When I get out of Professor Brennan’s class- after a lengthy lecture on what everybody did wrong, including a stern reminder that my own strategy likely wouldn’t have worked outside of a simulation, much less without the foreknowledge of the position of the enemy’s reinforcements -two members of my Intelligence Group are waiting for me.
Both Tai and Amalia wear grim expressions as they greet me. Intensely aware of the eyes of our enemies’ intelligence agents on us, I give them a nod in response and gesture for them to follow me. It was sunny outside when I went indoors for class, but now clouds have gathered overhead, portending rain.
Sander, hang back and watch for tails, will ya?
Copy.
My ever-present, hulking shadow slips away, leaving the two intelligence agents and I to stroll down a secluded street, away from the crowd of students all being released from their classes, the same as us.
“Sofie sent us over,” Amalia explains. “Would have come herself, but she’s still stuck in PPP.”
That would be ‘Proper Preparation and Planning,’ her class on how to properly manage and run intelligence operations. Apparently it’s derived from some old military saying or other, though the specifics are far from my mind at the moment. I know Valent is in that class with her, but not these two, which is why I’m speaking with them right now, even though one of them is a surveillance technician and the other is a scout- not the pair best suited for delivering me what I assume is going to be a briefing on our first major enemy.
“Gotcha. You’re here to discuss the... announcement, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Tai confirms. “Ox Unit. She wanted us to fill you in on everything we’ve gathered so far.”
Mhm, yeah, I gathered that, I respond silently. But not out loud, ‘kay? I sent the Sandman to ward off any unwanted guests, but you can never be too careful.
I agree, he replies. Of course he does- he’s the surveillance expert, he should know better than anybody not to say anything sensitive where someone else might hear.
Their commander is Thomas Starling, Amalia begins, sounding like she’s reading off a script, which I suppose she very well might be. A politician. Not much of a tactical concern, both in terms of leadership and battlefield prowess. Still, they don’t make just anybody a unit commander, so don''t underestimate his ability to make life difficult for us off the field.
A single raindrop strikes the top of my head, and I flinch. The whole enemy-spies-tailing-us situation has me a bit on edge, even if I know they can’t really do anything to us, but that’s not really why I react so badly to something so innocuous. It’s because, back home on Demeter VII, even a single drop of rain was invariably a prelude to a torrential downpour- the kind we’d have three days out of every week. When I was younger, I’d once gone outside in the early hours of the morning, to play in the cornfields- it was early in the season, so nothing was fully grown yet, and the harvesters were all inactive. I wasn’t in any danger, or so I’d thought. But I stayed out a little too long, strayed too far from home, and when I felt the first few raindrops, it was too late. I ran home, but under rain like that, having soggy socks is far from your main concern. When I got back home I was half dead, frozen and covered in mud from all the times I’d tripped over my own feet and fallen down in my haste to get back.
That’s why, when the raindrops hit, my first instinct is to run for cover like we’re being bombarded from orbit. But I suppress that urge as best I can, and inject some false cheer into my tone when I say “I’m feeling hungry. You two want to go eat? Let’s go eat.”
Sure, Tai replies. I mean, uh--
“Sure.”
We duck inside the nearest restaurant just before the rain really starts coming down, finding ourselves inside of a pizza place, looking right out of a period piece set on Earth, down to the checkered black and white floor. Sadly, the man behind the counter isn’t wearing a chef’s hat, nor does he have a mustache- just a Citadel staff uniform and a clean shave.
“What can I get you?” he asks aloud, somewhat unusual for a restaurant, where you usually order via brainband while walking in. I suppose it must be a part of the old-world charm of this place.
“I’ll have a calzone,” Tai says immediately, stepping up to the counter. “With spinach, please.”
That wouldn’t be my first choice for an order at a place like this, but I try not to judge him.
“Two slices of the meat lovers’,” I add from over his shoulder. “And a knot of garlic bread.”
Tai raises an eyebrow at me, and I shrug, my discomfort with the weather outside already fading. I never minded the sound of rain while I was safely inside of our home, it was only being stuck outside while it was coming down that frightened me. Death might not be permanent, but freezing to death in a cornfield is certainly one of the least pleasant ways to go.
“Do you have anything like a salad?” Amalia asks, frowning. The guy at the counter purses his lips.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Our orders placed, we find a table and sit, far enough away from the restaurant’s sole other occupant, an older student wearing a Locust pin and seemingly absorbed in his novel, a pair of pizza crusts sitting on his plate.
Right, so, picking back up where we left off, there’s Tellis Ayedar, Tai says, leaning in as he speaks. It probably couldn’t be more obvious to anyone watching that we’re having a private conversation, which is generally considered somewhat rude to do in a public space, but not so much so that anybody is going to call us out on it. Starling appointed him chief tactical officer, and also asked him to pick someone out to be head of their combat group. Ayedar seems to have decided that he himself is the best fit for the role. As you might expect, that’s caused a bit of friction between him and some of the people who got passed up. Plus, plenty of them just think he’s an egotistical blowhard in general.
That pretty much seems to fit with my own assessment of the man. Amusing to think he appointed himself head of the Oxen’s combat group, but I can’t say I’m particularly surprised. For someone like him, the idea of coming up with a strategy and then simply entrusting it to somebody else to execute must be intolerable.
I ran reconnaissance on their training session last week, Amalia continues, wiping down her amber ram’s horns with a napkin, to remove the lingering rainwater from them. Maintenance on those things is probably a hassle. Ayedar seems to be a perfectionist, and their combat group is divided between those willing to meet his expectations, and those who are not. I don’t imagine we’ll be able to turn the latter group against him, certainly not at this early juncture, but knowing which is which will give us some idea of who to watch out for.
The way these two are trading back and forth makes me think they prepared for this conversation ahead of time. It comes off as a little rehearsed, but I’d rather that than them trying to improvise a briefing with no preparation at all.
The heavy hitters are Oskar Dalgaard and Chen Lu. Dalgaard’s a gun nut, dual pistols, incredible aim. Lu’s Regalia is supposed to be a sword, but he doesn’t have that yet, so he’s using an LMG for the time being. Slow but strong, you know the type.
Before I can say anything about that, the cashier rings a metal bell on the counter, signaling that our food is ready. Swiftly, Amalia turns and strides across the room, bringing all three plates back and placing one in front of each of us. I give her a grateful nod, and bite into my garlic knot, enjoying the greasy flavor while I ignore Tai’s slightly perturbed expression.
Anything on those two we can exploit? I ask, while chewing. Secret trysts might be too much to ask for, but anything that might make ‘em less of a threat on the field would be good.
The two intelligence agents share a glance, as if checking to see if the other has anything useful to offer before speaking up.
I can’t say for certain, Amalia responds eventually, drizzling some creamy dressing over her salad with one hand. Apparently Dalgaard employs some sort of preparatory ritual for his firearms before using them. If we could find a way to disrupt that, it might provide a psychological advantage against him.
We’ll speak with Valent about it, Tai follows up. His surveillance network is responsible for much of this intelligence, I suspect. According to Sofie’s weekly reports at our War Council meetings, he’s been secreting cameras and listening devices all over the Citadel, with the help of other members of our Intelligence Group, as well as some members of the staff who he’s paid off using the unit’s funds. That’s not exactly encouraged by the administration, but neither is it entirely forbidden- if those staff members were discovered to have done so, they likely wouldn’t even lose their positions. Students spying on one another is as much a part of our education here as anything else.
Okay. Who else?
Tai bites into his calzone, and slurps up a stray bit of spinach that only got halfway in his mouth. The way the two of us who aren’t speaking both turn to look to the one who is, without any words coming out of anybody’s mouth, is a dead giveaway that we’re communicating silently. With some practice, it’s possible to quell that impulse and make it look like you’re just sitting in silence, or even to carry on two separate conversations at once, but we don’t seem to be at that level yet.
Ayedar’s main detractor seems to be a pilot by the name of Fabian Vasile. Ambitious type. Frustrated he got passed over for the job he wanted, frustrated he can’t show off his flying skills... I’ve got some ideas on how to exploit all that. Going to talk with Ada, see if she can doctor some audio of Ayedar disparaging him to their commander, maybe we leak it to Vasile the night before the match and hope he gets mad enough to throw a wrench into their plans.
Putting the garlic knot down, I wipe my hands on a napkin. It tastes great, but getting grease all over my hands is a high price to pay. Still, I have no regrets.
Good thinking. See if you can expand on that, though. Figure out who might be most inclined to side with Vasile if he called Tellis out, and make it sound like he was shit-talking them too. Just don’t get too overambitious with it, we don’t want them figuring out it’s a stitch-up too soon.Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Huh. Good idea. Thanks, Commander.
Some part of me does feel a bit guilty having my people put words in Tellis’ mouth, considering he was never anything but nice to me, but that’s just the way of things here. Pangs of conscience have no place in a strategy session like this. Hell, if he’s got half an ounce of sense, he’ll be sitting down with his own intelligence people right now to try and do the same thing to me. Which is probably something we should discuss, come to think of it.
No problem. Now, tell me about their intel people.
Amalia frowns, and spears her fork into her salad harder than seems strictly necessary.
Valentin Gardinier runs their intelligence operation. His Founder was known as the Inquisitor. Specialized in rooting out spies and infiltrators. As such, his attention is mainly focused inward, on preventing leaks from within his own unit.
Yeah, he’s already disabled half the bugs I had put in their dorm, Tai confirms, not sounding too bothered by it. There’s pretty much no way he gets fooled by that trick I was talking about, so if we go ahead with that, we’ve got to make sure he never gets wind of it. At least, not until after the damage is done.
Nodding in agreement, I pick up one of my two slices and fold it in half, to keep the limp tip from drooping too far down and dumping the sausage chunk atop it onto my plate.
Good thinking. What else?
Behind me, the door swings open, and I glance over my shoulder to see a woman wearing a Komodo pin enter, sopping wet, with a pair of swords strapped to her back, and a pair of pistols on her hips. If she was here to spy on us, I suspect she’d have tried to make a subtler entrance, so I feel fairly safe ignoring her as she steps up to the counter to order. Besides, Sander probably wouldn’t have let anybody near us who he thought was a legitimate threat. Idly, I wonder where he is right now, and hope he isn’t standing out in the rain. He’s smart enough to know that’s not what I’d want him to do, I think.
Well, Tai continues, Gardinier’s number two is named Lauren. They called her founder the Analyst, which should probably give you some idea of what her specialty is. I’d bet anything she’s already got files on all of us- detailed ones. Favorite color, last book we read, average number of bathroom breaks per day, that kind of thing. And not just that, but psychological profiles. If any of us have weaknesses to exploit, she’s already found them, and you can bet she’s helping put together plans to use that intel right now.
By the time he’s finished, Tai isn’t even trying to disguise how impressed he is. If she’s half as good as he’s making her out to be, I’ll be impressed too.
Sounds like we need to step up our counterintelligence game. Anything more I should be worried about with the Oxen?
One of their tech people, Emilia Heinonen, Amalia says. You’ve probably seen her around- she wears this bright red armor around everywhere. Apparently it’s attached to her skin, she calls it an ‘exo-dermis.’ She’s stronger and faster while it’s active, and most likely bulletproof as well. Someone to watch out for.
The description does seem familiar- I remember noticing somebody who looked like a cherry-colored retro sports car in the shape of a human being. My own tech team seems comparatively unimpressive compared to that, though of course I’m not going to say that to them. Still, if I could trade Bret out for someone like that, I’d do it in a heartbeat.
Got it. Ask Ada if she can come up with some countermeasures when you get a chance. Or maybe see if Nikitha could whip something up that would eat through her armor.
Will do.
Great. I think we’re done here, then. You two have your assignments, and I... have a garden to take care of.
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Over the past several weeks since Sander and I started tending to it, our little garden has started growing nicely. It’ll take some time before the benefits of today’s rain shower are obvious, but there’s still work for us to do right now. Not least of that is taking care of the weeds, which will also benefit from the overabundance of nourishment today’s rain provided, unless we root them out now.
Sander is already waiting for me when I arrive, examining the garden with a critical eye. The rain has stopped, mercifully, but its aftereffects remain, and I can’t say I’m thrilled by the prospect of digging around in the mud for the next few hours. If nothing else, though, it’ll give me something to focus on besides worrying about our upcoming battle.
That’s not to say I shouldn’t be thinking about it at all, but right now there’s nothing productive to be done. My copyclan will have received the same message I did, and they’re busy coming up with a plan of action for how we’re going to get the unit into proper fighting condition. In fact, they’re probably working with Niko’s copyclan as well- or at least whatever part of it he doesn’t have assigned to managing his ‘extracurricular activities,’ from his little gambling ring he runs here at the Citadel, to more illicit off-world activities.
A quick ID confirmation unlocks the nearby shed, where Sander and I retrieve our gardening equipment. As I’m pulling on a pair of gloves, to keep my hands clean while we’re doing the aforementioned rooting around in the mud, he looks to me.
“I headed off one of the Peregrine Unit’s intelligence agents who tried to follow you. She didn’t seem especially concerned to have been spotted.”
“A Peregrine, huh?” I muse. “Interesting. You recognize her?”
Sander shakes his head.
“She had cat’s ears. Very distinctive.”
“Maybe that’s why she gave up on following me so easy,” I quip, tail twitching playfully. “Probably can’t stand the rain, with those things.”
“Perhaps.”
Once we’re fully geared up, Sander and I exit the shed, the metal door sliding shut behind us without a sound. Weeding is an important task for the maintenance of any garden, doubly so thanks to the ubiquitous presence of blackroot. Originally discovered on the nearly inhospitable world of Darovar, it was inadvertently spread across the Imperium, a hardy weed that can grow in just about any climate, so long as there’s soil of any kind. It’s been seen on the lips of active volcanoes, and breaking through permafrost in arctic tundras. Comparatively, growing in our little garden must be effortless for it.
The blackroot is easily spotted by, as the name suggests, its black roots, and stem, and even leaves once it’s bloomed. Nobody is quite certain what provoked such a unique adaptation, though the prevailing theories are either that it was to make absorbing heat from the sun easier, or that the coloration made it more difficult for predators to notice it, much the same way you might find animals in a snow-colored environment to have white fur. Neither of those seem completely plausible to me, but it does make my job a little easier here.
Approaching the first black sprout I see, dangerously close to one of my strawberry bushes that’s just beginning to flower, I bend down to pluck it from the ground, tossing the offending plant into a nearby compost bucket. Sander is already moving to follow suit elsewhere, near the row of carrots he planted last week.
“So, what do you make of this thing with the Oxen?” I ask casually.
“I have faith in your abilities.”
Laconic as ever. Some days he opens up more easily, when we’re doing this. Apparently today isn’t one of them. Fine by me, but I’m still gonna try to get something resembling a conversation out of him.
“Well, I appreciate that, but I was more asking your thoughts on them.”
While he formulates a response, I brush an overhanging leaf aside with my tail and move over to the next weed, digging my spade into the ground to help uproot it. It’s hard not to admire the blackroot, for going from one of the few native life-forms on a planet famously inhospitable to life of any kind, to a near-universal presence across the entire Imperium. We spent plenty of time digging it up back home on Demeter VII too, though only in our home garden. The cornfields themselves are chemically treated to prevent it, or any other kinds of weeds, from growing amidst the crops.
“Their soldiers are impressive. I’ve faced most of them at least once during sparring sessions in Combat 101. Hudson, in particular, possesses an impressive degree of determination.”
“Hudson, huh? ‘malia and Tai didn’t mention him. What’s his deal?”
“We didn’t speak at length,” Sander clarifies, to my complete lack of surprise. “However, he made no secret of his disdain for, as he put it, ‘people who care more about being a Noble than doing anything that could actually be called noble.’”
That certainly sounds like he’s talking about Tellis. Maybe not the most charitable description, since the guy did seem pretty into the whole noblesse oblige thing, but I wouldn’t call it an entirely inaccurate summation either. And it’s not hard to see how someone like that would chafe under the leadership of somebody like Tellis.
“Innnnteresting,” I drawl, drawing out the syllables slowly. “Verrrry interesting. Thanks.”
“I am glad to be of service,” Sander responds stiffly.
Sometimes, Sander’s total refusal to talk like a person frustrates me. It’s not just that we can’t really have a proper conversation, although that’s certainly an element. What really bothers me, I think, is that it feels like he’s not getting anything out of our relationship.
I’ve got no problem using people. I’m using everybody in the Gazelle Unit to some degree or another. They’re tools to be wielded, tools that will help me achieve my ambitions. I’v got affection for them- some more than others, of course -but there’s an element of transaction underlying all that. The difference is, they know I’m using them, and they’re using me in turn, because they know that my success is their success. With Sander, it feels like he’s got no ambitions at all, so he isn’t gaining anything by working for me.
The idea bothers me, maybe more than it should. Nobles, with very few exceptions, are creatures of ambition. I know how to deal with people like that, because I’m one of them. So long as it’s in their best interest to help you, they will- and the moment that changes, you can expect them to turn coat. But Sander isn’t helping me out of self-interest, or even really a sense of personal loyalty. It’s just what he does. A bell rings, a sword cuts, and Sander protects his principal.
Nobles aren’t the only people I’ve ever known, of course. My parents are selfless people, by and large. But none of them would devote their life to someone else so fully, certainly not without getting something out of the equation. It’s basic self-preservation, humans are hardwired against it.
Maybe what I’m afraid of is betrayal, as outlandish as the idea seems. If any of my other allies turned on me, I could appeal to their self-interest, or find a way to leverage them. Threaten their families, or destroy their career with a scandal, real or manufactured. But Sander has nothing to leverage. He can’t, else he’d be a pretty poor bodyguard. Yet I still can’t help but think that if he did turn on me, I’d have no way to stop him. I’ve already put so much of my life into his hands. He could have my bedroom rigged, or he could be slipping nanite bombs into my tea every time we eat together.
It’s paranoid, yes. He’s done nothing to warrant my suspicion- in fact, he’s saved my life once already. But the thing is, I outsource all of my other paranoia to him. Thanks to Sander’s presence, I don’t have to spend every waking moment worried about assassination attempts, because I know he’s doing that for me. So my paranoid instincts seek the only other target available-- which is him.
I could probably set up some kind of contingency. A way to shut him down if he ever acted against me. He’d probably let me do it, if I asked. But I don’t want to be that kind of person, even if it’s the smart move. Doing that would destroy the possibility of us ever having any other kind of relationship than bodyguard and principal. It would preclude the possibility that he might ever watch out for me because he’s my friend, rather than just because it’s his job.
The unmistakable sound of footsteps on wet stone shakes me out of my reverie. Glancing over my shoulder, I see a familiar blue face approaching. Nandor Pal, of the Oxen. He wears the same serene expression that I’ve seen on his face whenever we’ve passed by each other in the street. Were it not for his luminescent blue skin, I probably wouldn’t have noticed him at all.
Before I’d even registered Pal’s presence, Sander was on his feet, hand on his holster. I get up slowly, and wave to our guest, gesturing with my other hand for Sander to relax. The Oxen stand to gain very little by killing me right now, and if they were going to try, they’d have sent somebody else.
“Commander Izanami,” he says, bowing his head politely. “I am here to extend an invitation to you, on behalf of Commander Thomas Starling. He wishes for you to join him for dinner tomorrow evening at the Five Rings Restaurant, along with Commander Anton of the Peregrine Unit, and Commander Lucia Hark of the Komodo Unit.”
A sit-down with all four unit commanders in our year. Now that’s interesting.
“Tell your boss I’ll see him there.”