2
VREX
I should have refused the Bureau's offer. I should have told them that hiring a human "expert" based on their malfunctioning translation algorithm was a fool's strategy.
I should have done a great many things.
Instead, I agreed. Desperation, I have learned, makes cowards of us all.
The war room was quiet for the first time in seventy-two hours.
My officers had retired to their quarters after the latest debriefing—the latest inventory of failures, more accurately.
Three positions lost in the eastern corridor of the valley.
Supply lines strained. Morale declining in measurable increments that my second-in-command, Zenir, had stopped bothering to quantify.
Three years. I had been fighting this war for three years, and the map on my tactical display looked almost exactly as it had on the first day.
No. That was not entirely accurate. On the first day, we had held more ground.
I pressed my claws against the edge of the display table until the metal protested.
The glow along my forearms—the bioluminescent markings that every Velkorin warrior learned to control by age twelve—flickered amber.
Frustration. I dimmed them with effort. A commander who broadcast his emotions through his scales was a commander who had already lost.
The valley spread across the display in lines of light.
Kren Valley. Named for the mineral deposits that ran through its bedrock—valuable enough to fight over, deep enough to fight over for centuries.
Seven territorial wars in the last three hundred years, all fought under the ancient ceremonial codes that governed our people's disputes.
Formalized combat. Rules of engagement so byzantine that interpreting them required specialists.
Neutral observers from the High Council to verify compliance.
Scheduled battle days, approved weapons, designated combat zones.
Civilized. Honorable. And I was losing.
Therak's words from the last council session scraped through my memory like claws on stone. Perhaps, Commander, the problem is not the enemy's strength but our own leadership's inadequacy. The other council members had shifted in their seats. Not agreeing. Not yet. But listening.
Therak had been listening for three years. Waiting for the moment my failure became undeniable enough to act on.
"Commander Talon." The voice materialized from the communications hub in the corner, accompanied by a holographic projection that resolved into a figure of indeterminate species, indeterminate age, and aggressive cheerfulness.
The Bureau dispatcher. "Wonderful timing!
I've just processed a resource match for your active requisition. "
"I submitted that requisition four months ago."
"Yes, and I apologize for the delay! Budget processing, you understand. But the good news is, we've identified a truly exceptional candidate. Earth-based. Very creative species. Wonderful lateral thinkers."
"A human."
"A human! Specifically—" The dispatcher consulted something off-screen. "A Supreme Leader of Recreational Combat, specializing in tactical deployment, resource management, and—oh, this is excellent—crisis negotiation under hostile conditions. Precisely what you requested."
I had requested a military strategist. A tactician with battlefield experience across multiple campaigns. Someone who could look at my war and see what I was failing to see.
"What are their credentials?"
"Extensive! Six years commanding forces in combat scenarios. Experienced in personnel management, equipment logistics, and... This is really quite impressive—neutralization of hostile parties through non-lethal methodology."
Put in those terms, it sounded adequate. More than adequate. It sounded exactly like what I needed.
"The contract terms?"
"Standard! Thirty days, full immersion, return transport upon successful completion or contract expiration, whichever comes first. Payment rendered in local currency.
And I should note that Earth-based resources have an excellent satisfaction rating.
Eighty-seven percent of planetary clients report positive outcomes. "
Eighty-seven percent. For three years I had been losing this war through orthodox methods—honor-bound tactics from textbooks my instructors had used a generation ago, applied against an enemy who had studied the same texts. Perhaps it was time to try something unorthodox.
"And the remaining thirteen percent?"
The dispatcher's smile did not waver. "We prefer to focus on the positive metrics, Commander. Shall I proceed with acquisition?"
I should have asked more questions. I should have requested a detailed service record, a personal interview, verification of the translation.
But Therak's challenge was scheduled for the next council session, and if I arrived without a strategy—without even the promise of one—his motion to relieve me of command would pass.
Three years of war. My parents' land, still in enemy hands. And now, Therak was circling like carrion.
"Proceed," I said.
"Excellent! Acquisition will be processed within the hour, standard materialization protocol.
Please ensure the receiving area is clear of obstructions and—oh, this is new—any items that might be alarming to a species unfamiliar with interstellar transport.
Apparently there were complaints about the welcome artillery from the last extraction.
Budget won't cover another trauma response claim. "
The materialization happened at 0300 hours, which I had been told was suboptimal for human extraction but unavoidable due to "scheduling constraints and interplanetary time zone differentials." I did not entirely understand what this meant. I did not, at that moment, care.
The transport beam activated in the center of the receiving bay.
My two guards stood at attention, weapons sheathed but accessible, as I had ordered.
The air shimmered with the distinctive amber glow of Bureau transport technology—outdated by several generations.
The light pattern was irregular in a way that suggested the equipment was overdue for maintenance.
A shape formed. Small. Much smaller than I had anticipated.
The light cleared, and a human female stood blinking in my receiving bay. She swayed slightly—a common side effect of Bureau transport on first-time subjects, and caught herself with one bare foot stepping forward on the polished floor.
She was—and I processed this with a detached tactical assessment—approximately one and a half meters tall.
Brown hair in disarray, partially restrained by a band that had been displaced during transport.
Brown eyes, wide, rapidly adjusting to the harsh overhead illumination of a military receiving bay.
Bare feet. A small scar on her left hand, white against her skin. And clothing that appeared to be—
I tilted my head.
Her sleeping garments were loose, soft fabric in a pale color, covered in a repeating pattern of small, four-legged Earth creatures with pointed ears and long tails.
Felines, if my xenobiology briefings were accurate.
She had a crease on her cheek from whatever surface she had been sleeping on, and her hands were curled loosely at her sides in a way that suggested she had not yet fully registered her situation.
Then she registered it.
Her spine straightened. Her weight shifted—subtle snf centered, the kind of adjustment someone makes when they are preparing for an unknown situation. Not combat training. Something else. A habit of readiness that came from years of managing environments where things went wrong without warning.
I did not know this about her yet. I would learn it later. In that first moment, all I saw was a very small human in absurd clothing who was standing in the middle of my war and looking at me like I was a problem she intended to solve.
"Are those felines on your sleeping garments?"
The human stared up at me. Her mouth fell open. Her gaze traveled from my face—slowly, as though her brain was cataloging each feature—down the length of my body, across the scaled ridges of my shoulders, to the claws at the ends of my fingers, and back up.
"You're a giant lizard man," she said.
"I am Commander Vrex Talon, Fourth Division Strategic Command of the Velkorin Territorial Defense Force." I straightened, which put the top of her head approximately level with the middle of my chest. "And you are Earth's Supreme Leader of Recreational Combat."
A shorter pause this time. The human's expression cycled through several configurations I could not immediately categorize—shock, confusion, a brief flicker of irritation—before settling on something flat and assessing.
"Recreational combat," she repeated.
"That is your title, as provided by the Bureau of Intergalactic Resource Acquisition."
"The Bureau of—" She closed her eyes for nearly a minute, then opened them. "Okay. What, specifically, do you think recreational combat means?"
"Military engagement in a formalized setting. Combat simulations used for strategic training and territorial dispute resolution. You are, according to the Bureau's translation, Earth's foremost expert."
The human made a sound. Not a word—it was a short, sharp exhalation through her nose, accompanied by a slight shake of her head.
"I run a paintball arena," she said.
Silence. My guards exchanged a glance. The bioluminescent markings along my spine flared. I suppressed them immediately, but not before she noticed. Her eyes tracked the fading glow—she was accustomed to reading environments for threat indicators.
"Explain," I said.
"Paintball. It's a game. People shoot each other with little balls of paint. For fun. At birthday parties." She paused. "I'm the assistant manager. I don't even own the place."