Chapter 6 The Great Minotaurus Migration

The next weeks went by in a blur as they settled back into their routine, with some small changes. Petar spent much of his time with Sarah, helping with her recovery. She had a little trouble speaking, following the traumatic events of that horrible evening. They took walks in the hills around town, or they would sit in Damien’s garden and read. Slowly she began to come back to herself, little by little, with Petar’s gentle cajoling. Damien and Schertling were impressed, but Emma wasn’t surprised at all: “Petar isn’t a soldier, not really. He’s a healer at heart.” Emma had taken to coming to Damien’s garden, much to his delight. She would sit and they would talk, until eventually she asked if she could help and learn from him - Damien was only too happy to instruct her on the delicate nurturing required to coax life from the dusty earth. And she learned fast: after a week or so, he trusted her to be able to tend the plants without his oversight. While they worked they talked about life in and around Zamaii, with cameo appearances from various of their friends. Much of the talk focused around the threat of Omanga, but Emma also complained about things in Agurts. “Don’t you think it’s strange that ever since President Aldaman died, we haven’t had an election?” 

“Didn’t the Senate announce they were preparing for it?” 

“Yes, but they’ve been saying that for the last five years! That’s ridiculous! How long do they need to prepare?” 

Damien frowned. “I’d never really thought about it before I guess. The Small Council seems to have things under control.” 

“But that’s just the problem. If they always have things under control, then we’ll never get the chance to choose our president again, right?” 

“Huh...another thing that didn’t cross my mind. You seem right to me. But what can we do about it?” 

“Well,” she sighed. “That’s the hard part. We need a leader for the next generation of our Federation.” She smiled playfully at him. “What about you, Damien?” 

“Me? You’re joking!” 

She laughed. “Only a little. You’re a good leader of your squad.” 

“Thanks but that’s hardly like leading a country.” He thought for a moment. “You know, you’re the one who thinks about things from all the different angles. Maybe you should be the president!” 

“Me?” She raised her eyebrows and then went back to digging her plants. “I’m just a barmaid.” 

“You don’t have to be a barmaid forever.” 

She paused, then looked at him. There was something like melancholy in her eyes. “Honestly, it’s been nice to live a normal life.” 

“Your life not normal before all this?” They had never really talked about their pasts. It just hadn’t come up. 

She shook her head, and tucked a strand of hair behind an ear. But she didn’t elaborate further, so he respected her privacy, and they continued to tend the garden in peaceful quiet. After a few minutes, Emma spoke up again: “Isn’t the Minotaurus Migration Route passing through soon?” 

“Yeah. We’re going to be heading out into the Estancian Gray Zone to support the 88th in escorting them down here.” 

Her eyes shone with excitement. “It’s going to be a real party atmosphere. Always is when the MMR comes into town. You gonna buy anything?” 

Damien tried to keep a straight face, but he couldn’t help smirking. “Maybe one or two things….” He didn’t want to spoil the surprise, but he had been saving up just for this occasion. He planned to get the nicest food he could afford and treat Emma to a real feast. For one night, he thought, they would be like a king and queen. 

“Alright then, keep your secrets.” The way she looked at him suggested she had a pretty good idea of what he had planned. “I’ll be waiting for you to get back.”

Damien felt a shiver run down his spine. The MMR couldn’t come fast enough. 

They deployed out a few days later, piling into the back of their convoy truck as they were now used to doing. Corporal Djemai was all business: “Alright here’s the deal. The Minotaurus Migration Route is one of the most important trade routes that Agurts has, delivering goods all over Eastern Europa and beyond into Orensia. We want to make sure the convoy has a smooth trip into Federation territory, no trouble. So we’ll be doing what we can to support the 88th. They’re calling the shots on this one since it’s their stomping grounds.” 

Petar raised his hand. “Hey Corp, we expecting any trouble?” 

“Well, with the Soil Ghost clans acting more aggressively recently, and with the sheer size of the MMR, we could see some raids.” 

“Even before the Ghosts started acting more assertively, some tribes almost always tried to get at the MMR,” Bob chipped in. “The payoff is worth the risk. A lot of valuable stuff in that convoy.” 

“What about bandits?” Schertling asked. 

“Always a possibility…” Djemai said, trailing off with a look at Bob, who shrugged.

“Always a chance, but I’d guess unlikely. Most of the bigger gangs have been chased off either by the tribes or the 88th at this point.” 

“What about Omanga?” Damien asked. 

“What about Omanga?” Djemai responded pointedly. 

Petar jumped in to explain: “The MMR goes up through Niah to Omanga after passing through the Federation. The Omangans have just as much interest in seeing the convoy safely through the gray zone, same with the Gafians.” 

“Generally speaking as the convoy passes into Niah we’re done with it and the Omangans take over guard duty,” Bob elaborated. “Been that way for years, since Oleksandr I even.” 

They heard a knock on the window leading to the driver’s compartment. Djemai opened it up, nodded, and then closed it again. “Alright boys, enough chatter. Masks on. We’re approaching the gray zone.” 

They put their masks on and checked their rifles. Damien looked outside. The dusty hills with its scraggly trees and weeds were gradually becoming barer and sandier. Soon they were surrounded by nothing but rolling dunes. The sand shone golden in the fierce sunshine. Trapped inside their standard gray zone gear, it wasn’t long before he was desperately sweating. His mask as well was an uncomfortable frustration, as the air grew hotter. Overall, it wasn’t a great first impression of the desert, and it didn’t get much better over the next hour and a half. 

“You get used to it,” said Bob, as he watched the young soldiers move about in obvious discomfort. 

“When?” asked Schertling. Even the usually calm Munachian man was irritable. 

Bob shrugged. “Eventually.”

“I wish eventually would hurry up,” Damien grumbled under his breath. At first he had thought he could glimpse an empty kind of beauty in the gently undulating waves of dunes. This sentiment quickly evaporated under the beating noonday heat, and he thought the sooner they could get out of here the better. It wasn’t just empty: it was desolate.

“Hard to believe this was once the great Kingdom of Estancia, eh Damien?” Petar said. 

“Destroyed by the hands of Titus, the Desert Reaper of Omanga,” Damien responded. Petar looked at him in surprise. “And here I thought you were a complete dimwit.”

Damien snorted. “Just because I don’t keep up with politics doesn’t mean I didn’t listen in class. I loved history.” 

Schertling put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m with you Damien. History is great, and important too - it helps us from repeating past mistakes.” 

“Here here!” said Bob. 

“Well, yeah,” said Damien, a bit nonplussed. 

“Anything else you can tell us about Estancia, Oh Great Historian Damien?” Petar asked snidely. 

“Hmmmm…” Damien thought. “Well, before the war at least, it was the richest country in eastern Europa. But then they faced many tragedies. Their leader died. The Gray Summer. And then the Soil Ghosts began to appear.” 

“Not bad, son,” said Bob. “Not quite right though. Soil Ghosts didn’t start calling themselves that until after the war.” 

“Oh ok. But yeah, so...their new leader decided to attack Gafia. Try and put the kingdom back on the right track. But then Omanga joined with Gafia and threw them back. So they attacked Agurts.” 

“But Bob taught them a lesson at the Battle of Baluard, charging right into the heart of the enemy!” Petar said, swashbuckling some invisible Estancians aside. 

Schertling nodded. “Everyone in Agurts learns about the Battle of Baluard. The downfall of Estancia was followed swiftly with the birth of the Federation.” 

Petar suddenly had an idea. He looked at Bob strangely. “Say...you must have been there, old man!” 

Bob laughed heartily. “I appreciate you recognizing me for my age, but I’ve spent pretty much my whole life kicking around Zamaii.” 

“Is that so…” Petar didn’t sound convinced. 

“Alright alright,” Djemai stepped in. “Enough chatter. I want eyes peeled on the horizon. We don’t want to be surprised with another incident like we had on the road up to Zamaii.” 

They certainly didn’t. They watched. But the only sound was the crunch and bounce of the truck as it rolled up and down the dunes. 

Fort Talos was the operational headquarters of the 88th Sand Division of the Agurts National Army, the largest of Agurts’ infantry divisions, and so the structure was correspondingly sprawling. It had originally been tactically positioned on top of one particularly high dune, but as the army had grown so had it: now the original base was one of four command points, and the area in and around the base had been flattened and covered with concrete to provide firm footing for the troops and barracks, supply depots, and officer headquarters. Soldiers moved to and fro in well-drilled squadrons as the Zamaii Border Patrol trucks arrived at the central courtyard of the base. Damien was impressed. Compared to the rather lackadaisical training they had been put under by Corporal Djemai, this was significantly more professional, and on a much grander scale. Not only that, but lined up across the courtyard were rows of Laurel SAs mechs. Huge and vaguely humanoid, equipped with a variety of weapons tailored to match their giant proportions, empty of pilots they currently stood unmoving as statues. Synchro exoArmors - SAs - were the dominant force on the battlefield in the Acid Rain era. It was difficult for any infantry to hold the line when they were being swatted aside and crushed like flies by a charging SA. And here there were enough SAs to outfit a whole platoon! It was incredible, and a true display of the strength of the Agurtan military. 

Bob came up next to him. “You ever pilot a Laurel before, son?” 

Damien shook his head. “Just in training.” 

“Well how about you get in one now?”

Damien was so shocked he almost dropped his rifle. “I-I’ve never-” 

Bob had already started marching off, as if he knew the base like the back of his hand. “Wait here!” 

Corporal Djemai was hot on his heels. “Bob!” She hiss-whispered, not wanting to yell but also kind of needing to yell. “Get back here!” 

But the veteran had already disappeared behind some marching troops. “Ugh,” groaned Djemai. “That old fart thinks he can get away with anything.” 

Petar appeared. “I’m telling you, there’s more to him than meets the eye. He might be the actual Bob! The hero Bob!” 

“Could be,” Damien responded calmly. “So what if he is?” 

“That would be amazing! Maybe he’s undercover trying to start a new Bucks Team and we’re it-”

“Whatever he’s doing or whoever he is, we should respect his privacy,” Schertling finished for him. 

“I mean-yeah…, of course,” Petar concluded lamely. 

They waited awkwardly by their truck. Djemai had them stand to order. “Show them that the Zamaii Border Patrol is just as much a part of the Agurts National Army as them!” she said to encourage them. They stood up straight with their rifles in position. But no one seemed to pay them much attention. Sergeant Han walked over a few minutes later with that customary tired look in his eyes. He started to lay out the mission: “Well, we’re going to be near the front of the Minotaurus train, near the Big Three convoys. We’ll be supporting Big Three guards, but we’ll be unlikely to see any action. No one dares to openly attack the Big Three-” 

“Excuse me Sergeant!” rang out a firm voice across the yard. Han snapped to attention. Bob was walking next to an officer with some sort of golden helmet that shone in the sunlight. Han saluted as the two men approached; the others caught his drift and saluted as well. “Sol Commander Pavard! To what do we owe the pleasure?” 

“I understand this team is under your purview, yes? Permit me to borrow them for an assignment.” 

“Yes, commander, of course! May I ask to what ends are they being used?” 

“I was informed this is the group that discovered the Labbinah Cultists in the eastern suburbs, is that right?” 

“Yessir!” 

“Well I’d like to put soldiers like this to good use. Dismissed, Sergeant.” 

“Yessir!” Han saluted again and began to march off, but not without a parting look at the Sol Commander - or was he looking at Bob? Damien couldn’t be sure. 

Sol Commander Pavard stood in front of them now and addressed them directly. “You should not thank me, because I am taking you away from a boring but safe assignment and putting you in the line of fire. We need good people to pilot some of our Sand Laurels in support of the mid-rear of the Minotaurus convoy. Are you up for the task?” 

Damien’s eyes widened. Pilot a Laurel? It was every young person’s dream! “It would be an honor, sir,” he blurted out without thinking. Commander Pavard seemed a little shocked by Damien’s outburst, but chuckled in response. “You weren’t kidding, Bob. These boys have some spirit.” 

“I’m in too!” said Petar, practically jumping with excitement. Schertling held his salute: “It is not my first choice, to be honest...but it is an extraordinary opportunity, and I would never leave my comrades to face these challenges without me.” 

“Took the words right out of my mouth, Schertling,” Djemai agreed. 

Pavard nodded. “Right then. I’ll leave you in Bob’s capable hands. With all due respect, corporal, I’m appointing Bob as operational leader for this mission. Understood?” 

“Yessir!” said Djemai, saluting. 

“Good. Report to Field Engineer Vekich and get ready to suit up and move out.” The Commander saluted once more before turning from his heel and moving off. They watched him go, still processing what was happening. They were going to be piloting SAs! Bob called them to attention: “Alright gang, let’s go!” They started to make their way through the base. All around them the sight of the troops of the 88th Sand in their desert-camo gray zone gear mixed with the industrial smell of concrete and sand and the noise of sergeants yelling at corporals themselves shouting at privates to get into line. The atmosphere was electric, and it would have been easy to get swept up in the current of energy and constant flow of people, but Bob cut a clean line to a portly masked figure covered in grease and half under the body of one of the lumbering SAs. As Bob approached he slapped the engineer on the knee, “Vekich you old boltnut, get out here!” 

The man slid out on a wheeled board and flipped up his goggles so he could get a look at who was harassing him. “Well, if it isn’t Bob! What are you doing here you old coot? Shouldn’t you be retired?” 

“Could say the same for you, you old pigskin. I’m taking a few of these SAs out for a ride. Anything we should know about them?” 

“Oh they’re just standard LA4 series 4s. Seen a good bit of action but you won’t find ‘em worse for wear, I keep ‘em in prime condition. Got any preference for equipment?”

“Let’s stick with SMGs and combat shields for now, that doable?”

“For you Bob, anything.” 

“Thanks, old friend.” 

Vekich smiled, then started bellowing at some younger engineers to get the SAs Bob had requested ready for action. Bob turned to them. “Now you’ve seen combat, but not from within an SA. It’s a different experience. One of the best SA pilots I know, she once told me that the machine has to become an extension of your being. Maybe that’s too conceptual, but just keep that in mind: I believe the rest of it is best taught by experience.” 

They nodded nervously, but they didn’t have too long to worry: Vekich and his cohort returned in just a few minutes. “We’re ready to go here, Bob.” 

“Right then. Here we go!” 

They were assigned an engineer to follow to their unit. Damien’s engineer led him to one of the giant mechs and turned to him. “This is unit number #1130. Don’t damage her! Bring her back in one piece, you hear me?” The vehemence behind her words threw Damien off. “Uh...yes ma’am.” 

“Good! Now are you just going to stand there all day with your mouth open, or are you going to climb in?” 

He climbed up the front ladder into the cockpit, pulling shut the chest door-panel behind him. The LA4 was an open cockpit model, and a tight fit to boot. A pair of pedals on the floor controlled the legs while a confusing array of buttons and levers worked the arms and powered up the core systems. Damien took a deep breath and remembered his training. All Agurts National Army cadets did a course in SA training to familiarize themselves with the basics of SA operations. One of the tricky things about piloting was trusting your hands and feet were in the right places, because it was difficult to peer inside the unit once ensconced in the cockpit. It wasn’t quite the same as the units back home, but he could make sense of it. He started to get organized, flipping switches and hearing the corresponding sound of the SA powering up. A gentle shudder passed through the mech as it came to life. He looked down as he prepared to move and saw the woman engineer looking at him suspiciously. “Everything alright up there?” she asked.

“Yes, everything’s fine!” 

“Good! You look like a fish who’s lost his school. The rest of your squad’s waiting, get out of here.” 

“Got it!” He turned his attention back to the mech, wrapping his hands around the levers, putting his feet on the gears, and thinking about what Bob had told him. One with the machine. The SA began to step forward.

He found the others in the courtyard. Bob signalled at him to come over. He marched his SA over to the others, being careful not to bump anyone. He was still getting used to walking the suit. “Right! Here’s the deal, Damien. Turn on your machine’s short-wave radio, we’ll use that to communicate out in the field over distance. Keep long-range off for now - I’ll manage that. Got it?” 

“Got it!” he replied. Bob gave him a thumbs up. On the other side of him, he heard Petar yell happily: “THIS IS THE BEST DAY EVER!” 

“Calm down soldier!” shouted Djemai. 

“Quiet everyone!” said Bob. They fell silent. “The corporal and I will take point. Schertling, Petar I want you coming up next, covering left and right flanks, respectively. Damien, you’ll bring up the rear. Hang back just a touch so you can get a good view behind us. Everyone understand?”

“Roger!” Came four voices in unison. 

“Keep the chatter to a minimum while we’re out there, just in case we need to focus on something serious. Ok…here we go!” 

They headed out into the desert. At first Damien thought the Laurel would trip over right into the sand, but these were built for the desert - their mechs had skids on the soles of their feet that let them slide down the dunes on command. Cleverly, the toe and heel of the foot came with a metal wedge that could be raised or lowered - raised for sliding, lowered to allow the mech to dig into the sand and climb up the other side of the dune. There was a rhythm to it: hit the button to raise the wedges, slide down the dune, then hit the button to lower the wedges, run up the side, hit the button...and so on. What Damien had thought was going to be a slog was a quick journey. Within an hour of skating over the desert they had their first sight of the MMR - a seemingly endless snake of convoys, trains, trucks, even wagons and the large, furry gugees that the Soil Ghosts used as mounts and beasts of burden hanging onto the end of it. 

The radio flickered to life as they paused on top of the rise. “There it is, everyone. We’re heading to the mid-rear, so let’s not waste time. Everyone ok?” 

Everyone reported in. “No problems here,” Damien said. 

“Good, then off we go.” 

After about 15 to 20 minutes they reached their position. Huge trucks loomed over the SA units, giving them some welcome shade. Bob signalled them to fall in behind him, and they did while he made contact with the convoys over the radio. 

“Ugh…” they heard Djemai groan.

“What is it?” Damien asked. 

“I know one of these companies. Royal Milk. They come from Uruya.” 

“That’s a long journey up from the south!” said Schertling. “Must be good milk.” 

“Don’t ever drink it,” said Djemai.

“Why not?” asked Petar. 

But there was no response. “Just don’t.” 

Damien looked at the convoy in question. The words “Royal Milk” were prominently displayed in curlicue script on the convoy truck that had been painted a milky white. There was an image of a golden milk bottle with a crown next to the logo. To his eyes, it looked innocuous enough. But on the other hand, as his father had often complained, it was hard to trust any of the big companies that operated in the Acid Rain era. “Too much power,” his dad would say over some beer next to the firepit, roasting some meat. Still, what could be so bad about milk? It was hard to imagine. He liked milk, and they hadn’t been able to get it all too often.

Bob’s voice crackled in over the radio: “I’ve just spoken to the convoy managers. Let’s have three of us stick here with the Royal Milk car and two drop behind to protect the Beehive car.” 

Djemai spoke up. “I’ll go to Beehive.” 

“...sure, no problem. Any other volunteers?”

“Me,” said Damien. 

“Great. Petar, Schertling, hold position for now.” 

“Roger that!” 

Damien dropped back a bit with Djemai next to the Beehive convoy truck. Compared to the Royal Milk car, this was somewhat more ostentatious. It was painted with black and yellow stripes, and had cartoon bees drawn flying across the length and breadth of it. The words “Beehive Honey Inc., Producer of the NECTAR OF THE GODS” was stamped in blocky white letters. As he was looking at the truck, he heard a zooming sound from his other side. He quickly turned around and could see several bulky motorbikes, also painted with black and yellow stripes. The pilots waved to him playfully and drove circles around his unit. Djemai was frustrated: “What are these idiots doing?” 

Damien shouted at them: “Hey, we’re on your side here!” 

He heard laughter in response, but the bikes did give them some distance. He heard someone shout back, “Just giving you a Beehive Welcome, friend, no need to get your balls in a twist.” More laughter. “We’re the AMM, Beehive Security. Don’t worry your little Federation heads, we’ll keep you safe.” Damien wasn’t convinced. They’re standoffish attitude rubbed him the wrong way, and he decided to try his best to ignore them. 

“Assholes,” Djemai said. 

“Yup,” agreed Damien. 

The AMM lost interest in them when it became apparent Djemai and Damien were in no mood to mess around, and so it was that the Minotaurus Migration Route continued its slow march through the desert. 

After another couple of hours of stomping through the desert, the sun was beginning to set, and Damien was beginning to get a bit of a sore butt from sitting on the SAs uncomfortable seat for so long. The excitement and novelty of piloting a giant mech had at this point fully worn off, and he was even feeling some fatigue from operating the levels and foot pedals. He looked out at the convoys, then glanced at the AMM motorbike buzzing along- when suddenly one of those motorbikes along with the pilot was enveloped in flame. The force of the resultant explosion almost caused his SA to stumble. The radio crackled to life almost at the same time, and Bob’s voice came on: “Damien! Djemai! We’re under attack!” 

There was a lot of smoke, and he could hardly make out what was going on, but he saw the convoy was behind him, so he raised his previously unused combat shield and SMG and took up a defensive position. Out of the corner of his eye, he could roughly make out Djemai doing the same thing. As the smoke began to clear, he could see that the dunes across from them were suddenly teeming with cloaked figures. Many of them were on foot, but there were also desert cars - or were they sleds - barrelling down the side of the dune, as well as - he could hardly believe his eyes - what looked to be SAs, but much clunkier, held together by ropes and plastic as much as anything. He was amazed that they held together at all, but they did, and they were firing at him. The shock passed. He returned fire himself. While a normal SMG wouldn’t do that much damage, the slugs from an SA-sized SMG were powerful enough to knock a grown man off of his feet, or, in this case, punch a hole through a jury-rigged mech. He kept up a steady stream of fire at the hilltop where the two mechs were positioned and he was pleased to see Djemai was doing the same. He was worried that the infantry running down the hill would bring him and Djemai down through sheer weight of numbers while they took out the enemy SA - then he saw that the AMM on their bikes, or what was left of them, were sweeping in a perimeter around them, holding back the tide. Meanwhile, he could see troops, guards, and a colorful array of mercenaries pouring out from behind them from the convoy and into the general melee. 

Bob showed up again on the radio: “How’re you two holding over there?” 

Djemai responded: “Well enough, these Beehive assholes are holding them back for now. We’ve got visual on two Soil Ghost Meks over here, what about you?” 

“Yeah we have our own worries over here. Just hang on, and keep the convoy moving!” 

And so they did hold on, as well as they could. It was the complete opposite of the engagement they had had outside of Zamaii. That one had hit fast, hit hard, and then it was over. Here the Soil Ghosts attacked, then fell back, attacked at another point, fell back again. It felt like they were being bitten all over by mosquitoes, but every time they slapped the mosquito had already flown off to bite somewhere else. It was exhausting, and they suffered from losses - not only men killed in battle, but also bits and pieces stolen from the convoys as Ghost warriors slipped through the cracks in their defense. 

Damien and Djemai, however, were a formidable unit that the Soil Ghosts did their best to avoid. Even the Meks - nominally their rivals in the Soil Ghost forces - couldn’t match the hardiness of the Laurels. Wherever they chose to turn their attention, carnage followed. One warrior, who desperately fired his rifle at Damien’s exposed head, was picked up and crushed under his feet. The sickening crunch of bones and flesh barely registered on the shore of his mind. Damien was too tired to think about the deaths he sowed; he just wanted to survive, and to survive meant killing - so kill he did. The convoy left a bloody trail as it slowly crawled forward, a stain of blood and bodies. As he sent a slug from his SMG into another warrior, Damien considered that all the bodies would be picked clean before too long, and the blood would dry and blow away. They would simply disappear.

The convoy wasn’t passing through Fort Talos directly, but the 88th had set up a wide perimeter around the base to make sure that the convoy could pass into Agurtan territory safely. It was the middle of the night when they trudged into the HQ, their mission completed. The Soil Ghosts had harried and harassed them right up until they came within striking distance of the fort. Then they had simply vanished into the desert darkness as if they never existed. Once back in the courtyard, Damien sighed, and finally turned off his unit. They had certainly put in a shift today. All his muscles were aching. He wearily clicked open the cockpit’s door and stretched his legs. The engineer he had met earlier was clucking over the unit. 

“Ugh, it’ll take me days to clean up this mess. How did you manage to get hit by so many shots but not die? You’re one lucky boy.” 

He looked at the SA and saw there were quite a few scratches and dents. “There were a lot of them out there.” 

“Big raid, huh?”

“Meks too.” 

“Those tin-cans? Hardly worth the work needed to keep them running.” The engineer sniffed peremptorily. Damien shrugged. “Thanks anyway. This thing did good.” 

She stood up proudly. “Well of course she did! She’s a Laurel, after all. Keeping the peace!” 

Damien waved as he walked away, too tired to converse or argue further. He found the others in a similar state of disrepair. Petar was flat out lying on the courtyard ground. Schertling was cooly leaning against a wall, his supposed diffidence undermined by his trembling legs. Even Djemai was breathing heavily and seemed about to pass out. The only one unaffected - of course - was Bob. The old man looked as if he had just woken up from a refreshing nap. “Ah, Damien! Quite a scrap that, eh? You did excellently. Losses were well-below average, according to reports.” 

“Were they? Great.” 

“We’ll need to celebrate once we get to Zamaii. For now, let’s pile in the truck and take a well deserved rest! Haha! I don’t know if I’ll be able to sleep, battles like that always get my blood boiling!” 

From down on the ground, Petar groaned. 

“Damien.”

Damien kneeled. “What’s up?”

“Carry me.” 

Damien smiled as he picked up his friend. They walked up to Schertling and Djemai. Arm on shoulders, they clambered into their truck and almost immediately passed out. 

A few hundred miles to the south, Senator Jovik Obremark was at his home playing with his daughter, Flavia. She was five years old and just learning her letters. It was one of his special joys to lead her through some of the children’s stories he had grown up with. “And then the wolf said to to the bear, ‘But I haven’t eaten your lunch, you ate it and then forgot about it!’” Flavia squealed with delight as he did the different voices for the lion, the wolf, and the clever squirrel. He laughed. There was a knock at the door, and he saw his wife’s face. He stopped laughing. “What is it, Mirana?” 

“Some men to see you in the parlor, Jovik.” 

“I see. I’ll be right down.” 

He closed the book regretfully and patted Flavia on the head. “We’ll finish later, my love. For now, sleep, alright?” 

Flavia moaned in response. “But I’m not tired!” 

He kissed on the forehead and turned off the bedside lamp. “You’ll feel sleepy soon enough. Good night, my dear.” 

“Ugh...good night, papa.” 

He closed the door and walked down the hallway to the stairwell. He wished that he had her energy. It was only 9 o’clock in the evening and he felt thoroughly exhausted. He had been in meetings all day - meetings he could hardly remember now, they had been so thoroughly tedious. At the top of the stairs Mirana was waiting for him. The way her arms were crossed suggested her worry. “Late night meetings, Jovik? This would never happen in Baluard!” 

He sighed. “We’re not in Baluard anymore, Mirana.”

“Yes but is this really necessary? Your principles, Jovik! No clandestine arrangements!” 

“Mirana…” he hugged her tightly. “We’re in danger,” he whispered into her ear. 

As he pulled away, she raised a hand to her mouth and bit gently down on a knuckle, as she was wont to do when worried. He had been seeing it all too much, these days. “Danger?” 

“I’m thinking of sending you and Flavia back to Baluard.” 

“You can’t! Think of the stir it would cause. And we wouldn’t leave you, anyway.” 

“Oh, Mirana,” he shook his head. “I had a feeling you would say that. Think on it, anyhow.” 

“I won’t.”

He went downstairs to the parlor. The chief of his household, a man named Eddinson who he had known for years, was standing outside the parlor door nervously wringing his hands. He came up to the senator at once. “I told them you wouldn’t be seen in the evening, but they just shoved me out of the way! The looks they were giving me - you would have thought they were going to murder me then and there! If you hadn’t warned me to be on the lookout for them, I would have thrown them out by the ear, sir.” 

“I would have liked to have seen you try, Eddy. Make sure we aren’t disturbed.”

“No refreshments required, sir?” 

“None.”

“It’s most unusual...yes, sir.” 

“And keep the rest of the household away, but be discreet about it.” 

“Yes sir. Most of them are sleeping in any case.” 

“Good.” He walked into the parlor. He had been given the Baluardan Senator’s Estate by the previous holder of the position, a rather crusty old general who had decorated the place in staid Baluardan style - which is to say, in no style at all. The walls of the parlor were bare stone with a few old firearms and swords mounted against traditional coats of arms. It was a wonder the room had curtains for its windows, but lucky it did - thick blue drapes that hung to the floor and let in no light - or sound, thankfully. He sat down on an armchair next to the fireplace. “Well,” he said. “What have you found out?” 

King sniffed from the facing armchair. “Something and nothing.” 

“Elaborate, please.” 

Jack, who was laying down on a nearby couch with his feet up, spoke: “Our friend Broz has his fingers in a lot of pies. Would be a shame if he got burnt.” He said the last word with such barely withheld fury that Obremark raised an eyebrow. 

Steel was sitting at the nearby table. “A lot of projects, but little to show for it.” 

“Senator Broz has been having quite a number of meetings with business elite in Agurts - and abroad,” King explained. “Especially representatives from the PTL. But the senator has a lot of business interests, and so this hardly comes as a surprise.” 

“So that’s the nothing. What about the something?” 

“Symbols and signs,” muttered Jack. 

“If you look on the surface, it all seems innocent. But if you look at the timing of it all...he’ll go to a meeting the PTL, then have a Small Council session. Then a meeting with some other business interests - then followed by another government meeting. Always alternating: first a business meeting, then a government. It’s not much to go on, but we suspect he’s selling out the Federation.” 

Obremark steepled his fingers together and frowned. “This you conclude from just the arrangement of meetings? Little to go on indeed.” 

“There’s more,” said King. “We attempted to tap his phone. It proved...difficult. But we did intercept some transmissions. Something about plans for a transition of power.” 

“Well, we’ve all been waiting for the presidential elections. It would make sense he would be planning for a transition.” 

“But then why all the secrecy? We had to work hard to find out anything at all about this transition, and it’s something the public has been wanting for years. You would think if he had them, he would show them.”

“Indeed. And this idea of a transition doesn’t answer the question of why would he want to keep me in the dark on Omangan military movements around Gafia and Estancia.” 

King shrugged. “Your guess is as good as ours at the moment.”

Obremark sighed. “A tough nut to crack.” He thought of the lion, the wolf, and the otter in the story he had been reading. He had always considered himself more of the brave lion than the crafty wolf. But he knew that more than anything else he needed to be the clever otter now. But how? What was Broz plotting - or was he grasping at straws? Doubt began to creep into his mind. Was he jumping at shadows for no reason? 

Jack sat up. “Look boss, we’re sorry we didn’t find much. But we’ll keep digging and turn up something. We’re close, we’re very close.” 

“Right…,” said Obremark. Then a thought struck him. “Why don’t you reach out to Bob and ask? Do you think he would have any insight?” 

The others perked up at the mention of their old commander. “It’s worth getting in touch with him and letting him know that Broz is up to something at the very least,” King agreed. “We’ll find a way.” 

The senator stood up. “We knew this wasn’t going to be easy, gentlemen,” he said. He looked at them. “But keep at it.” 

They saluted and left. Obremark sat down in his armchair and watched the embers of the fire slowly die away, until he was left in utter darkness.

He didn’t remember getting back to the barracks and crawling into bed, but he must have done, because he woke up the next morning staring at the ceiling from his bunk, listening to the gentle sounds of sleep coming from Petar and Schertling. His whole body hurt. The events of the previous day and night were a jumbled mess. But he knew he had killed a lot of people. He closed his eyes tightly and rubbed his face with his hands. Then he got up and went to take a shower.

They spent the rest of the day convalescing. They didn’t even join in with the town’s festivities to celebrate the arrival of the MMR. But eventually Sarah came round looking for Petar and dragged him out. They held hands as they left the barracks. Damien watched them go, wondering if Emma would come and ask for him. Djemai was the next to knock at the door. “Schertling! I order you to come with me to the market. There are a few things I want to buy, and I need someone to help me carry things.” Schertling shrugged at Damien and headed out. Now he was alone. Maybe he should go out and look for her. Maybe she was waiting for him at Harper’s or something. He put on a jacket. But before he could go out, there was a knock on the door. Someone to see him. He smiled. Finally. He checked his wallet: he should have enough to get them a few nice things to eat. He opened the door: Bob was standing there, with a serious look on his face. He was holding a piece of paper. “Hi Damien. This is for you.” 

Damien took the paper. “Umm...thanks.” 

“Don’t mention it,” Bob turned on his heel, raised a hand by way of goodbye, and left without another word. Weird. Damien opened the folded paper. It just had two words: “the garden.” Feeling strangely apprehensive, he exited the barracks and went towards the garden. 

Bob had been invited by Susan and her family to walk around the MMR shops, and they did just that. The convoys had parked on the northern edge of town in haphazard fashion - many of the trucks opened up into portable shopfronts, while other enterprising merchants had packed tables, chairs, or blankets on which to lay out their goods. It was a carnival atmosphere: one of the few times when people would come out and spend their money to prepare for the year ahead, but also just to enjoy themselves with some novelties from distant lands. There was porcelain tableware from Orensia, handcrafted farming tools from Uruya, antiquated trinkets from old Estancia, Gafian music records, and even books, newspapers, and magazines from Meridia and Aveca across the Aethonic Ocean. Yet by far the most enticing goods were those offered by the food merchants, many of whom had set up impromptu kitchens to give customers samples or just to sell out cooked meals entirely. A kind of street had been set up where all of these food vendors had gathered, and the aromas wafting out made his mouth water. Enormous Avecan Turducken Burgers filled with enough meat to feed a family. Rich Uruyan vegetable stews served with oshifima, a stiff porridge used to soak up the delicious sauce. String-like noodles from the forests of Jong far to the east, fried and tossed with pork and mushrooms that looked like ears. Rice balls that seemed plain on the outside, but contained treasures within. There was even a man from Pod Zemley serving a kind of sightless fish wrapped in edible moss, all brought painstakingly from his cavern home (although to be honest, Bob didn’t think the flavor was great on this one). For Bob, it was a special treat to try everything and anything. Susan was more nonplussed: she had seen the MMR many times over the years, and was more determined to get a good bargain more than anything else. Maybe he should retire, he thought with a sigh. It would be nice to eat like this more often. But in his heart, he knew he never would.

When he arrived back at his shack, as his hand went towards the door, he felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. Something was off. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he pulled out his gun regardless. Then he slammed open the door as hard as he could with his pistol at the ready. The single-room was empty. Some of his notes on the table by the room’s single window drifted lazily to the floor. 

“Peace,” came a voice from the corner to the left of the door. Bob swiveled his gun to that point. Standing in the shadows was a tall figure: his head almost grazed the sealings. He was hooded and cloaked, and his face was covered by cloth. It was no wonder Bob had missed him - even though he was a giant, he practically blended into the darkness. The man moved his arm ever so slightly, so that the cloak moved back. Bob caught a glimpse of a hand, mutated to become as hard as rock. He let out a deep breath and stowed his gun. “Argus. I could have shot you, you know.”

The giant man shook his head. “I doubt it.”

“What brings you here in the dark of night, old friend?” 

“Words from Sonceto. Something is going on, Bob.” 

“I know that much. The Omangans, Gafia, the Soil Ghosts…” 

“No. Something closer to home.” 

Bob raised an eyebrow. “Indeed?” 

“Broz is up to something.” 

“Broz is always up to something.” 

“King, Steel, and Jack have been doing some digging for Senator Obremark. They’re all worried.”

He frowned. “Any details?”

“No.” 

“Then they’re jumping at shadows. Look, I appreciate the concern, I really do, but Aldaman and I - we dealt with Broz for many years.” 

“Aldaman’s gone, Bob.” 

“Well I’m still here,” he responded, somewhat more fiercely than he expected.

“I know.” Argus shifted uneasily. “I will not argue with you.”

Bob sighed and rubbed his eyes with his hands. “I’m sorry, old friend. I’m tired. But I know you wouldn’t have agreed to come out here if it wasn’t something important. I promise I’ll look into it.” 

“It’s your decision. I have told you what I have come to tell you. I cannot stay.” 

“Won’t you even spend the night? It’s been a long time.” 

“No. Time...is short.” 

Bob grimaced. “The mutations are getting worse?”

A slow nod. 

“I understand. Then godspeed, old friend.” Bob gave the man a big hug. “I wish you every success.” 

The dark giant nodded again. “Stay safe, Commander.” 

Then he was gone.

When he arrived in the garden, a woman was sitting at the table waiting for him. There was a lamp that lit up her face. It was Emma...and it wasn’t Emma. The woman in front of him wasn’t dressed in Harper’s barmaid garb. She had on a dark blue shirt with a black coat. She was wearing dark trousers covered by tall plated boots. It all looked so...military. Her hair was neck length, and strikingly gray. She waved at him awkwardly. “Hi, Damien.” 

He stood there speechless. “Emma?”

She smiled lopsidedly. “Sofi, actually.” 

“I...I don’t know what to say.” 

She sighed. “I figured. I’m sorry to have lied to you, Damien. I’ve been undercover.”

“Undercover?”

“That’s right. But I’ve got a new assignment now, and an important one. I’ve got to go.”

“But...where?” 

She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t say.” 

His emotions were a tempest threatening to consume him. “But why? That’s it? Just: goodbye?” He could feel tears stinging his eyes. Fuck. How embarrassing. 

“I can’t say anything. I’m sorry. It’s a…delicate operation.” She walked up to him. He looked into her face and caught a glimpse of the woman he knew: intelligent, beautiful, independent. Without a second thought, he hugged her. He felt her tense up, then relax and embrace him in return. “I’m lucky to have met you, Em...Sofi. I hope that one day, we can see each other again.” 

“That would be nice,” he heard her voice come muffled. She was speaking into his chest. “That would be really nice.” She pulled away, and turned quickly. He caught a glimpse of tears. “Do you have time to go to the MMR before you leave? I was going to buy us some food,” he finished lamely. 

“I don’t. I have to leave now.” 

“Then...goodbye, Sofi. And good luck.” 

She nodded. 

He turned and walked away.