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“The Mark 41 Combat Armor is a highly-advanced suit,” Pirra said to the line of volunteers in front of her. Her eyes went down them all, imparting the importance of her words.
“It is a very good piece of protection, but it is not perfect. Hits to primary plate spots-” she gestured to most of the torso and limbs, “will stop most small-arms fire. But the joints are weak spots. They’re still rated against pistol and submachine gun fire, but a heavy rifle round won’t even be inconvenienced.”
One volunteer raised a hand. “You say the plates will stop most small-arms rounds?”
“That’s right. Lower-quality armor-piercing rounds are not likely to penetrate the armor outside of ten meters. But the highest-quality armor-piercing rounds are able to penetrate consistently out to almost one hundred meters.”
She saw nervous glances exchanged between the volunteers.
A younger man cleared his throat. “And if we were to face Hev boarders,” he asked, “what kind of round should we expect?”
“From Hev?” Pirra said. “Low-quality. Their armies are too vast for the most advanced tech to be standard issue – the cost would be astronomical. Especially in the case of the P’G’Maig, who are more of a collection of associated armies with logistic division societies. We estimate that their military forces make up almost one third of their society.”
Again the nervous glances, and Pirra cleared her throat. It was a high, odd sound to humans, she knew, and got their attention.
“This unit is not a Combat Response team,” she said calmly. “You are only being educated and prepared in case the situation requires all the manpower we can muster. But if you wish to opt fully out of potential combat, you may do so without repercussions. We won’t make you continue this training if you are not comfortable.”
Her eyes settled on a man, young by his looks, bordering that fuzzy area where he seemed too young to be here. He seemed the most nervous.
“No, ma’am,” he said. “I’ve passed all the physical tests and high-stress co-operation training. I’m ready to defend my ship if need be.”
Pirra accepted that with a nod, and then looked across the rest of the group.
“You’re right to feel nervous, right now,” she told them. “But this is why we train. Training will instill within you confidence so that if we should face any threat, you will be able to do so as effectively and safely as possible.”
Her words went over them, and she saw nods, as they braced themselves.
“Good,” she continued. “Now, head into the prep room through there, and we’ll begin to fit you with armor.”
The unit saluted, then turned and marched through the door. It was only six of them, and in a moment she would give the same overview lecture to another six.
First their overview of combat strategies, a brief summary of the Hev and their biophysiology – not that dissimilar to Humans or Dessei, really – and their fighting styles, then onto their own weapons and armor.
Each volunteer unit usually consisted of people who had enlisted together, or else people matched by their systems to put together the most effective unit possible.
She checked her system for messages and saw two; one was from Dr. Y, concerning her own last-minute check-up, and she saw that he had cleared her for combat duty. Not a surprise there.
The second was from . . . Oh Sky, she didn’t have time for this.
“Send the next team in,” she sent off to the coordinator AI. She would have to get to that second message after she was done here.
The next group came in; among them, she was surprised to see, was a Dessei. She knew most of the others of her people on the ship; there were less than a score of them on the Craton. But it took her a moment to place this young male.
He was new, she recalled. And here for Detachment Training – Lieutenant Kessissiin. She had forgotten about it, in all her new workload and the hustle of their current mission.
The rest of the team were a good mix, she thought. They had more confidence than the last team, and as she went through the explanations, they listened intently.
“Now,” she said. “Go on and get fit for armor. Except you,” she said, pointing to Kessissiin, who nodded. “I need to speak with you.”
“Of course, ma’am,” he said. The request seemed to have caught him off-guard, but he took it in stride.
As the others left, she stepped closer. Her pupils were red, as were most Dessei, nearly brown. But his were a striking yellow, and his top feathers were a dark red. Combined with his build, it made him almost the standard of Dessei masculinity.
But his face was scruffy.
“You need to trim,” she said sharply, reaching up and gesturing to both sides of his face.
He blinked his large eyes. “Excuse me, ma’am?”
“You just came for detachment training, so I know you learned the rules here. Dessei facial bristles are to be kept neatly trimmed – just like in the Dessei Republic Naval standard.”
“My apologies, ma’am,” he said quickly. “I will correct it as soon as we are done here.”
Assuming none of his bristles got caught in his helmet, some of his were long enough.
Ah, well, if they did, it’d be a lesson for him. It was very painful, and could be distracting in combat, so he’d learn the hard way in training.
But he didn’t try to make an excuse, she noticed. Not that many would have worked; it took well upwards of a month to get as shaggy as he looked. Most humans would barely notice it, but she did.
“Go on, then,” she said. “You still need your armor.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He saluted smartly, turned, and walked out.
“Send in the next-“
She got a notification that she’d gotten an urgent request.
Looking at it, she took a breath for patience. Guess she’d have to deal with this now.
She opened the door with a wave and in trundled He That Squats on Yellow Sand.
He came up to her, then snapped a salute; one of his head tentacles flipping neatly onto his top.
“What is so important, He That Squats on Yellow Sand?”
“Ma’am, I’d like to know why I was rejected for the Volunteer Combat Response corps.”
Oh, she really didn’t have time for this.
Squaring up in front of him, she started counting reasons.
“You have no combat training,” she said. “You haven’t been tested in any of the courses-“
“I’m an Abmon,” he said. “We all fight.”
And it was true, she knew. All Abmon were expected to serve in war and pass through at least some basic training. It was a response to their populations being significantly smaller than most other sapient species. Their stricter and more difficult-to-meet conditions for living just made it more resource-intensive for them to exist off their homeworld. They did it; they’d settled other systems, but with the population disparity, they felt they needed every possible soldier in case of attack.
One day they’d feel secure enough not to do it, even if their biology meant they’d always be outnumbered. But she could see their reasoning right now.
None of that, however, meant that He That Squats on Yellow Sand was a fit for their volunteer force.
“Your health records still indicate you do not meet our standards,” she said.
“In speed,” he said, bitterness creeping into his words. “But in strength I can take five humans.”
“That is true, but bullets don’t care,” Pirra said. “And we cannot fabricate armor of sufficient quality from scratch in the time we have. Nor can we provide enough medical drones with Abmon-specific kits to meet your potential injuries. On top of that, you are an armory officer – your posting is important in case of a boarding action. So my answer is still no. However, you can sign up for the non-combat repair Volunteer teams. After the action, your strength would be quite useful-“
“With respect to the work, Lieutenant Commander, I don’t want to be on a non-combat team,” Squats on Sand said.
“That’s the only team I will accept you on at this time,” she told him.
The alien tilted back, his sections rotating so three eyes were set on her.
“I am not afraid,” he said.
She met his look, and crossed her arms – a human habit, but effective enough. “Your bravery is not being questioned,” she told him. “It never has been.”
The Abmon tilted back fully upright, seemingly in thought. Though she could not read his mannerisms at all, and even her translation pack was not as complete as she could have hoped.
“Very well, ma’am,” he said.
His five legs trundled him to the door, and Pirra took a deep breath.
“Send in the next team,” she said after a moment.
Other Terrestrial 