”Trading knowledge. Maybe some materials. And if they piss us off, we’ll flood the market with cheap aluminum and crash their economy.” The sarcastic grin audible in Vigdis’ voice. ”It’s expensive here, for obvious reasons. For a world where a portion of the population can summon lightning from thin air, they know jack shit about electricity... In addition to a lot of other things. From an earlier interaction it seems like geocentrism is still the name of the game here.“ She made a face, a silent condemnation of K-A scholars everywhere. Ancients Greeks figured that out 2500 years age for fuck’s sake. ”More knowledge we can trade I guess, if we can figure out how to do it without throwing the balance of power out of the airlock. But if we want to teach them stuff, we’ll have to get the electron microscope working because if we start telling them that everything, including them, is made up of tiny particles held together by forces generated by even tinier particles making those up, they’re gonna think we’re making shit up as we go to sound smart.”
Several people departed the party, following in the tracks of the out of control Life Mage. ‘Lightweight’ she thought, raised on the ethnically Russian Venera where rye bread was the norm because most of the imported wheat ended up in bottles. And rye bread was a key ingredient of kvass… ”Curious to see what kind of friends Kerchak has. If he has friends like I did at our graduation party, poor fucker. And we’ve given them markers, too.”
”What’s the mood like among the civvies?” As much as he was out of the loop on the alien front, she was just as out of it as far as the civilian mood was concerned, being either asleep, outside or working. Or working outside. ”A week cooped up inside a metal can is nothing for a crew, but a bunch of people who didn’t want to be there, injuries, kids… Can’t be good, can it?”
“Reactor… Online. Sensors… Error. Online. Weapons… Online. All systems nominal.”
”The fuck?” He slapped the side of the sensor screen as if it would help, percussive maintenance nonetheless being an important ritual. Must’ve been a faulty sensor somewhere. Probably. Hopefully. ”Up and running.”As they set down, he nudged the throttle carefully to get out of the bay, the light and overengined machine requiring a bit of precision lest he’d speed right into the ‘Mech on the opposite side. While the Cicada he piloted previously had the same rated top speed, being 15 tons heavier it took longer to accelerate and stop. Despite its venerable age, this thing was a rocketship.
”Chalupa, got it.” He confirmed the order and turned toward where he spotted a part of the valley’s wall that looked climbable, the 25 ton machine leaning into the turn under him almost like a motorcycle as he rammed the throttle open. No time to ease it forward like he planned to, it simply would have to hold. As the Mongoose built up speed, it started bouncing side to side with each step. So far nothing broke. Try hitting this cockpit now, fuckers. He leaned forward into the climb as he started ascending up the valley wall, the ‘Mech barely slowing down. When the user manual said the engine made up for the lack of jump jets, he was skeptical. Not anymore. He liked jump jets, but he could get used to this.
Karel stopped the ‘Mech as he reached the top of the canyon wall, raising its left arm to shield the cockpit from where he expected the enemy anti-Mech infantry to be. Taking a step further to get the head above the surface, he took a few seconds for his sensors and eyes to scan the horizon and make sure he wasn’t about to run into any nasty surprises. With the coast seemingly clear, he did something really fucking stupid and skylined himself as he ascended up to the open plain, and while it made him a prime target for practically anyone in or near the valley who wasn’t occupied by shooting something else or being shot at, it also gave him a clear view of the valley edges where the offending grunts were perched.”Target. Re-engage.” The squad leader’s voice crackled through the shooter’s radio, barely intelligible due to the combination of the shitty headest in his helmet and the speaker’s Marian accent. A heat wave washed over them as a blue laser beam cut through the air mere feet above them, eliciting several curses loud enough to be heard without radios. He racked another round and fired again, the round bouncing off the Centurion’s shoulder. “Miss, adjust left.” “Ja, I can fucking zee that.” the shooter hissed, wisely keeping his microphone muted. Another shot, this time it looked on target, but a bead of sweat got into the shooter’s eye, forcing him to blink it away. But boss man was silent. “Oh, zo now that I actually need it you decide to shut up? Wunderbar.” He looked away from his scope and to his left where the squad leader was laying. The man had half-raised himself up from prone, looking farther to their left, past the second squad. Was something moving there? The squad leader’s unintelligible Marian scream was cut short when he simply disappeared in a flash of green light and a haze of evaporating snow. The shooter barely had time to process what he saw before he followed suit.If they hadn’t known he was there, a salvo of three medium lasers striking the positions he could see would let them know. Those that hadn’t just become part of the atmosphere, that is. Combined with the rising pace, it was enough to instantly raise the cockpit temperature high enough that it was still warmer than before by a few degrees by the time the weapons were ready to fire again. Restricting himself to the two arm-mounted medium lasers, he could keep cool and far enough to make himself harder to hit as he ran back and forth along the edge of the landing site at full throttle, mopping up any infantry he could see. Just keep moving, you only have five and a half tons of armor.
But incoming enemy ‘Mechs were worrying, mainly because he couldn’t see them yet.”What contacts, how many, how far away, ETA?”
Times like this, Ingrid confused her. On one hand, that was exactly something Marit would expect Ingrid to say. But on the other hand, how could someone with her experience be this… naive? If Marit’s view of their profession was incomplete due to inexperience, she’d call Ingrid’s skewed by romanticism. That being said, Marit would have agreed for once. ‘Don’t be a barbarian. Speak softly but carry a big stick.’ who could find a flaw in that thinking, besides the Crimson Fists, the NPDRE, the Heavenly Sword… Fuck, almost everybody on this saltbowl. But if they fought with gloves on while everyone else was swinging crowbars, all they would achieve is get their faces smashed in. Fuck that noise. Even if they didn’t use it, the threat of it was what counted. That was perhaps the best weapon they had. If they deployed it, it lost effectiveness because everyone would know where it was. If they used it, everyone would know they no longer had one. But as long as it was hidden away, the bad guys would be left guessing. Always unsure. Always unbalanced. Sure, a nuke painted a target on their back, but that had been there for a while now so who cares?
In the end, what Ingrid or herself thought didn’t matter. The opinion that mattered was the Colonel’s, which fortunately aligned with Marit’s view of the problem. ‘Don’t be a barbarian…’ And now that they had their big stick, all they had to do was to beat everyone else into submission, preferably without using said stick, so the soft speaking may commence. Preferably in the form of “Fuck this place, we’re leaving.” Still, she was glad that sort of decision making didn’t lay on her shoulders.
But for now, she had time to kill. She could sleep later, be fresh for the scouting party. In the meantime, she set out to find Reya or Ingrid so she could get an idea of what to expect in the city, at least the part they have been to.
”Still can’t believe you didn’t get light duty with a fucked up spine.” Vigdis shook her head, ”I guess we really are in the weeds, not just with power.” She wasn’t worried about things she knew well, the structure, the power... Or rather, she knew enough about them to conclude that she didn’t have to worry. And she was completely in the dark on the FTL drive and navigation. Not knowing how bad it was or wasn’t, she pushed it into a dark corner of her mind to be forgotten until it became unsustainable, and she was gonna deal with that impending mental breakdown later. What truly worried her at the moment - aside from conquest by a feudal lord - was their resource situation. They were already going through silver and copper at a rapid rate, and a good chunk of their steels would fall to structural repairs and that’s before accounting for potentially needing to replace a whole engine. Sure, they had the theoretical knowledge to make more, but could they direct the locals to build an entire steel mill or an aluminum furnace? Could they actually be built with locally-available materials? Maybe they could get a company of mages to help them liftoff…
”Well, put so many differences into a small area - not to mention a backwards shithole - and you’ll never get it straightened out without a hard reset.” She shrugged. At his question, Vigdis started pointing out people. ”One side is some sort of hyper-meritocracy from the mountains. Mostly birds. Except big lizardman over there. His folk hail from an empire… up North? I think.”
”The other group are some feudal shithole from the lowlands. Mostly the ponies. Religious bunch. Big boy over there is in charge of the detachment here. Mostly we’re going off what the first group and the independents told us, but he has been an unfiltered asshole at least since the translators started working...“ Unlike Ixtaro, Vigdis didn’t much care if someone from Silbermine’s camp was listening, though she was watching for piercing glares. If they were supposed to get to know the humans, they couldn’t hide behind masks. Figurative masks, she wasn’t risking blindness or something due to the atmosphere.
”Lastly there’s a bunch of randos from all over the place that just happened to wander in here. Two scholars, a blacksmith, a burning tree... Funnily enough, they beat both of the big groups to first contact. Personally, they’re my favorite group so far.”
”Mountain birds, Marsh ponies and Northmen Dragonborn are apparently in a cold war of sorts, each kept in check by the threat of the others. If you tie your army down attacking A, B will kick your ass sort of deal.”
”And to add to this wonderful mess, we’re on a disputed border between the birds and the centaurs. Both claim we’re in their territory. So, yeah. They know of each other, and it would’ve been better if they hadn’t.” He was probably hoping for better news than he got, but you play with the cards you get. Well, unless you fold, but that’s just bad life advice, ”On a positive note, both sides agreed to trade with us, with food and fabrics that won’t be a fire hazard on the way. I can’t see any way this can spiral out of control into another pissing match between them.” The last sentence contained a considerable amount of sarcasm.
”So instead of an honor duel it’s gonna be a no-holds-barred beatdown. Great.” Vgidis said with a great deal of sarcasm. Kvarr seemed to be a bit more level-headed from what she could see, though Esedel’s deference to Silbermine still gnawed at any growing peace of mind. Maybe things would be easier if he met with a tragic accident when out looking for the lost cargo. Stumbled upon a crate of damaged mining charges, body couldn’t be recovered, impossible to prove foul play… The locals needn’t know how stable modern plastic explosives actually were. Eh, no worries, Ezra probably already had a plan.
She was going to ask something else, but seeing Kareet under siege, she decided the learned bird could use some breathing room. Instead she separated a portion of the Shirik Sea Monster, bringing it to the shotgun-toting stickfigure that was her fellow grease monkey. ”You look like you could eat something. How’s your back?” She handed him the leaf-wrapped fish and took over his watch with her weapon.
Looking at the gathering from ‘the outside’ was bizarre in a way. Twenty hours ago, things were… heated. Now they were sitting around the table, eating, drinking and singing. Or whatever passed for singing to these people. ”This week’s been a fucking fever dream, and I don’t know if it’s finally getting better or if this is the calm before the storm. Did your history teacher ever tell you that story of the Russian and German ambassadors meeting for dinner and wine as friends the day before World War One, both knowing their countries would be at war the next day?” Getting an idea of how people were feeling was hard when they were members of a species unknown a week ago. Nellara looked calm, but was she? Kvarr and Esedel seemed cordial, or was it an elaborate facade and they were already planning to shank each other?
With the ‘Mechs assigned and mess hall meeting concluded, Karel took a few minutes to throw his bags into the first unoccupied cabin, leaving his bunkmate in fate’s hands and made the rounds to all the important people: Dropping off the entry exam paperwork with the doctor and meeting the quartermaster. If a decade of soldiering has taught him anything, those that didn’t make nice with the techs didn’t get spare parts in time and those that didn’t make nice with the QM didn’t get to make small additions to requisition lists that went beyond the standard.
But now, with the important stuff dealt with and eight hours to kill before the flip, he grabbed a few sheets of paper, a clipboard, two bottles and a pencil and after a quick trip to the ‘Mech bay to get a sketch of the Mongoose from a few angles and a detail of the head, he planted himself in the lounge and started doodling. There were probably better things to do, such as familiarizing himself with the machine he’d never seen in person until that day or grabbing a sim seat for that purpose before they both became occupied, but personalizing the BattleMech was one of the best parts about getting a new one assigned and the Mongoose was supposed to be very easy to drive, and who was he to argue with 500 year established opinions?
So far every meeting Fuka attended in her new life had been pretty pointless, information that could have been discovered on her own or delivered via note. Did Ulrik really need everyone to sit down in a nice big group and go "hey, here's where the bar is"? Not that Fuka didn't enjoy having a drink or two of course but she really would have preferred to have been doing her own thing until she decided to go looking for booze.
'Her own thing' was code for hanging around, and hang around she most certainly did. A childhood in the strict embrace of Kuritan nobility had given her the ability to amuse herself with absolutely nothing, all the ceremonies and family gatherings she had been forced to attend teaching her the art of self-pacification.
It was a skill that benefitted a soldier, for no profession better-embodied hurry-up-and-wait.
She ended up circling back to the lounge with her cheap watercolor palette and a simple sheet of white paper. There was going to be lots of downtime in her future, she figured she should make the most of it and brush up on old skills.
Someone else had the same idea, Fuka giving the man a polite nod as she plopped down in the seat next to him.
"Heya."
The grumpy little guy had taken an immediate dislike to Fuka, but as far as she was concerned that was his problem. If Little Man couldn't stand her he was welcome to leave, she wouldn't take offense.
"Are those oils?"
”Good afternoon.” Karel replied in a politely neutral tone, glancing up from his scribbles at the Draconis Combine MechWarrior. A fellow art enthusiast by the looks of things, he wordlessly moved the second, unopened beer bottle closer to her side of the table in a silent offer as she sat down. ”Just pencil sketches. Painting supplies didn’t fit into the budget for this month.”
”I don’t think proper introductions were made. Karel Chalupa.” He set his pencil and clipboard - bearing several three-tone camouflage patterns shaded in pencil, what looked like simple representations of a knight’s plate armor on various parts of the Mongoose as well as multiple drafts of a goose’s head with over exaggerated googly eyes, each looking in a different direction, holding a knife in its beak and bearing the inscription ‘Mad Goose’ - on the table and stood up to offer Fuka a hand.
”You seemed unconditionally happy about your new ride.” He recalled Fuka’s mad dash toward the Dragon. At least someone found exactly what they wanted, maybe in addition to the lass who picked the Raven. Considering that the sole heavy ‘Mech of the company would be soaking up damage, it had better be in top condition. ”Any hidden surprises that spoiled the moment?”
Her supplies, clenched between her fingers velociraptor-style, were spread across the table in neat rows, Fuka taking a sip of the water mug she had brought along before flipping open the lid of her little palette. "Oh wow, you’re good at that.."
Even as a draft his skill was evident, Fuka looking approvingly at the man’s work as she took his hand. "Samurai Nakano, or Fuka…the barbarian."
Her smile was sweet and genuine and a little vicious, the moniker Karel had given her back in the meeting one she quite liked.
“Oh nothing out of the ordinary, it’s battered to hell and back and the cockpit smells like they didn’t clean the last pilot out of it but that’s par for the course for me.
The Cadres only got to play with second hand mechs, the new ones were reserved for the veterans.
Samur- Jesus, she really was taking that Drac hogwash seriously, wasn’t she? ”Thank you. Something specific you’re working on?” He gestured to Fuka’s sheet of paper with his beer bottle.
”So the state of the company’s equipment is evident to even the blind,” He scraped his thumbnail over the nearest patch of rust on the wall, leaving a slight groove in its wake and a layer of brown dust on his finger. ”And you’ve clearly had some dealings with one of our company mates. What do you make of the rest of them? At least none of the others have that ‘I’ve been doing this for a month if we include training.’ look about them. And the CO seems deformed enough by military life he should know what he’s doing” Getting an accurate, unbiased read on the mophead from Fuka was probably out of the realm of possibility, but stranger things have happened.
"No, not really. I haven’t practiced art in a while and I thought this was as good a time as any to start. " She wet her brush and soaked up some of the black paint, a few light strokes beginning the outline of some kind of animal.
"I’m a better musician than I am a painter.”
Everyone wanted to know about Alvin, the lucky boy. Who knew, maybe someone would finally give him the approval he craved.
"Me and my flight kicked Alvin’s ass, killed all his friends and he ended up shipped to my family’s home. He’s only here now because I helped him escape, so I don’t know why he’d run back to a profession he’s not all that good at. As for everyone else, it’s hard to tell. Jaromir, the burn scar guy, seems solid at least.”
Combat was when they’d learn each others’ strengths and weaknesses, and hopefully figure out how to function as a team.
“You ever do mercenary work before?”
”Musician? Good, that covers the marching band. He chuckled. He had an idea of why someone would stick to what they knew, but would rather not broach the topic. Not that he thought he wasn't good at doing this, though a switch to the light 'Mech might change that somewhat. And if Alvin actually turned out bad, that would be two large lasers and a bunch of other salvage for the rest to take advantage of.
”I have done some merc work. Not much, just three years in a… company marginally better than this one. I should’ve started a lot earlier though. It’s like the military, except with shorter supply lines, some degree of control over where you’re going and if you don’t like the people you’re with, you can just go elsewhere. Plus you’re not restricted to the usual house equipment. If someone likes PPCs in the Free Worlds army or lasers in FedSun military, they’re shit out of luck.” He counted the perceived advantages on his fingers before pausing, ”Okay, a pre-refit Cicada with heat sinks running at 60% of their factory capacity and that antique I’ve got waiting for me downstairs are a step down from the 6M Wolverines I used to drive, but you get the idea. On the other hand, head and leg room, yay. At least the Cicada was a decent stepping stone on the path from a medium 'Mech to a light.
”You said worn out or poorly maintained 'Mechs were something that wasn't new to you? I'd guess a mercenary brat, but that doesn't track with your demeanor. And Dracs and mercs usually go together like Free Worlds League and unity. Don't tell me the Dragon can't even be bothered to keep its BattleMechs in good shape.”
She wasn’t sure how many marching bands had guitarists or singers, but that seemed like a pointless quibble to bring up. Instead Fuka just listened to Little Man’s life story as she worked, the four-legged figure she had started beginning to take the shape of a tiger.
“Oh the mainline mechs were all spic and span, at least until they caught a missile of course. But I was in the Cadres, they give the cadets all the particularly shit assignments until they think you’ve earned something better. Took me one try.
The pride in her voice would have been obvious even if she hadn’t been grinning. She held no loyalty to the Combine but still wore her awards, the daishō and accompanying rank symbolic of achievement as opposed to love of country.
“So then why’d you leave? Your old outfit I mean. It sounds like you had a good thing going.”
”It was a living wage, yes, but I wouldn’t go as far as ‘good thing’. ‘Passable’, we can talk about. Either way, staying wasn’t an option. The whole company suffered a critical existential failure in the accounting department.” Karel made a sour face as he reminded himself that he hadn’t been paid for the last month and only got partial pay for the one before. ”Turns out putting your gambling uncle in charge of money just because he’s your uncle is a bad idea. I’m surprised he managed to keep such a huge debt hidden from the other company leadership for this long. It would be impressive if it wasn’t so sad.”
It wasn’t hard to pick up on what Fuka was saying and Karel had no problem tuning to the same self-indulgent frequency, raising his beer to a mock toast. ”Wherever we came from and whoever we left behind - Their loss.” he grinned.
That was a rough way to go, even for a mercenary company. All the pilots getting blasted out of their mechs in little pieces was a noble end, being cooked alive after their heat sinks were shot to shit was horrific but understandable. But just the whole enterprise just falling to pieces because it went broke?
That was a tragedy.
“My condolences.” Fuka said, and genuinely to boot. “Hopefully you weren’t out of work for too long before stumbling onto this merry bunch.”
Did they even have a name? If they did, she had missed it in orientation.
With no actual drink to raise she lifted her water mug with the brush inside it, the gesture familiar to her even with the gulf in culture and distance that seperated them.
“To those we left. May they fuck themselves.”
Her feelings towards her family were complicated but confronting them required more self-awareness than she cared to dig up.
”Only for a few days longer than what it took to get here. This was the most stable-sounding employment I had enough money to get to, which sounds really sad now that I'm here.” He shared, ”But if you ever find yourself in that situation: Sikh temples often provide food if you ask and silverware is unnecessary if you have a screwdriver.”
”Ah, who knows. Maybe we'll get stupid lucky and come up with some treasure trove of salvage. If it happened once, it could happen again.” And unlike the Nanking raid, this time he'd actually profit from it directly.
”And how does a 'samurai' end up here among us lowlives? You said you proved yourself on your first sortie, what happened then? Fell out of favor? Been made a fall guy?” He stopped short of saying something about slaves and forbidden affairs, that thought was way too cursed.
“Nothing that exciting.” she said with a shrug, returning to her painting. “The Combine doesn’t have much room for free spirits, and while I loved piloting they wouldn’t let me do it without having some starch-collar breathing down my neck.”
The warrior’s spirit that the Mustered Soldiery were supposed to embody seemed more focused on appearance than actual bravery or skill, the battlefield taking a backseat to the minefield of etiquette and rank.
“I wasn’t getting anything out of the experience so I left, took Alvin with me because why not, and now here I am.”
‘Because why not?’ That statement had some serious ‘Hold my beer and watch this.’ energy to it that he wasn’t sure he appreciated. People like that were usually a riot off the clock and a complete nightmare to work with while on the job, but he was learning something, so progress.
”Ah. Overbearing bureaucracy and bullshit driving talent away, the armed forces evergreen.” Karel scoffed, his disdain for such attitudes could almost be felt. ”Paperwork, polished boots and the correct political thinking won’t fight battles for them though. Certainly not gonna win them, just ask the Cappies.”
“It seems that all militaries share similar traits.” Fuka noted with a smirk, thickening the outline of her nascent tiger. “Serves a purpose I suppose, I think the constant drill is supposed to build unity and cohesion. Failing that, produces more army dropouts to make into mercenaries.”
The mention of the Capellans did not go unnoticed, the DC's old allies definitely having gotten the short end of the stick
“I take it you don't care much for them either.”
”How does that track with the Combine’s stance on mercenaries?” He asked, ”Last I heard your folks weren’t too keen on our ilk.”
”Helping incite a civil war in the Free Worlds League, failing miserably to clean up their mess with that soulless Tikonov cunt and leaving us with the fallout, continued raids against the League despite being officially allies since ‘24, one madman at the helm replaced by another… No, I can’t say they’re many people’s favorite where I come from.” Karel shook his head. ”That wedding story about Maximilian was great though.”
”Having a servitor class with no rights doesn’t win them any favors either. Be a crying shame if another nation was doing that to their fellow man…” He added with an aside glance, sarcasm practically pooling around his chair.
“No, we’re not.” Fuka admitted, brushing the fearsome tiger’s eyes into existence. “But I’m hardly the first of us to make a run for the freebooters and I will not be the last.”
There was always going to be someone greedy enough to make a go of it, a lust for wealth or fame driving youngbloods with steel to carry and egos to sate into battle for the highest bidder. Thus it had been and thus it would forever be, Fuka only one of the most recent in a long line of killers.
She listened to the tirade curiously, unable to fault the reasoning but unwilling to care. It was a whole lot of political crap, the kind of thing there was no use being invested in as an outsider without pay. Fuka had yet to receive a paycheck from the League thus she had yet to feel any sympathy.
"Eh, 'servitor' was always too fussy for me. She said with an unabashed grin. "If you're going to keep slaves just call them slaves, you're not doing them a favor by hiding it."
”I suppose if you’re gonna be an asshole you might as well be an honest one. Though the bar you’re clearing is so low it’s practically underground.” Karel shrugged, recognizing a brick wall when he spoke to one and abandoning the topic in the name of company cohesion.
Noting his beer running dry, he finished in one go and started collecting his things, mindful to not forget the bottle cap. ”Well, looks like I’m bingo fuel, and there’s still things to do and a ship layout to learn. Good talk, don’t die tomorrow.”
Vigdis stared into space disappointedly for a moment, having either overestimated J’eon’s available brainpower or misunderstood his question, leaning to the former. ”No. You need tools to make a horsesh- sword. We need tools to make ships. Except you need an anvil, hearth, bellows, tongs and some hammers. That won’t cut it here. Knowing math helps us come up with the thing so it works as intended as efficiently as possible, but math can’t influence the world.”
Vigdis’ chuckles came back anew during Ixtaro’s beheading tirade, but it gave her a weird idea. ”Would a new me grow from the severed head because that’s where the brain is, or would a new head grow from the body because that’s the path of least resistance? Or could you do both and have two of me here. That would help a lot, actually. Until the clone got jealous of my life and tried to kill me and take my place.” Vigdis grinned, waving a hand over being shoved out of the way. The ends justifies the means, even if she was mistaken, she was trying to save a life.
Kareet’s explanation of the Zarseak transportation method wasn’t making the scene any better. ”There has got to be a less disgusting way to travel than this. This is even worse than driving a Hyundai… if only just so. Who even thought of that?” Some troubled soul, no doubt about that in her mind.
She didn’t like what she was seeing. A respected figure showing deference to Silbermine. There’ll be no living with the nobleman now. ”Crap. Now he’s never gonna get off his high horse. And we’ll need to figure out another figure of speech, applying this one to a centaur evokes images in my mind and it’s hard to keep a straight face.” Vigdis said aside to Ixtaro. At least the Ascendancy Dragonborn and this Warden seemed to be on good terms, or good at pretending to be, that was something.Vigdis joined the feast, if only sticking to bits of the fish Shirik had given her. She did try a small sample of the Glen beer, just barely managing not to spit it out immediately after. Leaving it to be forgotten on the landfill of history, she turned to Kareet, whom she stayed close to, figuring having a native guide on hand could only be beneficial. ”Would you like to continue, or take a break and make a bet on how long until Silbermine and Nellara are teetering on the edge of an honor duel to the death again?”
Lots of bad news. That Shilone would hit them like a bag of hammers, and even with the MechBusters, all it would take for someone to meet their makers was to zig instead of zag. But despite the bad news, she still had to stifle a snicker at the description of the Crimson Fists. ”So nothing changes, then.” Marit commented when the Colonel mentioned the need for hit and run attacks. The bad news wasn’t ending, given the revelation about the mysterious nuke suppliers. The supposed angry peasants were also mercs in all but name, and on the other hand their only friendly contacts were the people who actually seemed to be angry peasants. Fate, the fuck did the ‘Knights ever do to you?
Then, more news, and in a way she couldn’t decide if it was good or bad. ”Oh gods, Ziska with a nuke. I was just thinking I wasn’t having any nightmares.” Marit grinned, ”What are you gonna do with that, strap it to the Raven and headbutt someone?” Actually, maybe she should shut up and stop giving her ideas, assuming she hadn’t already thought of that and something worse. It was Ziska, she probably did. The news of von Kemp’s possible survival was great to hear, but if she was stuck in bad guy country with nothing but the clothes she dug out of some dumpster somewhere it could still go wrong. They were burying enough people as was already. She’d celebrate when Lena was back among them in one piece. ”But count me in on that rescue run when it comes around.”
As K-A units of measurement were compared to human ones, Vigdis took careful notes and when it was done, she sent them to the ship. Wodan should be able to edit the translator to also convert measurements as it went, doing away with all the manual conversions and she also attached a note suggesting the translator also immediately translate between base ten and base eight numbers.
Vigdis’ amused grin at Ixtaro’s confusion remained concealed by the mask. But when Ixtaro tried to treat the healed hand, she had to laugh out loud. Vigdis may not have known history through a comprehensive lens, but she knew it through an engineering one, and like most socialists before her, Ixtaro saw a problem - real or perceived - and then proceeded to go and ‘solve’ it without having enough information about it or even the required know-how. At least this time no one’s turned a barely-shielded reactor into an oversized roman candle or tried to use half-century old naval ordnance. Silently, Vigdis gestured to the severed hand and to the regrown one. ”Get in line.” She said flatly, removing one of the leaves that wrapped the food Shirik had gifted her and wrapped the severed hand. The lab folks would have some fun with it later. She was going to say something else, but was rudely interrupted by an unholy screech. What subgenre were the three metalheads playing again? But no, that couldn’t have been them, this came from far away…
The cause of the noises soon came to view. The creatures looked… wrong. What they did afterward even more. She turned to Kareet and Shirik before they left. ”Alright, what the fuck guys?” She echoed Ixtaro’s words.
”Jesus fucking christ, you’re joking.” Vigdis groaned in a mix of disbelief and disgust. She wasn’t as disturbed as one might have expected. For one, just a week ago she saw a man get fried alive, and two, Kareet’s avian appearance was putting enough of a gap between her and a human that Vigdis’ brain rated it closer to watching a deer get run over rather than a person being maimed. The weirdest part of it all was the serene calm and determination with which Kareet mutilated herself. ”You couldn’t have just had him make a flower wilt and then bloom again, could you? Fuck me. Good thing I wasn’t eating, somehow I get a feeling that wouldn’t have dissuaded you.”
The demonstration was definitely an impressive one. If they could regrow limbs, they practically had limitless meat supply. Cut off an animal’s legs, regrow them back. What is the animal gonna do, complain? What about, they could numb it, clearly Kareet felt no pain so even all the bleeding hearts gluing themselves to slaughterhouse equipment could rest easy. And since they apparently could halt aging as well, they would only need one set of animals for decades, maybe longer.
”Can you, without magic, make an anvil without a foundry? Or can your shipwrights make a ship without a dock?” She answered J’eon’s question with questions, ”Abstract concepts cannot create concrete objects, but yes, our grasp of mathematics helps us design things, and was crucial in developing computers,” Once again indicating her wristpad and the tablet, as J’eon hadn’t been present when this word was first used, ”which further aid us. But imagine how complex your ships are, and the facilities required to build them.” She tapped the drawing in Kareet’s sketchbook before pointing to the Jotunheim, ”Now imagine what’s needed to build that. Mending the damage sustained in the crash will be hard, but we believe it possible. Might be a good idea to send someone to let Silbermine know that we will not take kindly to some troglodyte who has never seen an allen wrench thinking they know what they’re doing and poking around the ship.” Every time Silbermine said anything about his engineers doing something to the ship, she felt a growing urge to smack some sense into him or at least ask why he thought his people would even know where to start.
”More on that note, could you show me your measurements of what I just described? It would make further communication even easier.”
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