Retreat, Hell - Episode 5 (Patreon)

It was early.

Bradford lay on her rack, wishing she could go back to sleep, and knowing she wouldn’t be able to.

It  wasn’t the sound of orders, shouts, and banter that could be heard from  around the camp that was keeping her up. Nor was it the sound of  vehicles, construction, or aircraft rumbling overhead. She had grown up  on military bases, these were familiar sounds to her.

Neither  was it the cot she had slept on. Somebody in the supply chain had  thought ahead to all the troops that would be moving in around the  portal. Thousands of them, along with blankets and pillows, had been  shipped to the stateside perimeter, and in the chaos of the initial  surge they had been given higher priority than some of the trucks  carrying MREs and other rations. She had slept on far worse camping with  family.

Bradford  sighed, relenting to the inevitable. Wiping the gunk out of her eyes,  she pushed herself up to sit in her rack. The simple fact was that she  always, always, always had trouble  staying asleep in new places. Humvee on the move? Fine. Middle of  nowhere? Fine. Rock for a pillow? Fine. Comfy rack in new place? Not  fine.

She  slept soundly enough, but if she slept anywhere unfamiliar, something  in the back of her brain forced her to unrelenting wakefulness as soon  as the sun was up. Regardless of how late she actually went to sleep,  and regardless of timezone. Regardless of planet, too, apparently…

Twisting to her right, she grabbed the edge of her cot and pulled,  twisting and popping the kinks out of her back. With a  pained-but-satisfied sigh, she released the cot and twisted to stretch  in the opposite direction. Doing so brought Rinn into view, and she  noticed that the keshmin was also awake, lying on his cot. She grabbed  the far end of the cot with her left hand and pulled  again, eliciting another painfully satisfying series of pops and the  sigh of pained ecstasy of those who were too young to be too old for  this shit.

She also noticed that Rinn very pointedly turned to not look at her while she stretched, sending a million-yard “not looking, not looking” stare straight through the canvas overhead.

Releasing  the cot again, she allowed herself a brief smile at his bashful  modesty. It was refreshing, compared to what she was used to dealing  with, and utterly adorable. Especially  when you add his ears. Those tufts make him look like a long-nosed lynx,  or a caracal. They’re so fuzzy, I just want to… Nope, no, not thinking  about it. Totally unprofessional. Not appropriate.

“Trouble sleeping, too?” she asked, instead.

“Yeah,”  Rinn said, pushing himself up to sit, as well. His ears flickered as a  helo rumbled in the near distance. “Strange noises,” he added. His nose  twitched. “Strange smells.”

“Are  you saying we stink, foxboy?” Bradford couldn’t pass up that  opportunity for a jab. There was a reason why her initials had become  her nickname.

“Yes. No! I mean!” His ears flicked hard back against his skull, his eyes going wide.

“Relax,”  she said waving a hand to calm him down. “I’m just poking fun.  Besides,” she waved a hand at her undershirt. “We’ve all been sweating  inside the same clothes and body armor for the last day-and-a-half  without even a field shower. War stinks. Literally.”

“Yeah,”  Rinn snorted as Bradford threw her blanket off and swung her feet off  the rack, twisting and stretching a little more to work out the last  kinks. “I don’t even remember the last time I felt clean.”

“Speaking  of getting clean,” Bradford pulled her pack out from under her cot and  dug out a pack of baby wipes. “Here, try one of these,” she said,  pulling a wipe out and tossing the pack at him.

He caught the pack after it bounced off his chest.

“What are these?” he asked, giving it the same confused head-tilt trademarked by the pitbull she had as a kid.

“They’re  called baby wipes,” she said, demonstrating their use by wiping her  hands, then reaching up her sleeves to wipe her armpits. “They were  originally invented to clean babies, hence the name, but they work great  for cleaning adults, too. We use them for field showers.”

Eying  the pack of wipes, Rinn pulled off his blanket and swung his feet to  the ground. Tugging a wipe free, he gave it a sniff. With a waggle of  his ears and shrug of his shoulders, he reached under his tunic and  began cleaning himself.

“They’re  not perfect, but they help,” Bradford continued, moving down to her  feet to clean the grime and cheese from between her toes. She would  normally use a second wipe to clean under her breasts and between her  legs, and didn’t really give much of a fuck about doing that in front of  the rest of her squad. But that might be a bit too much for our little keshmin’s sense of modesty, today.

That  was when she noticed his feet. “Dude,” she said, pointing at the  blisters and patches where his fur had been rubbed completely away. “How  do you walk?!”

“What?”  he said, looking down at his own feet as he self-consciously pulled  them away from her. “Oh.” He shrugged. “The last pair of boots I could  get didn’t me well. The ones I have now fit me better.”

Bradford looked at the boots in question. “Bro,” she said, giving the boots a firm knifehand. “What are those??!”

“Standard  pattern boots,” Rinn said as Bradford picked one up to inspect it. She  could feel the sarcasm. “The boots I was issued when I joined the Royal  Host were good quality, but they’re… not made as well as they used to.”  His ears drooped flat and waggled forward and back a couple times before  rolling back up.

She picked up the other one and compared the two. “They don’t even match!”

“I know,” Rinn said. “I got them from… Someone who didn’t need them anymore. I don’t think they were originally a pair.”

Bradford glared at the offending footwear for a moment, before dropping them on the deck. “Let me see your feet.”

“What?”

“Hold a foot up, let me see it.”

“Oh…kay…” Rinn said, slowly lifting a foot for her to inspect, one ear twisting towards her but held straight out to the side.

Bradford  shifted on her cot to sit directly opposite him and held up her own  foot. She pressed the two together, comparing the shape. He had pads on  the heel and balls of his foot, and short claw-like nails that reminded  her of a dog’s foot, though they were trimmed short. Minus the pads, and  blisters and patches of bare skin, his foot was covered in the same  ebony fur as the rest of his body.

“Meh, seems close enough," she said.

“Playing footsies, Jabs?”

Bradford and Rinn both jumped, dropping their feet. Neither of them had noticed him approach.

“Shut the fuck up, Kawalski!”

“Hey,  I’m no judge,” Kawalksi said, holding his hands up. “Foot fetishes are  pretty tame compared to some of the shit I’ve played around with.”

“What do you want, Kawalski?”

“Just  letting you know I’m taking Gomer and Stephens to collect the, ah,  equipment we reallocated last night. We stuck them in some boxes and I  had one of the guys in Foxtrot who owes me a favor launder them around  the FOB overnight, to avoid suspicion.”

“Kawalski, you know how Co Guns often tells First Sergeant to not ask questions he doesn’t want to know the answer to?”

“Yeah,” Kawalski said with a fond smile.

“That was the kind of answer I didn’t want to know.”

“Ah, right,” Kawalski said. “Well, anyway, I’m taking Gomer and Scuba Steve to go dig a latrine for me to shit in.”

“Very well.”

Bradford  sighed as the lanky Marine spun around and marched off, scrubbing an  eyeball with her hand. “Gomer! Scuba Steve! Grab your shovels, I need to  take my morning shit!”

“Moving  right along…” She shook her head. “Let’s get dressed and get some chow,  then I’ll take you to see the platoon LT and meet Staff Sergeant  Rickles, and see if we can get you some gear from supply.

An  hour later, they were walking out of the chow hall, and Bradford was  re-slinging her rifle over her shoulder. Normally, the whole squad would  have eaten together, but the rapidly-expanding FOB was such a chaos of  activity that the cooks were running a constant chow line for anyone  coming through for food. Not that they were actually cooking anything  yet.

“I have never seen anyone enjoy an MRE as much as you have,” Bradford said, shaking her head at Rinn.

“How can you not?” he asked back. “They have so much flavor!”

“Compared to what? Old leather and hard tac?”

“That sounds like standard field rations to me, except we were lucky to have the old leather.”

“Jesus,  no wonder you guys were losing.” Bradford held up a hand to stop Rinn  from walking into the street as a Humvee drove past, followed by a  trackhoe and a light dozer. Rinn stared at all of them as they passed,  his ears erect and facing straight ahead. “Didn’t anyone teach your  generals that an army marches on its stomach?”

“Ha,” Rinn said, flickering his ears. “That’s a true statement.” He shrugged as they continued. “Food was never good, but it used to be better. The last couple years, though…” He shook his head.

Bradford was saved from coming up with a response by their arrival at the Company Headquarters tent. If by “tent” you mean a pair of Humvees backed up to each other with camo netting strung between them.

“Bromley  said the LT was in here,” Bradford said as Rinn appraised the  arrangement with a shrug of his ears. She led the way around the front  of a Humvee, to the entrance side of the makeshift tent.

“Ah, Bradford, there you are.”

“Sir,”  Bradford said, stepping under the netting, Rinn on her heels. “This is  Second Artificer Rinn Ahyat, the Ganlin soldier I was telling you  about.” She gestured at the Lieutenant, sitting behind a folding table.  “Second Artficer, this is our Platoon Leader, First Lieutenant Meyers.”

“Sir!” Rinn said, snapping to attention and giving the Lieutenant a crisp bow.

“As  you were, Second Artificer. We’re still in a combat zone. Saluting, or  bowing, is not required.” Meyers was short for a Marine, barely  five-foot-seven. He was shorter than Rinn, who was about five-eight if  you didn’t count his ears. At five-nine-and-a-quarter, Bradford  practically felt like a giant next to him while he was seated.

“As you say, Sir,” Rinn acknowledged, relaxing his stance. “But, if I may ask, why is that a practice among Marines?”

“Snipers,” Meyers replied.

Rinn  tilted his head, his ears flicking in what Bradford recognized as his  “I’m confused by not sure if I can ask” waggle. “Snipers are infantry  with high-powered rifles and optics that can hit precise targets  hundreds or thousands of meters away," she said,  providing additional  explanation. "Saluting officers paints them as command targets to any  snipers who might be concealed in the area. That’s why it’s standard  practice in modern Earth militaries to not salute in a combat zone, same  with the rank tabs on our helmets,” she said, tapping her boonie.

“The  keeblers didn’t demonstrate any capabilities that could compare,"  Meyers smiled, "But I’d rather not be painted as a target in the off  chance they do.”

“Ah,” Rinn said, his ears flicking back for a moment. “I see.”

Damn  those things are expressive. I’d bet money that he doesn’t know how to  feel about snipers being a thing, but I really need to figure out how to  read his ears.

Rinns  ears flicked towards Bradford, and then faced Meyers. “A sharp change  of subject, sir, but, again if I may ask, what is the significance of  your rank, compared to Corporal Bradford’s?” His ears flicked to face  down and behind him. “I mean, I gather that you are an officer and she  is not, and that the difference is akin to the difference between common  armsmen and our Lord Commanders and Lord Generals, but it is clearly  not the same.”

“The  original, historical distinction between officers and enlisted was  pretty much the same on our world as it is on yours,” Meyers said, “With  the enlisted ranks being comprised of common peasants and yeomen, and  the officers being comprised of the landed nobility.” Meyers shook his  head. “But that’s not the case anymore. Most modern nations in our world  don’t even have hereditary nobility anymore, and most that do are  strictly ceremonial.”

“The  United States of America was founded nearly two and a half centuries  ago when the original thirteen British colonies in America declared our  independence and revolted against King George,” Bradford added.

“You don’t have any lords or nobility at all? No King?”

“Not a one, and good riddance,” Bradford confirmed with a nod.

“The  practice of distinguishing officers from enlisted carried over from  older military traditions,” Meyers continued, “But instead of lineage or  nobility, the distinction was set on education. Modern officers have to  have a bachelor’s degree, either by graduating one of our military  academies, or earning the degree at another university and going through  Officer Candidate School, or OCS.” Meyers waved at Bradford. “Education  requirements for regular enlisted are minimal.”

“You think you’re cool because you can read, sir?” Bradford glared at the Lieutenant.

Rinn looked at her, his ears drooping in dismay. “You can’t read?”

“I’m a Marine,” Bradford threw her chest back in pride. “I eat crayons and drink glue.”

“Don’t  let her fool you, Second Artificer,” Meyers laughed. “Bradford here is  using her Tuition Assistance to get a degree in aerospace engineering.”

“Don’t you go starting any dirty rumors, sir.”

“UC San Diego, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How far are you into your degree?”

“About half-way, sir.”

“What is “aerospace”?”

Bradford laughed. “That… is something that I’ll explain later.”

“Probably a good idea,” Meyers chuckled. “Anyway. Did you discuss your proposal with the Second Artificer?”

“I did, sir, and he’s on board, one hundred percent.”

“What about your chain of command, Second Artificer? What do they have to say about this?”

“I  don’t have a chain of command anymore, Sir.” Rinn kept his back rigid,  but his ears drooped. “So far as I can tell, everyone else in my entire  Line has been wiped out.”

“I  see,” Meyers said. “Well, then,” he glanced around the table and picked  up a folder. “I have hear a message authorizing the embedment of a  Ganlin artificer into my platoon, and another message relaying the  authorization from the Ganlin Supreme Commander himself. I don’t think  you have anyone higher than that who can override him.”

“None but the King, Sir.”

“Very  well. Welcome to First Platoon, Echo Company.” Meyers flipped the  folder open and jot down a few hand-written notes before signing a piece  of paper. “You are officially embedded in Bradford’s squad, and fall  under her command.” He flipped through a few pages in the folder, pulled  out another sheet, and signed it before handing it to Bradford. “Here’s  authorization to get him gear issued from Supply.” He glanced Rinn up  and down. “The mad scramble of the last few days has seen a lot of stuff  shipped out that we really didn’t need right away, but that the Second  Artificer here could use. See that you get him properly equipped, and  get him a uniform.”

“Aye, sir!”

“Speaking of uniforms, Sergeant,” Meyers said, picking up another folder off his shared makeshift desk. “You’re out of uniform.”

“Say again, sir?” What does he mean I’m out of… what?!

“You  made the cut this month,” he said, handing her an embossed folder.  “It’s a little late, actually. It would have been awarded two days ago,  but, well…” he waved around them. “Congratulations.” Rinn’s ears perked  up, but he stayed quiet.

“Thank you, sir…” Bradford opened the folder to reveal a certificate of promotion, dated for the 12th of June.

“You’ve been eligible for Sergeant for, what, the last two quarters?”

“Yes, sir,” Bradford said, glancing over the certificate, running the time-honored words through her mind.

“How long have you been in, now, Sergeant?”

“I, um…” She glanced at her watch out of habit, not actually reading the date. “Three years and four months on the first, sir.”

“Not bad, Sergeant. Keep up the good work.” He stood, offering her a hand, and she shook it.

“Thank you, sir.”

“That’ll have to do for ceremony,” he said, handing her a small stack of folders. “Same with these.”

“Sir?”

“Promotions for the rest of your squad, Sergeant. You’re not the only one who made the cut this month.”

“Understand, sir.”

“And  they’re your squad, Sergeant. The docs at UC San Diego were able to  save his leg, but Gutierrez’s going to be convalescent for a long while.  That leaves you. The good news is you’re getting Kimber back. Docs  stitched him up, said he’s good to go so long as he’s careful about the  stitches on his arm.”

“Well, it was his left arm that was hit, he should be fine.”

“Right,” Meyers chuckled.

“The bad news, sir?” There's always bad news...

“Davies is back from convalescence,” Meyers deadpanned.

“Fuck." She grimaced. "Are you sure you can’t dump him on another squad, sir?”

“No-can-do,  Sergeant. There’s a war on. We need every Marine we can get, and your  squad’s taken three losses as it is. I know you don’t want to have to  deal with him, but he’s your problem, now. Maybe you can figure  something out with him that Gutierrez couldn’t.”

“Aye, sir,” Bradford said with a heavy sigh. “Is there anything else, sir?”

“Just see that you correct your uniform while you’re at Supply.”

“Will do, sir.”

“Very well. Sorry to rain on your parade, Sergeant. Dismissed.”

“Aye, sir!” Bradford braced at attention then turned to depart, nodding her head at Rinn to follow.

Outside the tent, Bradford turned left and started marching down the road. “C’mon, Supply’s this way.”

“Congratulations,” Rinn said, struggling to keep up without breaking into a jog.

“Yeah, thanks,” Bradford said, glancing down at the first folder in the stack she was carrying.

“Who  is this Davies?” Rinn frowned, his right ear swiveling on the alert,  but his left ear locked solid on her. “Why does him coming back make you  so angry?”

“I’m not angry,” Bradford growled.

Rinn flicked his tail against her elbow. “You humans can be hard to read, but you’re not that hard to read.”

“Fuck. Is it that obvious?”

“Yes.”

Bradford sighed. “Davies is a Blue Falcon.”

Rinn gave her his “You’re using words I don’t understand” side-eye.

“It’s  a code-word for Buddy Fucker. He’s a holier-than-thou prick who thinks  his shit doesn’t stink. He’ll undercut and double-cross you, snitch on  anyone he catches breaking regs, but thinks he  can get away with bending the rules, and he spends more time broke-dick  than actually being useful!” Bradford found herself knife-handing the  air in front of her, and decided she needed to reign it in a little.

“We  also go way back. We went to Infantry School together, reported on the  same day, and have been assigned together ever since. He’s been a  cockhead for as long as I’ve known him, but he thinks we've got some  kind of special friendship because we've known each other for so long.”  She checked her rising knife-hand and clenched her fist, instead. “The  lazy bastard even managed to make Corporal the same month I did.”

“But now you out-rank him,” Rinn raised his eyebrows at her, the tips of his ears flicking in towards each other.

“Yeah,  now I’m his Sergeant, and I own his ass.” She growled. “And he’ll  probably try to fuck me over, somehow, because of that.” She glanced at  Rinn. “I’m not sure how he’ll take you, but watch out for him. He’ll  come at you all smiles and friendship, buddy-buddy-like, but it’s all a  show. There isn’t anyone who’s known him for more than a couple weeks  who hasn’t been fucked over by him.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Rinn said, rolling his ears.

“On a happier note, we’re here.” She gave him an ironic smile. “Let’s go shopping!”

She  flipped open the door flap of a long, beige tent and led the way  inside. “Morning Jackson!” she said to the Corporal standing at a  folding table inside the door, sorting through what looked like stacks  of receipt forms. Crates, boxes, and bags were stacked on top of each  other or temporary shelving in several neat rows through the tent. On  the far end, a section of the wall had been rolled up and other Marines  had formed a daisy chain, offloading more crates and boxes from the back  of a truck.

“Mornin’,  Jabs,” he said without looking up. “What can I do for you?” He absently  scratched at his mustache with one hand as he sorted the papers into  neat stacks.

“Got  a signed slip from the LT, need to outfit an embedded foreign asset.”  She handed him the sheet of paper Meyers had signed earlier.

“What,  did the Brits send an intel weenie or somethi- oh, shit!” he said,  finally looking up and seeing Rinn as he took the paper.

“Corporal Jackson, this is Second Artificer Ahyat. Ahyat, this is Corporal Jackson, one of the H&S Company POGs.”

“What’s a POG?” Rinn asked as Jackson rolled his eyes.

“Person  Other-than Grunt,” Bradfrod explained with a smile. “He sits back here,  shuffling papers and counting beans while us Infantry types actually go  out to war.”

“Ah,” Rinn said with a nod. “We have those, too.”

“Yeah,  and if it weren’t for us supply types, you’d be out there fighting  naked, chucking rocks,” he absently waved away her insult as he skimmed  over the paper. “Jabs, do you know how many stars have signed this piece  of paper?”

“Not a clue.”

“You’d  have to take both your boots off to count that high,” he shook his  head, stepping over to a copy machine set up on a stack of crates.

“Fuck you,” Bradford laughed.

“Our  supply situation’s all fuckered up right now,” he said as he ran off a  copy of the paper. Rinn’s ears flipped straight up, focused on the  copier, and the sheet of paper it spat out. Jackson performed some  secret supply ritual of signatures and stamps, and handed Bradford back  the original. “We’ve got a thousand things we don’t need, and half the  things we do need, and half of those are still back at the main supply  depot at Tolkien. God, it's hard to take that name seriously,” He  muttered, shaking his head. “Captain Holbrook’s actually back at Tolkien  right now, trying to find some heads to bang together to get this mess  sorted, and in the mean-time, they keep sending us random shit as it  comes through the portal,” he waved at the truck being off-loaded at the  other end of the tent.

“But,”  he continued. “We’ve got plenty of the stuff you’ll be looking for.” He  shook his head. “We’re about to go down to one meal a day because  they’re not sending enough food to feed all the bodies that are pouring  in here, but we’ve got plenty of combat uniforms, boots, plate carriers,  ruck sacks, and other basic kit that everyone already has  but that you’ll be looking for.”

“Excellent,” Bradford said, holding up her stack of folders. “I’ll also need some new rank pins.”

“Oh?”  Bradford showed him the contents of the folders. “Oh, damn, Jabs!  Congratulations!” He shook his head. “Man, I remember when you first  showed up to the battalion. Now you’re making me feel inadequate.”

“You are inadequate,” Jabs smiled with a wink.

“Oh,  fuck off,” Jackson laughed. “Most of the shit you’ll need is all in the  last three rows, down there,” he waved at a corner of the tent. “Let me  know when you find everything so I can track it properly.”

“Will  do. Thanks, Jackson!” Bradford waved at Rinn, and they made their way  around the ordered rows to the corner Jackson had indicated.

Bradford  scanned the marked crates and boxes, and looked Rinn up and down.  “Alright, let’s see… Let’s start with the uniform.” She waved at his  gambeson as she started rummaging around the boxes. “Go ahead and start  getting that stuff off.”

“Umm…”

“You can go around the corner to try stuff on,” Bradford laughed. “I won’t peek, I promise.”

With a sigh and resigned flick of his tail, Rinn began undoing his gambeson.

Bradford  opened a box and pulled out a blouse. “Jesus fucking Christ! I didn’t  think they made uniforms for wide-bodies this big!” She held it up for  Rinn to see. “We could both wear this at the same time!”

Rinn’s ears went straight up, an expression of concern on his face. “How big do humans get?”

“Not big, fat,”  Bradford said, stuffing the blouse back into the box it came out of in  disgust. “What people do with their bodies in the civilian world is  their own goddamn business, but anyone that grossly out of fitness regs  shouldn’t even fucking be in the Corps.”

“Sounds like some of the Lord Commanders I’ve seen,” Rinn grumbled, folding his gambeson and setting it on the deck.

Bradford  pulled out another box. “Aha! This should be more your size.” She  pulled out another blouse, held it up for inspection, then tossed it at  Rinn. “Here, try that on.”

He  managed to catch it before it engulfed his face. He held it up for  inspection, gave it a sniff, and with a waggle of his ears, he set it  down so he could strip off his tunic. It was gray and yellowed, but  Bradford suspected it had originally been white. I wonder how long it’s been since he’s had new, clean clothes?

Picking through other boxes, Bradford glanced at Rinn as he pealed off the tunic. I guess the fur doesn’t really leave much to see… His coat wasn’t shaggy, by any measure, but it was just long enough to have a little bit of floof. Like a short-hair cat. I wonder if he sheds...  His chest was a bit deeper than one would expect for a human, and his  neck and shoulder proportioning was a little different, but overall his  frame was close enough to that of a human. I guess walking upright leads to some common patterns.

While  Rinn figured out the buttons on the blouse and donned it, Bradford  pulled out a pair of pants, a pack of undershirts, and suppressing an  unprofessional giggle, a pack of skivvies.

“How do I look?” Rinn asked, holding his arms out.

Bradford  turned her head to give him an appraising glance. “Well, the sleeves  are a bit more loose than normal, but they’re designed to be baggy, so  it’s fine. It’s not too tight around the shoulders?”

“No,  it’s fine,” Rinn said, rolling his shoulders as he inspected the  blouse. He pulled open one of the front pockets, and his ears perked up  at the tearing rip of Velcro. “What is this?!” he asked, closing and  re-opening the pocket several times.

Bradford  laughed. “That’s Velcro. It’s great for sticking things, but makes a  lot of noise. Here, try these on.” She dumped the load of clothes into  his arms.

Rinn  took the items, examining them while he shifted them to a better grip.  “What are these?” he asked, holding up the pack of skivvies.

“Those  are skivvies. They’re for under your pants, assuming keshmin and human  bodies keep the same stuff between our legs.” She saw his orange eyes  light up in humor before they went wide and his ears flicked back. She  chuckled, certain that he’d be beet red if he were a human. “Go fucking  change, foxboy, and let me know if anything doesn’t fit.”

He looked at her, his ears flicking out. “You do that on purpose, don’t you?”

“I disavow all knowledge of what you’re talking about.” She gave him a perfectly innocent smile.

“You are the most crude woman I have ever met,” he said, walking around a stack of crates to the next aisle.

“Have you met many women?”

“I’m done with this conversation!”

Bradford laughed, and began sorting through the stacks of supplies, looking for the things Rinn would need. And anything else useful that I might be able to sneak out of here.  “Oh, hey!” she pulled a pack of baby wipes out of her cargo pocket and  chucked it over the dividing row of crates and shelving. “They haven’t  gotten showers set up yet, so while you’re stripping down over there,  clean yourself up a bit.”

“Gah!”  he shouted after she heard the pack bounce off of something. She  smiled. “What is it with you people and throwing things?!?” Bradford  laughed, and continued building her pile.

A few minutes later, Rinn stepped around the corner again. “What do you think?” He struck a pose, putting his hands on his hips.

“Well,  damn, Rinn, with those horns and that face, you really do look like a  devildog,” Bradford laughed. “Looks good! Everything fit alright?”

“What’s a devil dog?” Rinn asked as he walked over and set his old clothes next to his gambeson.

“Nickname  for a Marine. Comes from the First World War. The Germans called the US  Marines they fought against “Teufel Hunden,” which roughly translates  to devil dog. The nickname stuck.”

“I see,” Rinn nodded. “But what’s a dog?”

Bradford  paused, leaning against a crate as she tilted her head at him. “Dogs  are a companion species. We call them “man’s best friend,” and our  civilization wouldn’t exist without them.” She paused. “I’m pretty sure  they brought in a k-nine unit last night, we’ll swing by their kennels  after we’re done here, and I’ll show you.”

“Sounds good,” Rinn said, poking at the pile of gear Bradford had collected. “What’s all this?”

“This,”  Bradford said. “Is your kit. You’ve got your backpack and all the  accessory packs to put everything in," she pointed at each item in turn.  "Your mess kit, hydration pouch, woobie and sleeping system, ballistic  glasses,” Bradford paused. “Not really sure if those’ll fit you, but you  can try ‘em on.” She shrugged. “Tarp, IFAK, gloves, glove liners," she  waggled her fingers at him, "Good thing we both have five fingers! Neck  gator, shovel, mag pouches, batman belt, frog gear, drop pounches,  grenade pouches, knee and elbow pads, canteens, water-proofing pouches,  Gore Tex pants and jacket, more pouches, extra socks and skivvies, plate  carrier, ESAPI plates, aaand kevlar helmet,” she added, plunking said  helmet down on top of Rinn’s head.

It promptly snagged on his horns, keeping the helmet from actually sitting on his head, and doing very little good.

“You  carry all of these?” he asked, shoving her hands away and pulling the  helmet off his head. His horns snagged in the strapping, and it took him  a moment to remove it. He handed it back to Jabs in distaste.

“This  is just the basic loadout. We’ll also carry ammo, grenades, batteries,  battery charger, night-vision goggles, radios, and other personal gear.”

“How much does all of this weigh?!”

“With  weapon and full combat load of ammo? About a hundred pounds, or more.”  Bradford shrugged. “The guys in Weapons Company can lug a lot more  hauling mortar rounds, rockets, and belts of ammo.”

Rinn looked back down at the pile of gear with a sigh. “And I thought my marching pack was heavy…”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got something that will cheer you up,” Bradford said, holding something behind her back.

“Oh?” Rinn’s ears perked up a little. “What’s that?”

“Boots!” Bradford said, pulling a pair from behind her back. “Here, put on some socks, and try these on.”

Rinn’s  ears perked right up, and he promptly sat down. It took him a moment to  figure out how to put on the socks, but once that problem was solved  Bradford handed him a boot. “I’m not sure if the size is right, but it  should be close. I’ve got three other sizes here for you to try on, if  it doesn’t fit right.”

“What miracles you weave,” Rinn muttered.

“Hm?” Bradford asked.

“It’s  from an old fable,” Rinn explained, as he tried on different boots.  “About a young woman who tricks a Corrl elder into telling her their  secret wisdom, and uses it to create miracles with her mother’s loom.”

“Yeah? Sounds pretty awesome.”

“It doesn’t end well," he frowned. "The Corrl didn’t tell her all of their secret wisdom, and she learns the hard way that everything comes with a price.”

“Oh, it’s one of those stories,” Bradford snorted, poking around some more boxes.

He  shrugged. “I always felt the ending was off, contrived, like it was  originally something else that somebody rewrote to end differently after  the fact.”

"Figures,"  she rolled her eyes. “So, are the Corrl like, some, ancient, mystical  cult or something?” She waggled her fingers at him.

Rinn  laughed. “No, they’re the Corrl. They’re, well… We sometimes call them  the rock people, because they look like rocks when they huddle up and  hold still.”

“You mean they’re another species, like the elves?” Bradford wandered around to the next aisle over, continuing her snooping.

“Well, they’re definitely not elves, but yes.”

“What are they like?”

“Nobody  really knows,” Rinn shrugged. “The Corrl are even more reclusive than  the elves used to be. They are a mountain people, and they live in small  tribes.” He snorted. “They profess great wisdom, but refuse to share  any of it with any “outsiders.”” He waggled his ears. “They have no  regard for national borders, and have little military or economic  significance. They’re considered a minor annoyance but no threat, and  not worth the effort to remove from terrain that is rarely inhabited by  any of the nations who claim the mountains they live in.”

“Do you know where they came from?” Bradford poked her head back around the corner of the aisle.

“Not  a clue,” Rinn replied, tugging on another boot. “Some legends say they  formed out of the bones of the mountains themselves, and are the  guardians of all of the ancient wisdom of Gahla itself.” He rolled his  ears in a shrug. “Personally, I think that’s just stories.”

Glancing  over her shoulder, Bradford walked back into their aisle and slipped a  couple boxes into Rinn’s stack of old clothes and armor. She held up a  finger to her lips in a shushing motion.

Rinn  mimicked the motion, his ears tilting forward in a confused frown, then  understanding dawned across his face and he flicked his ears in  amusement.

“Are there any other species or nations on this world? Do you guys have any other allies?”

“Well,  there used to be other keshmin nations and city-states. Most of them  were unified under the Ganlin banner three generations ago. The rest  either joined the Kingdom during the war, or have been wiped out by the  elves.” He pulled the latest boot off, and sat comparing it to another  one for a moment. “I think this pair fits best,” he said, holding up the  other boot.

“Great!”  Bradford said, taking the other boot. “Let’s just put these other boots  back in their boxes, and gather the rest of the stuff up. I’d just have  you throw it all on, but the bean counters gotta count their beans.”  She waved at him as he started to put his chosen pair back in their box.  “Go ahead and put those ones on.”

“Right,”  Rinn said, happily stuffing his feet into the boots. “There’s also the  Dohlgra. They have a number of disparate city-states that are constantly  shifting alliances, all orbiting their central kingdom. They’re big,  slow creatures, broad of body and narrow of hips, and they walk on their  knuckles as much as their feet.”

He  paused, staring at his booted feet, and Bradford laughed when she  realized he didn’t know how to tie them. “Here, let me show you,” she  said, pointing out the proper military way to lace his boots, and how to  tie them. “They’re brand-new, so it’s probably gonna suck for a while  until they get broken in, but the more you wear them, the faster that  happens. Just make sure you take them off and let your feet air out  whenever you can. Dunno about you guys, but foot fungus infections can  cripple a Marine.”

“I’ll  keep that in mind,” Rinn said as he started gathering up his things,  new and old. Bradford put a few things back on shelves or on other  boxes, and gathered an armful herself.

“Are the Dohlgra your allies at all? How are their relations with the elves?”

“The  Dohlgra were always decent trading partners, even if we did have to  dance through their games of intrigue, but the elves are between us and  them. They cut off the only land access we had with them years ago, and  along with it most of the sea trade." He shrugged his ears. "I did hear a  courier ship managed to slip the elven blockade during a storm a few  months ago. The word it brought was that the Dohlgra were also engaged  with the elves, and were seeing more success in their defense, mostly  thanks to the mountain ranges that mark the border between their  territories and the elven territories.”

“Alright, Jackson, I think we’ve got everything,” Bradford said as they approached the exit.

“Set it all out here,” he said, clearing some papers from his table and pulling out a handheld scanner.

“That system actually working, Jackson?” 

“It  works great when it actually works,” Jackson replied. “And it turns  out, when you’re only a three-hour Huey flight from Silicon Valley, it’s  surprisingly easy to get some egghead type who actually knows what the  fuck they’re doing on-scene to properly set it up.”

“Oorah,”  Bradford said, as Jackson began scanning barcodes. She turned back to  Rinn. “So the elves are fighting a two-front war, and were still rolling  up the opposition?”

“Yeah,”  Rinn sighed. “Magic is so much easier for them. Every elf can do magic.  They usually specialize as a Mage or a Gemblade, or a hundred other  specialties, but every elf can do some very basic spellcraft and  enchantments, and everything they do, every tool, every weapon is  enhanced by it.”

“Sounds like a tough advantage to beat,” Bradford frowned. “Is it just you and the Dohlgra, or is there anyone else?”

“There  is the Khalim’Khali, across the ocean, to the East. They are cousins to  us,” he said, flicking his ears out horizontal then back to their  normal forty-five degree swivel. “Though distant enough that  interbreeding is rarely successful.” He shrugged. “There are rumors of a  land bridge between our continents to the North, beyond elven  territory, but the only contact we have had with them has been by ship.  With the elves blockading the seas, we have had no communication with  the Khalim’Khali in years.”

“Sounds like the elves have been working hard to keep all of you cut off from each other,” Jackson said.

“Divide and conquer,” Bradford added with a nod, shoving gear into Rinn’s backpack as it was scanned.

“Well,  we’re on the job now. The U.S. will kick their asses all the way back  to whatever hippy, tree-hugging hell-hole they crawled out of. And the  Marine Corps will lead the way!”

“Oorah!”  Bradford agreed. She picked up the stack of ESAPI plates as Jackson  finished scanning them, and stuffed them into Rinn’s plate carrier.

“You’re all set, Sergeant. And here’s those rank pins for you, on the house.”

“Thanks, Jackson. I’ll make sure Kawalski gets you a souvenir.”

“Appreciate it, Jabs. You need anything else?”

“Shit, yeah," she stopped mid-turn, suddenly thinking of something. "Nametapes and a name patch for Ahyat.”

“Sure,” he said, pulling a pen and notepad out of a front pocket. “How do you spell it?”

“Uh…” Bradford turned to Rinn. “How do you spell your name?”

“Aen-aht-yi-aen-tat,” Rinn replied without hesitation.

“Fuck. How about we just go with the phonetic spelling in English?”

“Yeah,  that sounds like a good idea,” Bradford said. She looked at Rinn. “Any  chance you could do a written language translation spell?”

“Nope,  not my specialty,” Rinn shook his head, tugging on the stave he’d slung  back over his shoulder. “Honestly, spells like that are hard.”

“Right. So, Rinn “Shields” Ahyat,” Bradford told Jackson. “R-I-N, Shields, and A-H-Y-A-T.”

“So just the one N for Rin?”

“No, it’s a hard “nae,” not a soft “nah.” I’m not a fish.” Rinn flicked his ears back.

“Wait, “Rinn” sounds like “fish”?”

“Not if you say it right!”

Bradford laughed. “Let’s go with two N’s, then. And don’t let Kawalski know, you’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Two  N’s it is,” Jackson said. “Should be able to have these ready for you  in a couple days. Or three weeks.” He shrugged. “Anything else?”

“I think we’re good for now,” Bradford said. “Thanks again, Jackson.”

“Any time. See you around, Jabs.”

“Later.”  Bradford grabbed Rinn’s rucksack and threw it over a shoulder, then  handed him his plate carrier. “Here, you can carry this. We’ll get it  adjusted back at the tent.”

Rinn took the fully-assembled plate carrier, and nearly dropped it. “Tahsh! What’s in this thing, rocks?!”

“Close  to it,” Bradford laughed, heading out of the supply tent. “But the damn  things work. Gomez took a hit from one of those elf wizard sticks and  suffered nothing more than a bruised ego, and there’s a few guys in the  battalion who took AK rounds in Iraq and Afghanistan and got back up  because of those plates.”

“I  guess it’s better than the full plate armor our knights and dragoons  used to wear,” he said, adjusting his grip as he followed her across the  FOB. “And it actually works against shardblasts.”

“That’s the spirit!” Bradford said, leading the way across the FOB.

“Hey, isn’t the pavilion back that way?”

“Yeah, but the kennels are over this way. I told you I’d show you some dogs on the way back.”

“You mean we’re going to haul this stuff all over the camp?”

“Yup! When we get out in the field, you’re going to haul this stuff all over the countryside!”

Rinn whined, and readjusted his grip on his plate carrier and old garments.

“I think you should just burn that old stuff, by-the-way,” Bradford commented. “I don’t think it’s going to be worth saving.”

“Yeah,” Rinn said with a sigh. “You’re probably right.”

“And  here’s the kennels,” Bradford said, stepping over to a small, caged-in  yard. An obstacle course was set up inside, and a Marine was following a  big German Shephard around as it exercised through the course. “That’s a  dog.”

Rinn  stepped up to the chain-link fence, tilting his head, his ears flicking  forward as he watched the dog. “I… can see the resemblance,” he said.

“They’re  descended from wolves, pack-hunting predators." Bradford smiled,  recalling fond memories of the dogs she grew up with. "Couple hundred  thousand years ago, or so, back when we were still tribal  hunter-gatherers, some of them started hanging out around our  settlements or camps or whatever-the-fuck-we-had back then, and we kinda  adopted them. A combination of evolution and selective breeding for  different purposes, plus a couple hundred thousand years, and you’ve got  dogs.”

“So they are domesticated livestock?”

“No,  they’re a companion species. They’re not people-smart, but they’re very  intelligent creatures, and they usually form social pack bonds with  whomever they live with.” She shrugged. “There are a lot of working dog  breeds, but it’s more a partnership, with them pulling their weight in  our civilization, though it’s not an equal partnership.”

“I see.” Rinn watched the dog and its handler for a long moment. “Is that how you view us?” 

Bradford  frowned, pulling her boonie cap off to run a hand through her hair  before responding. “Full disclosure, there’s a few assholes out there  who will. Fuck, we’re still stamping out the last dregs of fuckwads who  think that way about other humans.”  She put her cap back on. “But most people? Most people are decent, if  given the chance. You’re obviously as intelligent as we are, just a few  centuries behind us in technology.”

She  shook her head. “I can’t promise that there won’t be humans who try to  take advantage of your people because of that, but I can promise that  I’ll fight anyone I see who tries.”

“Fair  enough,” Rinn said, and they turned away from the kennels, heading back  to the squad pavilion. "Some of my people will probably try to do the  same."

"Ha! Sounds like we'll be perfect for each other, then!"

“Jabs! Shields! Look who’s back and not dead!”

“Yeah,  I heard, Gomez,” Bradford said, walking through the pavilion to drop  Rinn’s new pack on his cot. “Welcome back, Kimber, how’s the arm?”

“Fine,  docs stitched me up nice and tight,” he said, waving from across the  pavilion. “I’m combat effective, and ready to kick some Keebler ass!”

“Since when are you a Sergeant, Jabs?” Dubois asked.

“Oh, snap!”

“Two  days ago, apparently,” Jabs said, holding up her folder and tossing it  on her rack. “I’ve got some good news and bad news on Goochy, too.”

“Yeah? How’s he doing?” Edison asked.

“Docs managed to save his leg, and he’ll be able to walk on it again with rehab.”

“Fuck, yeah! Man, can you imagine Goochy trying to dance around on a peg leg?” asked Sampson.

“Probably would have made him better,” Kimber laughed.

“True, that!”

“What’s the bad news, Jabs?” asked Kawalski.

“The  bad news is that he’s out on rehab indefinitely. Might even be on his  way to a med sep.” She tapped the new rank pin on her chest. “I’m  officially the Squad Leader, so I’m in charge of all you fucks now.”

“Shit, that’s the bad news?” Edison asked.

“Fuckin’ A, brah!”

“There’s worse news, too.”

“The keeblers pussied out and aren’t gonna give us a fight?” Kawalski asked.

“No such luck. Davies was cleared by medical, he’s coming back from convalescence.”

“Fuck!”

“I thought he was tapping out on some psych bullshit!”

“Apparently  not,” Bradford shook her head. “But I do have some other good news,”  she added, holding up the folders, gaining everyone’s attention. “It’s  not much for ceremony, but some of you fucks managed to make the cut  this month.”

She flipped open the first folder. “Sampson, you made Corporal.”

“Sweet!”

“Miller, you made Lance Corporal.”

“Nice,” he responded with a slight smile and nod.

“Gomez, you made PFC.”

“What? But I don’t meet Time-in-Grade for another two weeks!”

“Don’t fucking question it, Gomer, just take the goddamn paycheck!” Kawalski said, smacking the back of his head.

“Ow, fuck off!”

“And finally, Kawalski,” Bradford shook her head, handing him his folder. “You made Corporal. Again.”

“Fuck!”

“Probably  the only man in the Corps who’s pissed off about making rank, right  there,” Dubois laughed, pointing at Kawalski. Kawalski responded by  flipping him the bird.

“Congrats,  everyone, you all earned it. Now let’s get all this gear squared away  and get some chow before they put us down to one meal a day.”

“What?! We’re in the fucking FOB!”

“There’s  a fucking McDonalds less than twenty-five kilometers that way!” Edison  pointed towards the portal. “And they’re putting us on one meal a day?”

“Not  yet, but the supply situation’s fucked." Bradford shook her head. "They  keep sending us all the shit we don’t need, and half the shit we do  need. We’ve got enough food for the Marines we’ve got here now, but  they’re sending bodies in faster than they’re sending the food to feed  them. Now stow your shit. And Kawalski, if that espresso maker blows up  inside the tent, I’m not lying to the CO to cover your ass.”

“Aye, Sergeant!” Kawalski said, snapping to attention and giving her an Officer Doofy salute.

Bradford  rolled her eyes and turned away from him as the rest of the squad  starting putting their gear away. She paused mid-turn. “Dubois, where  the fuck did you get an avocado?”

“I  got a whole bag of ‘em!” he beamed. “They’re not ripe yet, but they’re  fresh picked! Snagged ‘em off that pile of trees they cleared out from  around the portal. Figured it’d be a shame to see them go to waste.”

“Fucking Millenials,” Kawalski rolled his eyes.

“Hey, I’m older than you are, you fuck. No fresh avocado snack bread for you!”

Rinn  shook his head as he arranged his own gear, his ears flickering  amusement. “You keep using that word, but I don’t think it’s translating  right. What does it mean?”

“What word?” Bradfprd asked.

“Ffffuck,” he said, struggling a bit to get the “ff” sound right.

“Fuck means… a lot of things,” Bradford glanced around awkwardly.

“Yeah, I keep getting a lot of different meanings whenever you say it.”

“It means all of them, depending on the context,” Edison added.

“Oh…”

“All  this magic, and it can’t translate “Fuck”?” Kawalski asked. He waved  his hand in the air. “Can’t you just snap your fingers and conjure up  some understanding?”

“Magic doesn’t work that way…” Rinn said, shaking his head.

“Well why the fuck not?” 

“Eh…”  Rinn’s tail twitched, and he tugged at his left horn. “You have to  create an artifice of mana to do anything with it. The more complex the  thing is, the more refined, or precise, or delicate you need to be, the  more mana you need, to control the mana you’re using, to do the thing.”  He shook his head, his ears flicking agitatedly while he gestured in  front of him. “And on top of that, you have to know how to structure the  artifice to do what you want, and translating language from raw mental  concepts is very complex, nevermind implanting that understanding in your head!”

“So how did that mass translation spell you guys put out work?” Edison asked.

“The artificer who did that is the Supreme Commander’s personal aide. He is a gods-damned savant,  one of the greatest artificers to have ever lived. He burst a mana  crystal large enough to power one of our heaviest artillery pieces for a  week straight with his bare hands, and the effort nearly killed him.”

“Well, shit…” Miller said into the silence that followed.

“So… You can’t magic me up a Starbucks?”

“Shut the fuck up, Kawalski.”

Mid-afternoon found Bradford cleaning her rifle, showing Rinn how it worked.

“That is amazingly crude, and incredibly sophisticated at the same time,” Rinn said, examining the bolt carrier.

“Yep!” Bradford laughed. She nodded at his magic stick. “How does your magic staff-thing work?”

“It’s  an Articulation Stave, or just Stave,” Rinn picked the staff up from  his rack to show her. It was a little longer than her rifle,  and mostly  straight, but with a slight curve on the bottom end. “It’s constructed  to facilitate the flow and manipulation of mana. Artificers are keshmin  who have a natural ability to sense and manipulate ethereal mana on our  own, though only to a limited degree. If we can get a source of  concentrated mana, like mana crystals, we can do more, but manipulating  energy from raw mana crystals can be difficult, and sometimes extremely  dangerous, especially if you don’t want to burst the crystal and use it  all at once.”

He  waggled the stave. “That’s where these come in. With the right  materials and designs, we’ve been able to create tools that facilitate,  and regulate the use and manipulation of mana, at least for a certain  range of actions.” He set his staff across his lap, tracing the lines of  precious metals set into its length. “The standard artificer’s staff is  designed to facilitate the generation of conventional spellshots,  personal and Line shields, and an assortment of standard functions, like  disrupting the artifice structures of elven spells, particularly their  true invisibility spells.”

“Cool,”  Bradford said, taking the stave when he offered it to her, and holding  it up to examine it. “You’ve mentioned artillery pieces before. I’m  assuming you have bigger staves that shoot more powerful spells?”

“Essentially,  yes, though the construction of more powerful articulators like that  requires them to be more focused and specialized. We can also create  single-use articulators embedded with small mana crystals for use as  ammunition in more conventional artillery.”

“So you guys might be able to make something that fits inside one of our rockets or artillery shells.”

“That’s certainly a possibility.”

“Hey,  Sergeant!” Dubois said, walking into the pavilion. “Staff Sergeant  Rickles said they mustering all the squad leaders and up for a brief at  the Company HQ.”

“He say what’s up?” Bradford asked, passing the stave back to Rinn and quickly reassembling her rifle.

“Nope, but the whole FOB’s started buzzing like somebody kicked a damn hornet’s nest. Word is we’re going on the offensive.”

“About fucking time!” Kawalski jumped up from his rack. “Time to get some!”

Her  rifle reassembled, Bradford slapped a magazine back in and slung it  over her shoulder. “Get the squad packed up and ready to move. Probably a  hurry-up-and-wait, but let’s be ready, just in case.” She headed for  the door. “Dubois, help Rinn make sure he’s got everything he might need  packed up.”

“Aye, Sergeant.”

Five  minutes later, Bradford was joining the rest of the Echo Company squad  leaders at the Company HQ tent. With over thirty officers and NCOs  packed between the two Humvees, spacing was tight.

“We  got everyone here?” Captain Spader asked, and got a confirming nod from  Khatri, the company First Sergeant. “First off, congratulations to  Sergeant Bradford on her promotion. It’s well-earned, and she  demonstrated it is well-deserved while under fire yesterday. Saved all  our asses. Damn fine work, Sergeant.”

“Thank you, sir,” Bradford nodded, as one of the other squad leaders patted her on the back.

“Alright,  everyone, listen up. While the brass goes about unfucking the  clusterfuck we’ve found ourselves in, we’re going out to keep the  pressure on the enemy. These orders just came down straight from the  top.” He stepped aside to point at a rough map set on a board for all of  them to see.

“Recon’s  ID’d a pair of enemy base camps, about fifty klicks to the west,  probably where that army we wiped the floor with yesterday operated out  of. Codenamed Backstreet One,” he pointed at the circled point slightly  to the west, and then the one further north. “And Backstreet Two.  They’re lightly defended, and we have a window to get there before the  survivors from yesterday do. General Langstrom’s been put in charge as  the combatant commander here on Gahla, and he wants those bases  captured, looted for intel, prisoners, and any gear we can recover, then  blown the fuck up.” Nods and mutters of approval rippled through the  assembled Marines.

“Two/Five’s  the only infantry battalion that’s managed to get in theater at full  strength yet, so we’re it. Orders are to gear up, load up, and muster on  the landing strip at Tolkien in one hour. Wheels up thirty minutes  after that. Echo Company is taking the lead in the assault on Backstreet  One, Foxtrot Company is taking the lead on Backstreet Two. Golf and  Weapons Companies are being split to augment both. We’re getting helo  and F-18 escort from Miramar, and the Air Force flyboys are sending  warthogs for close air support. Time is short, so additional briefings  will happen en route; if you have questions, unless it’s a show-stopper,  ask them then.

“The  General’s made this a top priority mission, so we’ve been given  temporary usage of every Humvee, truck, APC, and tricycle that can carry  a Marine to get the battalion to Tolkien on time. Muster at the ECP in  thirty minutes. Bradford, bring your diversity hire. Command wants an  initial evaluation of keshmin performance out of this. Dismissed.”

An  hour later, Bradford was crammed into a Humvee with five very excited  Marines and one increasingly-nervous keshmin as they rolled through the  Entry Control Point for MOB Tolkien. Ahead, the portal yawned before  them. Roughly oval-shaped, it was four times as long as it was high. The  clear, sunny San Diego sky visible through the portal was jarring  against the low overcast-turning-vanilla skies of Gahla, clearly marking  the portal even without the pale-green glow of the force wall that  framed its edges and back.

The  Humvee rumbled and rattled along the packed and scraped dirt and gravel  inside the MOB’s expanding perimeter, smack in the middle of a column  of Humvees, trucks, APCs, and government vans and SUVs racing towards  the airstrip. Rows of Hueys and Ospreys were already idling on the  field.

The  column bounced across the rough-formed roads, weaving around temporary  structures and not-so-temporary construction sites, and rolled right up  to the air field. Clapping the random Marine who had been thrown in as  their chauffer on the shoulder in thanks, she shoved her door open and  stepped out. “Dismount, devildogs, let’s move!”

Further  up the line, Barakis was shouting encouragements as Marines streamed  out of the vehicle column, directing them to form up in front of the  waiting aircraft. The rumble and whine of turbines and rotors filled the  air alongside the sound of stomping boots and rattling gear. The rest  of her squad hopped out of an SUV behind them with half another squad.  They rallied together, and nine Marines, one Navy FMF Corpsman, and one  keshmin Artificer raced to fall into their designated positions with the  rest of the battalion.

As the last of the Marines trickled into the back of the formation, Barakis marched to the front. “Battalion!” He shouted. “AtteeeeenHUH!” The sound of nearly eight hundred Marines, Sailors, and one Artificer snapping to attention thundered across the field.

Michaels  strode onto the field before the assembled battalion, Winters at his  side. Barakis snapped a crisp salute. “Battalion assembled and awaiting  orders, sir!”

Michaels  and Winters returned the salute, and the battalion CO stepped forward.  “Marines!” he shouted, straining his deep voice to be heard over the  rumble of aircraft. “Yesterday, Two/Five were the first Marines into  this fight! Today, we’re the first Marines to take this fight to the  enemy! Our mission is to assault two enemy base camps fifty klicks to  the west of FOB Williams, capture every scrap of intel, equipment, and  every prisoner we can, and then blow whatever’s left the fuck up before  the remains of the army we demolished yesterday can get back to use it!  General Langstrom's decreed that if the keeblers want to find a pillow  to cry into after the beating we gave them yesterday, they’re gonna have  to walk all the way home to momma back in Keeblerville! Oorah?”

“OORAH!” echoed eight hundred voices.

“Additionally,  intel reports that the keeblers can use prisoners as living batteries  for their damn mage towers. One, that’s extra incentive to not get  captured. Two, last night, we found the remains of several hundred  desiccated keshmin corpses in and around the ruins of those damn shield  towers we knocked out. The poor bastards were nothing but dried-out skin  and bones, sucked completely dry, most of them stacked like discarded  cord wood. If they weren’t already dead when those towers fell, they  would have been dead soon after.

“Intel  doesn’t know how many prisoners they brought with them, nor how many  they left behind, but our mission now includes the liberation and rescue  of any keshmin prisoners we might find! So watch your targets! If it’s  got fur, it’s probably friendly. If it looks like a damn Lord of the  Rings cosplay, assume it’s hostile and light it the fuck up. These are  some bad motherfuckers who are in need of a whole helluva lot of  killing. Let’s go give it to them. Your aircrafts have already been  assigned by squad. Fallout by Company. RETREAT!”

“HELL!”

“TWO/FIVE!”

“RETREAT, HELL!”

“Semper Fi, Marines! FALLOUT!”

“Echo Company! MOUNT UP!”

“Move! Move! Move!”

“Get the lead out, Marines!”

“Fuck yeah! Get some!”

Bradford  sprinted forward. Following the calls for First Platoon and Second  Squad, she raced towards the open ramp of a V-22 Osprey as what looked  like half the 3rd Marine Air Wing’s compliment of AH-1Z Vipers and  F/A-18 Hornets thundered through the portal above them.

***********

Tyriel’s  night had been long and exhausting. He had skirted around the edge of  the keshmin and human camp, staying well away from the harsh, unnatural  lights and any patrols they might have. The human camp was not his target.

The  journey to the portal itself was exhausting. Without the ambient mana  fields of a mage tower, he was left to subsist on what mana he could  draw from the ether on his own, and what food he had brought with him.

The  forest he traveled through was young, and unfamiliar to him. Wild and  untrained, the trees had forgotten their masters, and had no concern for  him.

Just  as troubling was the constant stream of human troops from their camp at  the portal. He wondered how the keshmin had managed to create such a  thing, but was unconcerned. Answering that question was not his mission.

Evading  the keshmin patrols, or what existed of them, was child’s play. More  difficult were the human patrols, and their strange machines.

Ironically,  the greatest challenge were the scattered keshmin who had yet to return  to their army. They were everywhere, many wandering aimlessly, and  weaving an unseen path through them proved to be his most difficult  task.

His  reserves draining quickly, he was forced to stop and rest several  times. He foraged what he could, to conserve his food stores. Twice he  was almost found out when fleeing keshmin nearly bumbled across him as  he rested.

Finally,  late in the afternoon of the day after the battle, he reached the human  base camp around the portal. Its size and activity were alarming, and  it was well defended and patrolled.

Tyriel  was prepared for this, however. Reaching into his bag, he pulled out a  mana crystal. Placing the crystal against the emerald mana gem at the  end of his staff, he concentrated, weaving the spell structure around  himself. Though easier within the range of a mage tower, or with the  support of other mages, the spell was still not difficult for him alone.

The mana in the crystal came unbound, streaming into the gem of his staff, and Tyriel vanished.

Getting  over the humans’ defensive wall proved to be a minor challenge, but  with a surge of mana through his blood to boost his acrobatics, and a  few carefully-placed shield flickers to serve as stepping stones, he was  across. The drain on his reserves was not insignificant, and he knew he  would need to time to recuperate, but reaching his target must come  first.

Maintaining  the invisibility spell, and the rapid bleed of mana, he raced across  the human fortification, dodging tents, people, and strange machines. He  sprinted past a field with a large formation of humans standing before  dozens of whirling contraptions, and nearly lost his concentration as  dozens more of the thundering, mechanical birds roared overhead.

But by then, he was slipping through the portal, setting foot onto another world.

His  reserves waning critically low, he ran across the open field on the  alien side of the portal. Another wall presented itself, and with a  desperately-short surge of mana he danced over it.

His  energy failing, he threw himself across the cleared area on the other  side of the wall, past more humans and their strange constructions and  vehicles. With the last of his reserves, he stumbled down an embankment  and into a small grove of trees that had never known an elven master.  His reserves depleted, the spell failed, and he collapsed.

Victorious.