Novek was filling a small leather bag with a selection of herbs and vegetables. He'd mentioned the youth of Siya and Nat to Trudy in passing, and she'd insisted he take a moment from whatever plan he was cooking up, to plan for some actual cooking. He'd almost missed the joke with her absolutely deadpan delivery.

  She'd launched into the importance of a balanced diet for growing young, and he'd relented almost immediately. He himself did enjoy meat a great deal, but admittedly their diet of late had gotten somewhat monotonous. He hoped Ellie would forgive him if they cooked without her — she'd been looking forward to showing off her culinary skills.

  Novek felt a faint vibration near his ear, where Moira had marked him, but no sound was forthcoming. He lifted his head, and spoke quietly, possibly to nothing, “Moira?” There was no response — perhaps detected he was next to an aetheric source, and wouldn't risk potentially alerting an unknown party. Good operational security, if so. Or it could simply be that he was imagining it.

  Better safe than sorry, though. A final selection of tubers went into the bag, and Novek rose from the boxes of vegetables he'd been picking through. “This should be enough, I think. Tru'dee? Is there any issue swinging by the vacuum chamber, if you don't mind, on our way to the control room.”

  “I can't see why not. Did you not want to search for more oil? Two jars seems insufficient.”

  “It will do, I think. Lead on when ready.”

  They were halfway down the hallway on the return trip when Siya came charging around the corner and leapt up at Novek, climbing his fur and immediately nestling in place on the back of his neck. The kit was different, in a way he couldn't put his paw on. “Did you get into the food stores and swallow something whole, Siya? You feel like you've put on weight. Also, what's with the ear cuff?”

  Moira's voice echoed out from just next to the kit. Hi, Novek.

  “Moira? Can you hear me?”

  Yes, if you speak near Siya. We'll get you set up later.

  “Be aware, I have a friend here. Actual friend, I think.”

  Hello, Novek's friend! Are you with the creche?

  Trudy took the question from an invisible questioner in stride. “Yes, I am an instructor.”

  You have a fascinating aetheric signature. I can perceive you permuting in real-time. Cogno-memetic substrate, by any chance?

  Trudy jerked to a sudden halt. “Novek. Your prior commentary was not subterfuge? Your friend is actually an agent?”

  “She is.”

  “And you trust her? Do you vouch for her?”

  You realize I can hear you, right?

  “I do. Completely. If you'd like—”

  At that moment, Savron came striding down the hallway — spotting them, he turned and approached Trudy, “They told me they didn't trust me, and that they would not open the door.” He turned to Novek, “What did your friends do?”

  “Honestly? I have no idea.”

  Okay, I have some time sensitive requests, please. Novek — we need you to find about a week's rations for Nat and Tessan — the wounded broodmother.

  “That won't do any good, she's not eating. The prognosis—”

  Incorrect. But we've got about five minutes worth of food left, so if you could hurry, please.

  Savron interjected, “Five minutes?”

  Moira's tone lost the enthusiasm, and Novek could almost feel a chill in the air.

  Ah, Doctor Savron, I recognize your voice. Yes. I think I can assume you're familiar with Nat's capabilities. Lyn would like you to know that he's currently nursing the patient your neglect endangered. Also, we underestimated the amount of food necessary; Lyn believes she will soon be invited to lunch, as the lunch. Four minutes, twenty-five seconds. Novek, if you wouldn't mind? Just bring it to the door. I'll know when you're there.

  Novek didn't wait, and took a step towards the chamber that Siya's arrival had interrupted. “We're ready now, actually.”

  To be clear — we need enough food for a week for Nat and Tessan — she's voracious, by the way; worse than Siya. Two days for Lyn, and one day for a wing of Clackaw. If you could bring whatever you could find, quickly, then the rest—

  “Moira, listen. We're ready now.”

  You're serious?

  “Perfectly.” Novek turned to Savron and Tru'dee, “This won't take long, I don't think. I can meet back up with you once—”

  Tru'dee interrupted Novek, her demeanor reverting to the severe style of the first half of their recent introduction. “We're coming with you.”

  “There's no need, you can—”

  She strode past Novek, movement completely unaffected by the slab of meat larger than her, “You have a completely unqualified child providing medical care to a mortally wounded patient, who sought care and refuge in our facility? You couldn't keep me away if you tried.”

  Novek took a deep breath, and counted to five — there wasn't time for ten. After this guard job stint was over, he was going to send up a flare, get a ride on Soot, and take a vacation. Maybe spend a relaxing week up on the cliffside, watching the sunset and sipping tea with Ceress, introducing Siya to her crew. The kit could use some socialization with his own kind, and while they were intense people, they also didn't take themselves nearly as seriously as the creche folk, and his patience was wearing thin.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Grumbling to himself, Novek lugged his own slab towards the door, trying to keep up with the smaller woman without stumbling.

  Ceress wished she was having a calm sit down with a nice cup of tea. Sure, there was tea — but her favorite kettle was ruined, and the tea itself was now more nameless assassin than cherry blossom white. Which was a shame — the white had smelled simply wonderful while brewing. A quick glance around the room to make sure the assailants weren't going to stand back up any time soon, if at all, and she moved to join the fighting still audible in the rest of the camp.

  She was about to stride through the door in dramatic fashion when a scuff of the dirt outside caused her to halt and reconsider. She took a step back, ducked low, put her arms in guard position and waited. A sudden thought struck her — the white would pair well with some glazed lemon cookies.

  An axe swept through the hide doorway, a cleaving arc that cut through the space someone lying in wait might have occupied. The pointed head got caught up in the durable material, and the axe twisted itself out of paws to swing wildly to the side. Her entire body snapped forward with a shimmering cascade of yellow that started at her feet and ended at her fist as it made contact with the impatient assassin. The others had been Human, but this one was a Brin species she did not recognize — muscular with thick fur. Unfortunately there wasn't enough time, or assailant remaining, to identify the species at a glance — but she'd be on the lookout for the prominent jaw of fangs she'd only glimpsed before it liquefied. That was strange — the Humans normally didn't give away informational advantage by showing new capabilities — such as a previously unseen species — without some expectation of success.

  Stepping out of the door, she saw only a few remaining skirmishes in progress. The sounds of fighting were sporadic and somewhat muted — her own tent had been the target of perhaps a full fifth of the force based on the bodies visible and few visible combatants remaining.

  Fewmets and tripe! She couldn't make lemon cookies — she'd run out of lemon zest last week, and the fruit was nearly impossible to source locally. Now that was a disaster. The attack, after all, was just business as usual. She didn't think it was a serious assault — maybe just an improvised distraction?

  Ba'chus was suppressing a small holdout group who had ducked into the stacks of half-packed crates. He was dual-wielding a pair of Dakk'at twins they'd encountered a few months back. The trio had really hit it off over a shared love of hunting some invasive Ankarran nuisance — Turkey? Ceress had tried it and didn't see the appeal. She made sure to stay out of their frontal arc though, she'd seen him jam them into the ground at least once — he must not have had proper ammunition to hand. Once the Dakk'at started spitting rock instead of shaped metal, they became an object lesson in the dangers of friendly fire. Which, to be fair, was one of Ceress's favorite classes to sub in to teach — everyone running for cover this way and that. If you couldn't find joy in your job, you just weren't trying hard enough.

  Let's see. Ba'chus had his group held in position while a few of the younger recruits prepared to pounce on the pinned enemy.

  Boyle was wrapped around someone's head — well, probably a head. Hard to see through the fire. That's fine. She should check on the scale polish stocks though, after.

  Dresk had torn the leg off of an unfamiliar Ber three times his size and had stopped fighting to eat — normally she'd scold him, but even with his mouth full, she could tell he was in pain, and likely needed to jump start his own regeneration. Ceress was moderately surprised the Humans had committed a Ber to the assault. Not in a directed manner though — they clearly didn't have a Skilled commander nearby. No problems there then — though she noticed his fangs were looking a little yellowed. And now that she was paying attention, the fur that should be fluffy and white was clearly in need of a grooming. She'd need to have a talk with him about hygiene again.

  A second Ber, of the same type that Dresk had downed, charged through the far side of the camp, fleeing a battery of flickwing which Ceress recognized by their yellow and red coloration. Why was the swarm in camp to begin with? She'd have to ask around; It was possible someone had requested some last minute recharging — or maybe offered them surplus supplies the camp couldn't transport? The entire battery of flickwing swooped to land on the significantly larger four-legged Ber, each discharging the moment sufficient contact was established. The massive Ber collapsed, crushing a number of the energetic flyers, and more were being hurt or killed as the much larger Ber spasmed in its death throes.

  “Chus! Med-tech for the Nea'Lyn swarm — near the latrines! Hazmat gloves — there are ruptures!”

  “On it!”

  A commotion back near the nursery tents caused Ceress to leap forward, covering tens of meters in two controlled hops.

  A figure standing in the doorway to one of the nursery tents caught Ceress's eye, and she hopped the short distance, hand extended, and caught a uniformed Human by the back of the neck. The other hand came around and grabbed hold of the machine gun he'd been pointing almost haphazardly into the tent. Sloppy. Rather than risk an end-of-life muscle spasm on the trigger, she spun him around as her claws snapped out of their palm sheaths.

  And then stopped, less than a centimeter from the Human's eyes. Which were tear filled. A glance to his gun confirmed her suspicion — his finger wasn't on the trigger at all.

  This was, in some ways, her favorite part of the job. Hope amidst tragedy. She banked the flames in her hands, and made sure her voice was confident, but calm. “Hey. Hey. Look at me. Relax. Take a breath.”

  The man's eyes, wide as they could be, continued to stream tears, even in the face of his own death.

  “Look, I don't have a lot of time for a proper pitch, but it's obvious to me that someone in your chain of command clearly doesn't value you. They gave you bad intel and sent you to your death. They also told you this was primarily a military camp, am I right? Nothing mentioning the kids, the medical tents, none of that, yeah?”

  The Human stammered a response through sucking sobs, “N— No.”

  “And you probably knew that, at least a little. You suspected. But you showed up anyway. I respect the work ethic — the willingness to do the job and personally accept the consequences. But it's this second thing — the empathy, that's saved your life here. Those two things are all I ask from my team — and we are a team here, as you can see. Maybe not always one big happy family, but we're working towards bettering conditions for everyone. So, I know this is sudden, but you seem like the kind of person who could fit in — the kind of person who saw a birthing tent containing a newborn carnivorous swarm, and you didn't think monsters — you thought children. What's your name?”

  “Blaine. I'm Blaine. Carn— what?” He'd managed to mostly compose himself over the course of her pitch — with her hands around his neck. She was impressed, honestly.

  “Oh, wow — your intel guys really don't like you.” Ceress moved the hand from his gun and pointed upwards to the hundred or so white fuzz-balls bristling as they covered the entire ceiling of the doorway, just above where they stood. “You'd have been skeletonized less than two seconds after you started firing. Did you know that Ber swarm intelligences tend to be more empathetic towards individuals than other swarms? They're willing to risk a percentage of the swarm to avoid friendly fire or mistaken identity accidents, because they don't perceive us as a serious threat.”

  More motion outside the other tent caught her attention. “Hey, sorry to rush you, but we have to wrap this up. Three of your guys just stepped out of another nursery tent, and they're covered in blood. So, I guess the question I have to ask is — are you willing to join the team and handle this, or should I?”

  The other combatants in question had turned to the nursery where she was talking, and upon noticing Ceress standing in the doorway had leveled weapons, heedless of their comrade standing in the line of fire. Ceress stepped in front of the prospective recruit, and her scales flashed red as a hail of bullets impacted on them and fell to the ground — merely useless metal now.

  His gun wavered a moment, then came back down, facing towards his former compatriots. “It's my responsibility. I'll handle it.”

  She moved her hand from his throat to his shoulder, and gave him an encouraging pat. “Good man. Welcome to the team, Blaine.”