Chapter Text
The Universe and all of its inhabitants championed only two schools of thought in regards to Terrans: they were weak, pathetic, and a failure of evolution—or they were kind, generous, and advocates of peace and life.
But the two characterizations were not mutually exclusive. Kindness, generosity, and peace were the attributes that gave the first argument its evidentiary teeth; nations more prone to aggression and war seeing no upside in what they thought of as fundamental “weakness” born of a species too cowardly to be of any benefit or use. More “civilized” nations lauded those same supposed defining characteristics, often seeing them as small political tools, useful pawns, and exceptional caretakers—at least as long as their charge wasn’t too important.
Because despite the differing philosophies, both overlapped in a very crucial way: Terrans, so young and new to the expanse of the Universe, were essentially just fledgling children bumbling among much more mature and wise races. To simplify it into terms even a Terran would understand: both the races that hated and liked them thought that they were exceptionally naive at best, and the rest of the time just plain stupid. How could such a young, hopeful species ever understand the subtleties demanded in galactic politics and wars? How could such a new, naive race hope to grasp the complexities involved in high profile affairs?
To again put into simple, Terran-friendly terms: they definitely couldn’t.
So Terrans went unincluded in upper policy, high stakes negotiations, and in any and everything the Galactic community thought would be too “complex” for them to understand. Which, honestly, was just about everything.
But then came Scout Master Sergeants Koda Bridger and Quint Riggs—brought before a Galactic Military Court Tribunal for the respective assaults of a Q’etti warrior and a Bansiir warrior. The Tribunal was convened in equal parts to determine the validity of the “assaults” and, unknown to the Terrans, to investigate if the “two schools of thought” were no longer accurate. If not, then they would need to establish just how much of a threat the Terrans really were; to the enemy . . . . and to them.
Riggs and Bridger’s chain of command, the “brass,” were also summoned to the meeting, composed of Major Tolce, Colonel Shay, and General “Grizzly” Bear Potter. And if the Tribunal members had thought Bridger and Riggs were the most enlightening picture of Terran military, they were quickly shown sorely mistaken.
Both Scout Sergeants stood at sharp attention, no salutes for the foreign command. Their lithe, muscled predator builds triggered instinctual responses from both the prey and predator species on the panel—fear, hesitation, and competitive unease at the forefront. Then those feelings were only multiplied by the Terran commanders as they entered—two males and one female, their shoulders not as straight as their subordinates, in a way that the Tribunal would come to recognize, in time, as something Terrans would call “world-weary.” Right now, it just communicated a deeply frustrated (and frustrating) belief of power.
The foolish apes really thought that they were above the Galactic Military Court. What arrogance.
“Alright,” General Potter announced in a voice as cold as space ice as he all but slammed an armful of bound paper and files down onto the Accused’s table next to Riggs, making several Tribunal members instinctually jump. His back straightened with anger in less than milliseconds, slowly running cold, flinty eyes over the panel. Several Councilors squirmed under the gaze, to their chagrin. “What in the fuck do we actually have to discuss here?”
“E—excuse me?” Head Councillor Thear’oe, a Deno’ot, demanded. An apex predator species, he was one of the first to recover his bluster in the face of such brazen, hostile attitude. He quickly decided that his dislike of the Terrans was no longer second to the prey species on the panel that he was, unfortunately, forced to be colleagues with.
“I would if I could,” Potter half-growled; the comment, predictably, flying completely over the Tribunal’s collective heads. He sighed in exasperation, leaning on the table for a moment before his head snapped back up unnaturally fast to glare at them. “My men responded to challenges thrown down by two piss-brained bastards, which is completely, totally, irrefutably legal. What do we actually have to discuss? Give me a real reason to be here, because I assure you, folks, I’m a busy man and I don’t care for being fucking summoned.”
His eyes sharpened perceptively, narrowing with carnivorous precision, making one awful cold chill run through each of the prey species. “Unless,” Potter sneered, “you’ve finally decided to pull your heads out of your asses and try to finally judge us fairly.”
“Meaning?” Chancellor Rafini, a Priatan, sniffed, her face contorted in something Potter would confidently call scandalized disgust.
Colonel Shay, her shoulders straightening as she took the spotlight, didn’t flinch. “Meaning that you’ve judged us unfairly. We’re tired of it, and situations like this are the natural result.” She ran her own calculating gaze over the assembly, and the cool disdain and contempt in her expression gave them pause. Annoyance, too, but temporary pause. “You’re treating our species like we’re children—sequestering us to the sidelines. It’s absurd and irrational, considering the war you’re currently in with the Yi’ukiin.”
Thear’oe made an outward gesture with his hands, the open mockery in his tone easily coming across the Terran’s Galactic-issue translating cochlear implants, his face twisted with the same disdain. “Explain, Terran.”
Colonel Shay met him look for look—a brave thing for a creature of soft flesh when faced by a ten foot tall armored monster covered in venomous spines. Her controlled outrage translated to him just as clearly. “You’ve collectively sequestered us to the side-lines without a second thought, much less an actual test or challenge. You haven’t seen what we’re capable of—haven’t even asked. For the most part we’ve put up with it in civilian aspects, but in military matters, we are in charge, and you don’t get to tell us to sit at the goddamn kid’s table.”
Thear’oe gave her a patronizing look. “Is that so, little Terran?”
Shay gave him a spine-tingling predator’s snarl. “Unless you plan on coming down here and seeing just how little I am, Deno’ot, don’t call me that again.” Her smile never reached her cold, menacing eyes, and she allowed the moment to swell for a long moment before continuing. “Obviously, the Universe doesn’t take us very seriously. I can assure you, thoroughly, that that is an absolute mistake of the utmost proportion.”
Colonel Potter jumped back in. “And since you’ve already decided you’re not going to take us seriously, we’re ready to put our money where our mouth is—pardon the Human expression.” He gestured between himself, the Colonel, and the Major. “You’ve been dealing with Earth’s civilian command structure up to this point—not any more. You’re dealing with me now, and your decisions are fucking over my men and women.”
His eyes flashed angrily and it seemed to suck the air out of the room, his voice thundering, “And you do not get to rake them over the coals while they put their goddamn lives on the line for you. You do not get to punish my soldiers, our Marines, any of our motherfucking militaries. We are perfectly goddamn capable of doing that ourselves—if we wanted your ineffective help, we would’ve asked for it.” His fierce look didn’t soften but his voice did as he took in the cringing assembly. “But since I highly doubt that sentiment convinced you of our tactical capabilities, as I said, we’re ready to put our money where our mouth is. Give us a training simulation, parameters up to you all the way—except for zero live ammunition.”
Another apex predator species, Kaffitt of the Brapim, grinned victoriously. “Because your species can’t afford the casualties?”
Grizzly gave him a serious, if very bleak, look. “No. Because your war effort can’t.” He met them hard stare for stare. “The Human Federation has over three trillion souls. We have billions of trained soldiers of all nationalities—millions more graduating from thousands of Academies each Earth year. As much as I care for each and every soul in and out of my command, believe me when I say that casualties are an absolutely acceptable outcome in wartime. But this ain’t our fight, it’s yours. Give my boys and girls a chance to go to work, then we’ll see who’s so goddamn high and mighty at war.”
Kaffitt snarled his and the Council’s indignation. “Not very diplomatic, General.”
Potter affixed him specifically with an icy gaze, millions of years of warfare and death resting eerily in his disconcerting look. “I’m not a goddamn diplomat.”
The long and very uncomfortable silence was finally broken by Thear’oe. “Fine. You are correct that no laws were broken in this instance, and I, for one, am eager to see how Terrans fare in simulated combat. Four days, System Patcora, planet Beta-6b.” His snarl was noted and instantly dismissed by Potter. “Come prepared for war, General. Real war.”
Potter leaned on the table, giving him that Death’s-head grin beneath those primitive brow ridges. “Are you a betting man, Thear’oe?”
The Deno’ot’s eyes narrowed.
Potter’s smile impossibly sharpened. “I’ll take a wager that we cream you.”
Thear’oe almost snarled a disbelieving laugh at him. “Impossible.”
“If we win,” Potter’s smile was all condescension. “We take a position on the front with the Yi’ukiin, and we’re included in all future war efforts and negotiations.”
Thear’oe scoffed. “If you can manage to pull that miracle off, you can command the entirety of the Galactic effort to repel the Yi’ukiin.” His eyes narrowed in challenge as he leaned forward, flexing his spines in a minor threat display as he looked down at the General. “And if you lose, Terran, not another word of your ‘battle capability’ will be heard on this Council. You will join the rest of the common fodder at the rear lines and be grateful the loss was not more costly. Even useless slaves can be put to some use on Deno’ot planets.”
Potter grinned ferally, all disconcerting challenge in his bared teeth. “You’re on.”
‹·«‡»·›
The Terran military fleet, Thear’oe begrudgingly admitted, was a respectably large force.
The capital ship, U.S.S. Retribution, hung dauntingly in space above Alpha 6-b, surrounded by six Cruiser-class ships pressed into tight formation above, below, and beside it. Dozens of Frigates harried about between the flagship and the planet’s surface, delivering Terran troops and equipment to the mock-up battlesite. It was controlled chaos—something Thear’oe was beginning to think summed Terrans up rather well.
All of the ships were sleek and powerfully built; bigger than the standard Galactic classifications of their ship-types by an exponential factor. The scans Thear’oe’s crew performed from their ship, the Warmonger, on the Terran vessels revealed, to his alarm, that the Terrans had practically built a series of massive weapons systems before retro-fitting ships around them. Frankly, it was an almost horrifying realization. They built a weapon first and designed everything else around it, an incredibly risky choice, and neither Theor’oe’s crew or systems could even identify some of the weapons in the massive ships. They had been able to identify laughably large ion cannons and imposing rail guns, but the Retribution’s design shielded several more mystery weapons, some of which were wreaking absolute havoc on the Warmonger’s sensors.
When Terrans built warships, they really, really committed to the “war” part.
How committed were they on the ground?
Thear’oe, ever cocky and overconfident, resolved to tuck concern to the wayside and instead thoroughly test that commitment and the Terran’s capabilities. After all, equipment did not a good soldier make—training sustained by experience outclassed all. And both the Deno’ot and Brapim, the two species charged with holding the front lines against the Yi’ukiin for the past five standard years due to their military prowess and strategic methods, had a veritable plethora of just such experience and training. They were raised from birth—or hatching in the Brapim’s case—for battle and warfare. Their societies valued glory and power above all; the highest honor one could attain was to taste war and die a champion of combat, and both Thear’oe and Kaffitt, as part of the leadership of their people, had buried many war heroes in this war.
The Q’etti and Bansiir were part of the hundreds of predator species reinforcing the front lines, their cultures varying wildly between warhungry societies and pacifists and everything in between. The less battle hungry species, even including some prey races, supported the supply lines and medical centers instead of directly fighting, contributing what little they could to the war effort. After all, the Yi’ukiin were not discriminant in their targets and conquests—they sought only to win, subjugate, and consume as the opportunities presented themselves. No one in the Universe, predator or prey, would be spared if they were allowed to advance into the sector.
It was, the Deno’ot Councillor reluctantly admitted to himself, a noble thing for the prey and pacifist species to do. It also freed up hundreds of thousands of fighting troops to join the front lines instead of being confined to supply and medical efforts. It had made deployment and coordination of troops much, much easier; if only having to communicate with the “lesser” races wasn’t so frustrating.
The chime of an incoming call interrupted Thear’oe’s musings and he beckoned with one long spined arm for his Comms officer to answer it, settling back into his chair with his powerful limbs draped just-so threateningly across the throne.
General Potter’s grim, weather-beaten features flashed onto the viewscreen, no longer in his dark grey dress uniform but dressed in patterned fatigues identical to the milling Terran soldiers behind him. The stark blue-green sky in the background nearly made Thear’oe startle as he realized that the Terran General was on the ground with his troops.
A show of solidarity, perhaps? A method for building his soldier’s confidence before the skirmish began? Surely, the aged man wasn’t going to participate in this little practice!
Potter gave him that unnerving not-quite smile. “I’ll give it to you, Deno’ot, you sure know how to pick a place. You gonna be joining us for the nice weather down here?”
Thear’oe couldn’t restrain the vexed, confused snarl that exposed his fangs, but Potter didn’t even have the decency to flinch. “You? You’re actually fighting?”
Potter actually threw his head back and laughed, and Thear’oe was torn between wrath and something approaching very grudging respect.
The Terran finally stopped and looked at him again, a smile still faintly tugging at his lips. “I don’t send my men and women into anything I’m not willing to go into myself if I can help it, Councilor. This Op was approved by me, personally, and I’ll be damned if I don’t get to have a little fun while I’m out here.” His eyes seemed to finally gain a spark as he crossed his arms over his chest, asking, “You know how long I’ve been cooped up, Councilor? Between being stationed on the Retribution and the endless amount of government offices across seven systems, I’ve done so much paperwork I could tell you the budget of Mars for the next decade in my sleep. This is the first time in years I’ve had the opportunity for a little R’n’R.”
Thear’oe caught his flare of indignation before it pushed venom from his spines; it was challenging to clean the corrosive from the floor.
Potter, his face still lit up with that infuriating cheer, clapped his hands together. “Well, my people will be set up by dark tonight. See ya on the other side, Councilor.”
The General gave him an aggravatingly flippant two-finger mock salute and ended the call, leaving Thear’oe fighting that same mixture of frustrated rage and a small measure of respect.
If nothing else, the Terrans made for mild comic relief. Potter actually believed to the point of irritation that his troops could really pull it off.
Well, if a real fight was what the Terrans really wanted, Thear’oe would certainly oblige them.
“We strike the Terrans at dawn.”
‹·«‡»·›
“You told him we’d be set up by nightfall?” Major Tolce asked, a wicked smile distorting the long, deep scars that ran from his temple to chin, narrowly missing his left eye and slashing through the left half of his lips. He’d always had a crooked smile, but the wounds had severed several of his facial muscles and had healed too much for any regenerative work, leaving him only able to express a sort of twisted grimace in place of a smile.
“Sure did, Major,” Potter said with a slow, easy smile, tucking his hands into his pockets and rocking back on his heels with a very smug, satisfied air as he looked down the long valley that would serve as the battlefield. They occupied the northern end, the Deno’ots the southern.
Tolce and Shay both chuckled.
“You, sir,” Shay said with a smirk. “Are one sneaky, underhanded sonuvabitch.”
Potter pulled an innocent face. “Me? Never.” He laughed right along with them before shaking a mock-finger at Shay. “Don’t you tell my mother that, Colonel. She’ll have both our ribbons hanging from the highest yardarm in the Navy.”
“Nightfall,” Tolce chuckled, shaking his head as he turned to Scout Sergeants Bridger and Riggs, politely waiting at parade-rest on the sidelines for the brass to get serious. Nobody wore high rank or saluted in an active warzone; that was a quick way to get a commanding officer sniped.
“Riggs, Bridger, status?”
“Set up and rarin’ to go, Major,” Riggs almost smiled, anticipating the orders to be given. “Are we giving ‘em a spook tonight, sir?”
All three of the officers smiled like sharks smelling blood in the water.
“Now that’d be an awful dirty trick, Master Sergeant,” Potter said, barely restraining his chuckle. “So you can bet your ass that’s exactly what we’re gonna do.”
Bridger cleared his throat, eyes sparkling. “Awful hard to cut sleeping throats with no-kill orders, General.”
Shay’s smile was sharp, all barbarism. “I’m sure you’ll come up with a solution, Sergeant.”
“Yes ma’am.” His expression showed that he was already well on his way to some ideas.
“Atta boy.” Potter gave both of them a firm handshake. “You both know how it’s done—small crews, light loads. Don’t be seen, cause some chaos, get out.” He checked his watch and the position of the sun, doing some rapid mental math. “Take off at dusk, give it until, ahh, we’ll say 01:00. That’ll give ‘em plenty of time to get comfortable and lazy. Call it in before you exfil, we’ll do some demoralizing of our own.”
Both Master Sergeants nodded and took off, calling for their respective teams to form up.
Shay and Tolce gave Potter a long look.
“Our own demoralizing?” Shay asked innocently.
Potter just about cackled. “Oh yes, Colonel. Just wait ‘til I tell you about it. That Deno’ot’s about to get a real lesson about real modern warfare.”
“All gear taped and all exposed metal and skin covered in grease,” Bridger ordered, his five person crew gathered around him, checking their gear before go time. “I hear anything rattle or see anyone flashing around in the dark I’m gonna hit you a helluva lot harder than the Dinos will, got me?”
“Yessir,” was the unanimous reply, the crew visibly relaxed but ready.
Bridger flashed a rare smile, carefully cataloging each of them and their gear, very pleased to find nothing missing. “Alright. Riggs and his crew will take one side of the valley and we’ll take the other. Did the Enviro Scouts come up with a camo pattern?”
“Sure did,” a lean Sergeant smiled, twisting his left arm to show Bridger the screen embedded into the vambrace. The pattern was a muted whorl of dark greys and greens, matched to the same tone of the surrounding vegetation and rock.
Bridger nodded his approval. “That’ll do nicely.” He cast a casual glance around. “We know they’re probably watching us—they’d be damn stupid not to, so we’ll trickle all slow-like to the mess for chow. Eat quick and light, then filter out to the tents on the east edge. We’ll paint and camo up there and slip out at dusk. Everyone’s got heat-shield armor? Good. Let’s go do what we’re good at, boys and girls!”
‹·«‡»·›
The Deno’ot camp woke from panicked screams and the wailing of an alarm around their lazily secured base, tall figures staggering out of tents in various states of undress.
Thear’oe had just landed a mere hours earlier and the interruption of his sleep was not very well received.
“What’s going on?” he snarled, shoving through knots of troops to find the origin of that god-awful screaming. Forcing his way through a final ring of shocked-still soldiers, Thear’oe finally laid eyes on what had caused all the commotion.
Shackled to a generator, twenty Deno’ot troops lay half-slumped, a small piece of tech playing that chilling scream over and over again on the ground with them.
“What . . . .?” Thear’oe started, rage choking out his words.
Several of the incapacitated troops flinched, at least proving they were still alive, and one chanced a thready, “It . . . . it was Terrans, sir.”
“What do you mean Terrans?” Thear’oe demanded. “When? How?”
The same troop winced again. “The Terrans. Thirty minutes ago, maybe, sir. They came out of the ground like . . . . like spirits, sir. They made no sound, just . . . . just appeared out of the dark with knives and told us our throats had been cut.”
One of the other troops added, “The Terrans at the Tribunal, sir. Riggs and the other one, Bridger. They said if we ‘wanted to play the game we’d better play dead for the rest of the battle, or next time it wouldn’t be play.’”
Thear’oe growled low in his chest, feeling the angry thrumming of the venom in his spines. “And not one of you,” he snarled, turning to wave his arm over the troops standing all around him. “Not one of you saw them?”
No one dared answer.
Thear’oe was about to launch into a very heated lecture when a sudden, piercing whistle came into hearing range, making all of them pause. Eyes narrowed, Thear’oe looked up, confused, looking for the source of the sound. There was a fluttering now, too, with the noise, and he’d never heard anything like it.
Just as a small object finally caught his eye, falling from the sky, Thear’oe felt the sinking feeling that he was several steps behind and had been caught, according to the Terran expression, with his pants down.
Just as he started to scream for the troops to run, the falling artillery ordinance detonated fifteen meters above them, lighting the entire camp up with blazing red flares of light. Even as Thear’oe screamed in pain from the blinding light, he knew the strike had not been fatal.
The thought was just as bitter as the alternative.
A Terran voice spoke across the comms—when had the Terrans gotten access to his comms?—and Thear’oe could have screamed in utter hatred.
“Howdy, Councilor,” Potter’s nauseatingly cheerful voice said. “How’d you like the fireworks?”
“What . . . .?” the Deno’ot stammered breathlessly, sinking to his knees, his composure rattled by shock. “What . . . . What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Potter just laughed. Just laughed.
“Are you starting to see what we’re capable of, Councilor? If this was a real battle, you and your company would be dead. We’d still have three other companies to deal with, sure, but we’d have cut off the head of the snake, if you will.”
The man sounded absolutely merry, and Thear’oe felt an almost overwhelming urge to crush his soft little neck.
“How did . . . .” his words trailed off.
Potter, damn him, picked it up. “We know you were there? Get into your camp? Hack your comms? Hack your ship? Which ‘how’ are you asking about specifically?”
Thear’oe made a noise he’d never admit to making outside of childhood. “Yes,” he simply sighed, defeat slumping him completely into the ground.
“Copy that,” Potter chirped. His voice became abruptly, deadly, serious. “Because we’re good at what we do, Councilor, and war is what we do. I’ve sent over some reading material you might find interesting. Though there’s certainly no shortage of material to draw from, I think you’ll find World Wars One and Two especially fascinating.”
Thear’oe’s comm beeped with the delivery of said materials, and the Deno’ot could only shake his head at the absurdity of . . . . everything about the situation.
“Well,” Potter continued. “If you’re in agreement, I think we’ve proved ourselves pretty thoroughly here.”
“What would,” the Council started, stopped, then continued. “What would you have done had this been a real battle?”
“I would have dropped a nuclear bomb on your head.”
Potter’s stone cold declaration, delivered without hesitation, sent a worm of fear down Thear’oe’s spine. Even if he had no idea what a “nuclear bomb” was, the Terran’s tone was enough to indicate that it was as far removed from a mock battle as physically could be.
“You’ll find plenty of source material on nuclear tech during the Second World War, Councilor—I encourage you to read it thoroughly. It’s rather . . . . enlightening, I think.” Potter’s smile could be heard across the comms. “Thanks for the little workout, Councilor, I’ll be in touch.”