d’oeuvres respectively petty and insulting for various cultural reasons, which means a proper meal has to be provided, and that is one of the most awe-inspiring tasks this side of Compressed Space calculations due to divergent dietary needs and vastly separated food cultures. There’s a reason the CSOE uses ’Serving yogurt to a Ly Aulth’ as a metaphor for fucking something up so badly it could cause a war.
“The actual meeting itself similarly incorporates a triumvirate of standards. This means talks occur in a two-tiered chamber because, while the Qixing insist on having their secretary fetch a yolnfa to feed them food or drinks by hand during big meetings in order to demonstrate culture and sophistication, the T’hròstag believe individuals in a servile capacity should not be on the same physical elevation as the leaders during business. This makes for a lot of leaning for the Qixing delegation unless you provide step ladders. We then pass a ceremonial staff around to speak while the head Human declares who has the floor, and the acceptable ways to ask for and pass the staff depend on what species currently holds it.”
Kirby looked actively distressed. “But … why?! Why not just … show up in a room and talk?”
Bryluen shrugged. “Because we’re all different and deserve to feel comfortable. Communicating between nations is a joke compared to doing so between species. We are all very different, so trust me when I tell you that organizing such an event to accommodate all needs and preferences is far better and makes for far more amenable results than either forcing one party to conform to the other, or having everyone stand around in an empty room. We need everyone to feel equal, represented, and respected or we’d never get anything done. Trust me, the Qixing and T’hròstag feel like we’re fussy jackasses as much as we might feel that way about them at a conference—but we all play nice.”
The Shadow Among The Stars: Book One of the Dread Naught Trilogy Page 12
