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They had been put on alert the evening Flick announced the koaku assault had been squashed, and continued their 12-on, 12-off schedule for the next two days (FLI-682 did not) until someone finally set some big brass straight and they were told to resume normal operations. Woody promptly ended the workweek a day early.

It had been a bittersweet weekend. The farroms had left that afternoon after Flick thanked her unit, and they didn't return until mid Saturday morning, arriving unannounced and without any support from her squadron. The only reason she knew they'd returned was because she caught sight of Shave, Tack, Brakes, and Smokey slowly climbing the stairs to their quarters.

About a half hour later Echo had popped out of nowhere and announced that they should be celebrating instead of milling around not knowing what to do with themselves, pointing to the loud laughing from the barracks, growing pile of bagged bottles and cans piling up around the full recycling bin in the parking lot, and smell of burnt meat. An hour and a half after that he and Cypher had returned from a supply run with several bags of charcoal, a cooler with meat and some vegetables, and a cheap grill (the permanent one in the picnic area was currently buried under what they assumed to have been the recreation center at one point).

Once the coals were ready and he dumped them out, sending a plume of sparks up which fell back down and onto their namesake. Sparks voiced his objection as he dusted himself off and went back into the apartment with a grunt. Cypher and her pulled some stools outside for the sadistic pleasure of watching Echo broil as he work a hot grill in a hot desert in the heat of the day. That's when she noticed three more figures slowly making their way across the lot.

Neither Flatface nor Mallet nor Pearson looked in the mood to celebrate, giving a quiet, appropriate greeting as they passed them and climbed the stairs. Someone at the barracks must have been watching, because "good afternoon, sir, ma'am" was repeated by three streaks, followed by three sets of feet pounding up the steps. A few minutes later they had come back down much more slowly, with Cpl. Huizinga, AO3 Durst, and LCpl Pfizt passing her again with 'good afternoon ma'am'. Echo was pulling the food off when the crews came back down and walked towards the back gate, probably to go to seek company among their own at Shaggy's. They all looked... tired.

The barracks was quiet after that. The recycling was even gone. It was as if it had been that way all weekend.

Now it was Monday again, and she walked from the ready room to the maintenance passageway, taking her usual shortcut through the hanger to her office. What were they supposed to do now? They had faced the enemy and lost a few years ago. Now they had faced them again with the rakkan and had witnessed what it took, even with their skill and technology, to stave off a 'moderate' enemy assault. It was pretty clear, at least to her, that there was no way in hell a dinky, atmosphere bound Hornet was going be able to do anything.

Did this cut the school short? If it was this obvious did they have to bother with trying to keep these zombie aircraft from returning to the grave? She wouldn't have minded letting the dead birds go back where they came.

She sighed, pulling open a door to the passageway that ran between shops. That was all Woody's problem. All she had to do was follow-

She stopped in her tracks. What had been a clean white wall the week before now bore a mural. There were several in the squadron's spaces, usually one in every shop, though airframes didn't have any and ordinance had two. They were about 2'x2', slightly bigger if they were in someplace prominent like the ready room or maintenance control, depicting some aspect or part of the unit often by using metaphors of anthropomorphic aircraft and weapons; mean, muscle-bound sailors and marines; and of course featured the unit's colors, mascot, and emblems. And there were rarely painted with permission, or rather, permission above a staff NCO.

It was the same for every naval squadron, Navy or Marine Corps. The longer a squadron had been in a space the more murals were there, usually added in commemoration of deployments or changes of aircraft type and the like. All of the current ones had commemorated the standing up of the Lancers as a squadron, often referring to themselves as the "Necrolancers", the paintings depicting undead aircraft being forced from the grave by brutish maintainers.

In front of her, however, was a huge 4' by 4' painting by an anonymous artist. A large farrom dominated the top quarter, landing gear extended and viewed as if one were looking at it while laying on the ground. On the lower right a large, ridiculously muscular sailor wearing the red cranial of an ordinanceman was tossing an alien missile to an equally unrealistically muscular rakkan as if it were a barbell. The rakkan was standing on the extended ladder in suit with the face open, arms extended, and knees bent as if they were ready to catch it. Beside the Ordie a female marine wore a brown cranial and hauled a fuel hose from a rakkan fuel truck, assisted from behind by another, male marine wearing a green cranial with his tinted goggles down. Both were so bulky with muscles it was nearly laughable. They were posed as if the hose were very heavy and they were sprinting to the farrom with it.

Standing on top of the farrom was another rakkan, muscles bulging under its spacesuit. He, too, held a missile, but this one had a flare to it towards the back, followed by what was clearly a lance handle. The rakkan's face shield was closed, and it held the missile 'lance' under it's arm, legs bent and back twisted as if it were ramming it skyward to the left. In the very top left corner the missile pierced a shattered flying saucer. Both missiles were painted in VFAS-212 colors and bore a blue maltese cross on the side. Everyone looked angry. Across the top of the mural were the words "DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU THOUGHT" and at the bottom "BUT YOU THOUGHT WRONG".

She stared at the mural in wonder. Part of her loved the commemoration. As comic as parts of it were they were part of the culture, as unique to it as the sounds of jazz. The other part of her stared in fear of what the crews of the Farrom 8 and Farrom 10 would think, or God forbid if Flick walked through and found it offensive. Would they understand?

The door burst open behind her and Woody almost paved her.

"Good morning sir! Sorry!"

He pursed his lips.

"What is going on with twelve charlie?"

Corrosion control shop? They never did anything wrong, even off duty, as they worked only at night and almost exclusively over the weekend. If they did any partying it was under the watchful eye of their LPO, in the middle of the week, and in his quarters. Did they paint this?

"They might have done this, sir, but I haven't-"

"Come with me."

He took off at a jog through the passageway, but instead of heading across the hangar to maintenance control or her office he headed out the big doors to the right and onto the flight line.

"Someone defaced aircraft over the weekend," he said. "Both ours and theirs, and it was someone from our unit."

Uh-oh.

"Do they know yet?"

"Yes. It was Colonel Oontini that discovered it about two minutes ago when he landed."

There was a momentary cramp in her chest as they broke into a jog down a row of jets. They rounded the corner of a hornet to see FLI-682's skipper staring at the large, flat, vertical surface that shielded the lower leading edge of the Farrom 10's nose strut. On it was what looked like a squadron emblem, one she knew hadn't existed anywhere on Friday.

It stood nearly a foot tall, taking up almost all of the fairing. The ribbon on top bore "FLFA 682-212" and the bottom one "Ghost Knights". The round portion in between them featured the Wraith's rakkan skull(or she guessed that's what it was), its undead grin peering over the top of a shield bearing the Lancer cross in blue, black, and white. A lance and terminated laser crossed behind it.

Col. Oontini was crouching in front of it with his computer. Was he taking pictures? He abruptly stood as they approached.

"Who did this?" he said, looking at Woody.

"We're trying to find-"

"I did sir!"

She turned to see AM1 Bijoux jogging up with his cranial in hand. Behind him two marines and a sailor were sprinting to catch up.

"I'm very sorry sir," he said to Cmdr Elmhurst. "I'm at fault for this."

"Why did you paint my squadron's craft?" Col. Oontini said.

"Because our workload was finished Friday night, sir, and I told my shop to make a commemoration while I fixed the hazmat logs. It's a tradition where-"

"I know what it is," he said. "I saw your wall, but a wall is not a spacecraft."

"No sir. I did not realize they had thought I meant to commemorate the entire flightline as well until now, sir. I am very sorry sir."

"Oh, wow!"

She looked over to see Smokey standing in front of the Farrom 8, hands on his hips as he stared at their nose strut. She could make out the shape of a similar emblem.

"Shave! Lost!" he said, turning back to the hanger. "Hey FlatFace! Come look at this!"

Col. Oontini glanced at Smokey, then at Lost who was jogging over. Woody scowled.

"Get these clean immediately, AM1," Shepherd said, "and-"

The rakkan CO waved her off.

"Who really painted these AM1? Who is the artist?"

"I am sir," AD3 Jinx said.

"And I sir," LCpl Copfifth said.

"You both?"

"Yes sir."

"Why is this different than what you put on your squadron's aircraft?"

Shepard looked over at the nearest hornet. Plastered on the nose behind the radome was large, colored nose art. The rakkan wraith again bore the Lancer shield, this time on its left, towards the viewer as it leaned forward, riding a tornado. The very end of a lance handle could be seen poking out from behind the shield and rider, the business end stretching out in front to the base of the radome.

Not bad in her opinion. Still, any work on an aircraft, including paint, needed a maintenance action cut. Nothing happened without paperwork. Nothing. This was one of those incidents she hated dealing with. One of the ones were she was forced to act against someone with good initiative, but suffered from bad judgement. One of the ones the enlisted hadn't been able to cover up in time.

"Re-entry sir," AD3 said. "Nose art must only go on the nose. Our paint would burn off your spacecraft on the first flight, so we painted something different on your craft."

"Mmm."

"AM1," Woody said, "Go find Sergeant Yasoi or Sergeant Yasoud and find out what they can use to remove this without damaging anything."

"Aye aye, sir!"

AM1 tore off towards the hanger. Col. Oontini looked at the airmen.

"Have you destroyed those stencils yet?"

"No sir."

"I see. Corrosion Control's workload is empty?"

She couldn't let them answer this one. They knew better than her, yes, but through self discovery, not via passdown or briefing. Workload was officially communicated between shift supervisor and and Maintenance Control at the lowest, and updating workers was not required nor done very often. She dove on it.

"I have not looked myself yet sir," she said, "but if AM1 says it's empty, then I know it's empty."

"Mm. Woody, would you mind if I borrowed these two for two or three days?"

Cmdr Elmhurst gave them a hard look.

"Put them to work," he said.

The commander of the Wraiths turned to the marine and sailor.

"The shuttle leaves from the terminal in three hours. Be very clean and in uniform. Bring your coveralls and a copy of your vaccination records, you'll be adding to it. Drink lots of water, but do not eat anything."

"Yes sir!" they said.

"Go."

They spun and sprinted away. Cmdr Elmhurst's expression had loosened slightly, as if he was realizing not just who, but what he had handed his two maintainers over to.

"I have to ask," Woody said. "What exactly will you be doing with my marine and sailor?"

"I have thirty vessels in the solar system," Flick said. "Some are here, some are in Australia, some are in Russia, some are scattered in countries around Earth, along with a few others that are currently patrolling the DMZ. All of them but these two need their nose gear painted."

"That's going to be one hell of a whirlwind tour," Woody said. "I don't think they'll be allowed in any of those countries without a passport or visa, especially in uniform."

Oh it was going to be a whirlwind tour all right, but only of one place. Her biggest concern was if they would remember anything when they returned.

"They'll be fine, Woody," Flick said.

He made eye contact with her, glanced at her wrist, then back at her. She nodded. Flick looked back at Cmdr Elmhurst.

"I'll make sure they're here for muster Thursday morning the same as they left with the exception of an interesting story or two."

It was Woody's turn to look at her.

"They'll be fine, sir," she said. "With some very interesting stories, but they'll be fine. I'm sure Sergeants Yasoi and Yasoud are much better at keeping quiet now than they were before, so you won't have to worry about that, either."

"Oh! These are for you, ma'am," Top said, standing behind his desk.

He held out a small stack of papers. She paused to take them.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome ma'am," he said.

She began paging through them as she walked though the backdoor of his office and into her own. She hear Top's voice move into maintenance control and Gunny Gehrky laugh. She closed the door behind her, moved the next paper to the back of the stack and froze mid-stride to her desk, her eyes rereading the next paper. He had to be joking.

She glared at the division officer and his chief.

"Explain to me what this is, Echo."

"It's a FAP request, ma'am."

Her eye twitched.

"You're not trying to get a sailor or marine, Echo. They're not even a soldier. Hell, they're not even human, and you're trying to get their command to just hand them over to us?"

"That's how they got Corporal Pearson, ma'am."

She took a deep breath in, and slowly let it out.

"No. I'm still not sending this up. You don't need another person, and you really don't need another NCO. They wanted Pearson as a form of punishment, and I can agree to something like that. I'm not going to let my department be a dumping ground for some FLI 682 turd."

"With all do respect ma'am," Gunny Owens said, "despite what your opinions of him may be, Sergeant Yasoolik is not a turd."

She stared at him. She looked back at the form again.

"Where, then, is his name on this?"

"It's not, ma'am. We can't request by name anymore. Just number of persons and ranks."

"Then how do you know that's who we'll get?"

"Sergeant Yasoi, Sergeant Yasoud, Lieutenant Yasoud, and Lieutenant Yasoi all asked us to take him," Echo said, "one right after the other. They said he's stuck up there on their rendition of a carrier or mothership or whatever, not allowed to do anything flight related and either passed from crew to crew while they are aboard, or stuck by himself in his quarters if everyone is out. He's been assigned bullshit jobs to keep him busy, because it's all they have that he's allowed to do."

"Allowed?"

"His crew, the whole section of his family he is closest to, what's left of them are in body bags waiting to be transported back home. He's a mess, apparently, but Lieutenant Yasoi assured me he'll be ten times more stable if he's with the same familiar people every day, day in and day out, and doing something more than swabbing the deck."

She rubbed her pen between her fingers. That brought up another problem.

"Where the hell would we put him?"

"AM2 Sanders, Sergeant Thomas, and Sergeant Mingez all mentioned they'd let him stay in their room if he came down," Gunny said. "That was about ten minutes before we heard anything from Sergeant Yasoi."

"Aren't they all in the same room?"

"Yes ma'am. They're not done rebuilding the other barracks yet."

"That's pretty crowded."

"E3 and below are five to a room," Gunny said. "And rakkan like living that close. Well, all of them but Sergeant Yasoi, apparently."

She stopped rubbing her pen.

"I need that in writing. I would love to have him here, but I need to know for sure that's who I'm getting. I'm sure Lieutenant Yasoi means well, but we both know how the military works. All it takes is someone above him to change their mind."

"I'll see if Lieutenant Yasoi can give us anything concrete."

"Mmm. Hold on, don't bother," she said.

She pulled out her cellphone and dialed.

"Good afternoon ma'am," Sergeant Yasoud said. "How may I help you?"

"I have a fap form sitting on my desk requesting an NCO from your unit. I'm told that person will be Sergeant Yasoolik, but I have nothing stating that."

"Oh!" she said. "I'm glad the request is on your desk, ma'am. We're-"

There was a bump.

"This is Commander Yasoi," Shave said. "Recommend it or not, but rout it up here quickly. I cannot leave for my patrol until I know for certain he either has quarters with your unit or if he should be returned to the Trisona, and your commanding officer is leaving for for the day in a half hour."

Her pen was on the paper.

"I hope to have him here, sir, the request is on it's way now."

"Good."

She thrust it at Echo as the line went dead.

"Skipper's waiting. Run."

He was out the door before she finished 'waiting'.

######

She heard the hall door close and familiar footsteps work their way around the super hornet parked in front of it.

"Well?" Rika said, moving to the hatchway of the Farrom 8. "How did it go? Will they take you?"

Ears appeared above one of the horizontal stabilizers, with one turned in her direction. They were quickly followed by a head with dark grey, nearly black fur that had a lick of white down either side of his muzzle and a light grey blaze. Sgt. Yasoolik grinned.

"Airframes, too!"

He ducked under the stab and headed towards her.

"Do they know yet?" Rika said.

[They know they requested me.]

[And that you're coming?]

[Probably. Word travels fast around here.]

He started climbing the steps to her. She couldn't help but smile.

[They haven't seen you yet, then.]

He started laughing.

[No.]

[Why not? Don't tell me you're embarrassed for them to see what you really are.]

He nodded up, the rakkan equivalent of shaking his head, while he tried to quiet his laughing. Rika frowned.

[Then stop being such a coward! Barge in there and say ehy. Don't expect any sympathy from me, I've been doing-]

He waved her off, finally catching his breath. He straightened up, smiling.

[Don't you see? This is a golden opportunity to fuck with them like nothing else! I can't just throw it away. We can't just throw it away.]

Her smile returned.

[Ideas?]

[Sanders usually heads to the maintenance meeting in a few minutes.]

She perked.

[He'll have to walk right by us. What's the plan?]

[That's what I need help with. I don't know what to do.]

[Hmmm. Well, there's a playful greeting here if we know someone. We'll sneak up behind them and then...]

AM2 Sanders strode out of the shop, letting the door bang closed behind him.

[Go,] Rika whispered.

Rika and Macksan silently swept up behind the sailor. Macksan clamped his hands over the sailor's eyes.

"Guess who?" he said.

Sanders stopped and Rika moved to stand a few paces in front of him.

"Gee, I wonder. Maybe it's Sergeant Yasoi."

"Are you sure?" Sgt. Yasoolik said.

"Yes," Sanders said, sounding irritated.

"Do I sound like Sergeant Yasoi?"

"Yes. I can feel your claws and hand pads."

"All unadapted rakkan have those, though," Macksan said.

"Look, I need to get to the meeting. I know it's fuckin' you-"

"Well you're fuckin' wrong," Rika said.

Macksan opened his hands. Sander's eyes immediately fell on her and popped wide open. Color washed from his face and his jaw hung limp. He spun and came nose-to-nose with Macksan.

"Long time no see, Squid."

AM2 Sanders stared. Macksan winked.

"Don't be late."

Sanders took a few steps backwards, with Rika stepping in between him and the hornet's tailpipe to keep him from running into it. He bumped into her and spun again. She winked and pointed towards the door into maintenance control.

"Don't be late."

He hurried off. She managed to keep her bearing until after the door slammed closed.

Macksan was having trouble not doubling over.

[Ho ho! The look on his eyes! Hah!]

[You should have seen the expression he had when you let him go and he saw me standing in front of him! It was great!]

[Oh man, fantastic! Thank you! Thank you so much!]

[Now what?]

[Now I'm going to walk into Airframes like I've always done, move the repair rigs and spare part containers to make a seat like we always do, and start writing that test for Pearson while I wait for people to say something and then pretend to be extremely offended that nobody recognizes me.]

Rika shook her head, grinning.

[You're twisted.]

[I have two name tapes, just like you. One in Arlomic, the other in English. Not my fault if nobody reads 'em.]

######

"FALL IN!"

"EERAK TAH!"

There was a portion of the flightline that had sheltered from the evening sun by the hanger. In that shade approximately 350 people, rakkan and human, erupted into chaos. People sprinted to where Sgt. Thomas and Sgt. Yastire stood at attention, facing the building. The enlisted formed, Thomas turned, and it built from there

Less than a minute later both squadrons stood in formation, facing the runway. Her unit's standard formation had to be tweaked a little because of the disproportionate number of officers compared to a battalion, much to the amusement of those in FLI-682, who all stood in one single block, four columns deep, one row per crew with the vessel commander in front. She was a little envious of their simplicity. A uniform consisting of shorts and a sharp looking vest didn't help either.

Her own unit was in utilities. They had been carrying out normal operations when they received word that the 682nd's wing commanding general was coming to present several awards in thirty minutes. Woody nearly shit himself along with the rest of the command and, apparently, all of the Wraiths, too. Needless to say there had been a mad scramble to swap coveralls for (hopefully clean) cammies and a practice run or two of the on-the-fly modified formation.

According to Smokey, this was normal for those high in the AAF. He even said he was shocked the had this much notice. Apparently these guys liked to show up unannounced, not to catch the unit with its pants down, so to say, but to see the unit how it really is, and not cleaned up to put on a show.

While the logic made sense, it was hard to show respect for one of your top commanders when the hanger is covered in hydraulic fluid along with half of airframes who was scrambling to finish the phase up on aircraft 'triple nuts' 000; your line is speckled with brown as fuel-reeking plane captains waited for jets that were 'ten out' to land; and electric shop is on aircraft zero four, two marines are holding a sailor by the ankles as he used a multi-meter to shoot out wires somewhere deep in the guts of the bird. Nobody in her department below an E-6 was clean, except for maybe an ordinance or Com/Nav marine or sailor. Most people didn't even have a proper uniform at the squadron's quarters, with navy or marine corps coveralls bearing the appropriate patches being the acceptable "uniform" except when a formation was known to be held. Any sane maintainer wouldn't dare wear his uniform to work on the flightline unless he wanted to ruin it.

Their own CAG was notified, who promptly hit the roof and was scrambling to be on his way. It was a long drive though, and unless this big wig was still here in an hour and a half he wasn't going to make it. That didn't change the fact he needed to try as hard as he could anyway, though.

"Terrok!" Col. Oontini said.

"Rest!" Cmdr Elmhurst said.

The units sagged. The sun was still high enough to be brutal. This guy better hurry up before they had sailors and marines falling out from heat stroke. The rakkan without fur were lucky- if they wore sunscreen- only a vest and shorts meant they had some exposure to the dry air and could cool. The other ones she pitied. There wasn't an un-adapted alien that wasn't panting heavily. Even many of the adapted ones were.

"Hey Shep," Cypher muttered from behind her.

"Yes?"

"Why is their CAG so big?"

"Well, if the Commanding Officer of the Wraiths is a colonel, then it makes sense-"

"I get that, but why the inflation? It's like everyone is a grade or three higher than they should be."

She though for a moment.

"Brakes and Smokey make it sound like each farrom is more like a ship than an aircraft- meaning they all follow the same rules as the larger vessels. That would make Tack and Shave the equivalent of captains, and which then Flick would be an admiral. If you look at it ship-wise, that is. From an aviation perspective, our wing has, what, 80 or so aircraft? A squadron of theirs has thirty, so a little less than three of our squadrons and a little less than half a wing. How many squadrons does one of their wings have?"

"I don't know Shepard. How many are there up there? Only you would know here."

She paused. There were vessels in the system, but were they worth revealing? She had learned a lot in talking with Sgt's Yasoud and Yasoi, and some of it was pretty grey in terms of classification. Like the padlocks. She could talk about the red ones, but what about the green? They had seen five the other night, and she has let slip the name of a sixth. That wasn't counting got knows how many other large ships the AAF had out there. But could she share the loadout of the Trisona? Probably not. Did she even know it? Hah. No. From what she could piece together there were four farrom squadrons normally. She had witness six different farrom patches here. Eight fighter squadrons? Four small craft resupply squadrons, two reconnaissance squadrons, two communications/ electronic warfare squadrons, two rescue squadrons. How many craft was that? Did they all have the same number of birds as the Wraiths? Then again, at that scale did it matter?

"Their CAG commands the equivalent of four of our wings worth of aircraft, on top of their support," she said.

"Wings? Not Groups?"

"Wings."

"...oh. Never mind. It's not inflated."

"No. And I happen to know the farroms sometimes go out for mini 'cruises', where they'll be alone in their group of four vessels for about a month at a time."

"In that tiny little cockpit."

"Yep. In a spacesuit the whole time. Hate to have a nose itch."

"Hold on," Echo said, "they aren't hazing Corporal Pearson at all. They're-"

"IENUT TAH!"

"ATTEN-HUT!"

A new kind of craft sunk low over the end of the runway before slowly "taxiing" over to their flight line. It was similar to the shuttles they used to move parts and personnel, but much smaller, and as it crept further into her range of vision she could see it was in much nicer condition, too. A VIP transport.

It pulled in front of them and stopped. The gear extended and took weight. The hatch opened and... was that Rear Admiral Townsell?! A man in a navy service dress blue uniform with a LOT of gold on his sleeves stepped out and into the sunlight. He stood on a tiny landing at the top of the stairs, his eyes panning over the formation before turning to the hatch.

A rakkan stepped out and beside him. He was short, even by human standards, and nearly dwarfed by unadapted rakkan. His grey muzzle contrasted the jet black fur so much it looked white. What must have been a dress vest and shorts looked sharp, something she never thought shorts could be, and did little to hide his wiry frame. He held himself with confidence, and there was a lot of elaborate silver on his shoulders. He glanced over the formation before rapidly descending stairs, Admiral Townsell right behind him.

A sailor and an AAF rakkan (what the hell were they called, anyway?) popped out of the hatch and descended like shadows, taking positions at the sides of their respective brass. That would make the sailor Master Chief McSpaddir, meaning the other was... an enlisted counterpart to whoever the short bigwig was? Flick didn't have an enlisted counterpart though, did he? Not unless you counted his engineer, who they called 'Pip'. Last she knew, though, Pip was only a grade above Flatface and Mallet, and working on his commission in order to move on to a position as navigator.

The short rakkan paused and said something to the admiral in a low voice, who responded with only a nod and two words. They parted and assumed attention in front of their respective units. She noticed the assisting rakkan carrying something under one arm. It looked like folders. Very stiff folders.

Commander Elmhurst reported in while Colonel Oontini did the same. Flick went on for a while though, probably reporting the dead. 'The unit is formed and ready, all present and accounted for.' is so much cleaner than 'The following are missing in action:'. There is something about having to report your casualties that never fails to make you feel like a worthless leader. She'd seen other's faces when they'd had to do the same, thankfully she had been spared the experience so far.

Once finished the admiral and master chief marched smartly back to the center, where they waited for the AAF officer and his counterpart to join them. Once they turned to march back she could see the dark markings on his vest. He was definitely enlisted, with brown or black as their insignia color while brighter colors reserved for the commissioned, often with only a single or double stripe of a color denoting rank.

They stopped and faced towards the formation. The enlisted rakkan's low, guttural voice boomed off the hanger behind them.

"Persons to be decorated! Front and center!"

It took a while, but eventually Cpl. Pearson, an unknown adapted rakkan, and Sgt. Yasoolik marched from where they had stood behind both squadrons and into view, stopped in front of the admiral and the short rakkan, right faced, and saluted.

The officers cut, and so did they. The aid held out one of folders, a rich purple in the sunlight, and began to read.

"To all who shall read this warrant:" he began, "Know that on this day the Steward of Defense awarded Sergeant Yasoolik the Strike Navy Achievement award for his determination, creativity, and resourcefulness in obtaining the support of VFAS-212, and training their personnel to load and fuel over one thousand aircraft using their own methods, resulting the creation of an expeditionary spaceport at an advantage point saving one hundred twenty Farrom interceptors and eighty Kritch class fighters two thirds of the travel required to rearm and refuel otherwise. Because of this, what could have been a crisis and an extended system battle was dealt with in less than twenty four local hours."

Something was done on the front of Sgt Yasoolik's uniform. He shook hands with both the rakkan officer and the Admiral before saluting. They stepped back, cut, right faced, marched a whole step to stand in front of Cpl. Hortieel, left faced, and the process repeated its self.

"To all who shall read this warrant: Know that on this day the Steward of Defense awarded Corporal Hortieel the Strike Navy Achievement award for his quick thinking and remaining calm in the face of danger. When a high pressure hydrogen line ruptured beneath the first deck of his Uiynoo resupply vessel on approach to Earth it caused the recently re-pressurized cabin to be filled with an explosive mixture of hydrogen and air. Corporal Hortieel immediately vented the cabin before going below, kinking the line with his hand and holding it there until they had landed and pressure to the line could be removed. His quick thinking and action ultimately preserved the integrity of his vessel and lives of his crewmates."

The cycle repeated again of present, shake, salute, march to... Pearson? What on Earth was he doing up there?! He had been training people and working alongside Sgt. Yasoolik, yes, but he hadn't initiated or conducted any of the activities. Her anger felt like an acidic burn from low within her. He was supposed to be serving a punishment, not given some feel-good award as a political gesture.

The rakkan held up the warrant and began reading again.

"To all who shall read this warrant: Know that on this day the Steward of Defense awarded Corporal Pearson the Prominent Arrow for his valor and heroism under enemy fire. After Farrom 9 of FLI-682 was destroyed by enemy fire, sensors detected no life aboard the cockpit of the stricken craft, having be torn from the fuselage and shattered. As Corporal Pearson's vessel approached and assumed static position with the wreckage in order to ensure no classified equipment remained aboard, Corporal Pearson noticed a limb hanging from the fuselage while at his position in the open hatchway. While doing so, the lock and launch of enemy fire was detected by his crew. Without regard to his own life or safety, Corporal Pearson leapt out the open hatch without a tether to the stricken vessel, knowing that his own vessel would leave and may never return, in order to free Sergeant Yasoolik from the debris and asses if he was still alive. Corporal Pearson found Sergeant Yasoolik pinned under a crushed bulkhead, his life support inoperable and suffocating. Using a piece of broken servicing hose from the debris Corporal Pearson was able to share air from his own life support system with Sergeant Yasoolik until his vessel returned approximately one half hour later. Corporal Pearson's resourcefulness, quick thinking, and selfless bravery went above and beyond the call of duty, and saved the life of Sergeant Yasoolik."

If she weren't at attention her eyes would have been bugging out and her jaw would be on the ground. Why hadn't anyone said anything? They finished putting whatever it was on Pearson's cammies. They saluted, and Sgt. Yasoolik marched them around to the back of the formation and back in place.

"At ease," the admiral said.

"Kaiyet," the rakkan said.

Both formations relaxed as the rakkan officer's eyes panned back and forth before an alien smile formed on his face.

"They weren't joking when they said it was hot out here," his voice boomed. "Wow. I'll spare you the long wind and give the short and sweet version so we can all get out of this."

Oh thank god.

"For those of you who do not know me, I am Wing General Orund, Seventh wing commander. In the United States Navy I would be considered what you call a CAG, but my units are larger and I have a few more of them under me. When I received a report that one of our host units was giving us everything they could in support I was not the only one surprised. When I learned that they were rearming and refueling our craft faster than any automation we had in the system could, and that they were doing it by hand, I thought someone was trying to crack a joke."

He paused for a moment, his eyes moving over the humans again.

"I was also informed by the Commanding Officer of FLI-682 that this behavior should not come as a surprise from VFAS-212, and that assistance with day to day operations and maintenance is the usual here. This behavior is unique; I have never seen nor heard of such teamwork between other nations' militaries and our own, even when it benefits them.

Your attitude and creative expressions of it are refreshing. Heh. I've seen the artwork you've bestowed on our craft. On my way to the shuttle this morning some of my engineers in other squadrons were putting their unit emblem on there craft, too, so you might have started a new tradition. I've also seen pictures of the mural you painted in your unit's quarters, and the artwork you've painted on your own aircraft. This morning I had the captain of the Trisona, one of our carriers, wanting to know why someone had painted a pair of crossed lances on the bulkhead of one of his hangers without his approval.

The commitment you've shown through your support has become famous through out my entire wing by word of mouth alone, as has the esprit de corps between our units. Do not take it lightly when I say that the Arlonic Strike Navy regards you as one of her own."

...and this was all despite Cpl. Pearson's bigoted display three days in, and Cypher's and Echo's genius move to press him for information at a rakkan safe house. What the hell were the other units doing that made them look this good? And who the hell would stand around twiddling their thumbs while they were being attacked and someone else, with supposedly no meat in the game, was fighting? ..or did they think the attack was all made up?

General Orund cleared his throat.

"It is people like you that make it easy to stand in the way of evil for another. For those of you who can get there, services for the fallen will be held in Hanger Three Five Ropa One and,"

He glanced at Admiral Townsell.

"-at the request of the United States Navy, memorials will be held locally the following morning. Exact times and location will be given to your command. Do you have anything?" he said, turning to Admiral Townsell.

"FLI 682, we are extremely grateful for the sacrifice you and your fellow squadrons have made for us. For many of us the memory of the koaku invasion a few years ago is still all too clear, and it's reassuring to know we do not face them alone. VFAS-212, you are an example for the rest of naval aviation to follow. You might be the best mechanic, sharpest wizo, or the top pilot, but if this is not how you act then it all means nothing."

They looked at each other for a moment. She could see their lips moving. The general nodded and turned back to the formation.

"Your new unit patch has been approved for use by both the US and AS Navies. Enough of this heat then."

He stood at attention.

"IENUT TAH!"

The flightline popped-to with one thud. It wasn't until she found that her thumbs were aligned with the seams on her flight suit and her left foot took weight, pressed against her other heel that the horror drove its self home. She had responded to an order from someone not in her own military; one that was given in an language she didn't even understand.

The blue band felt tight. Please let it only be in her head.

"Commanders, take charge of the unit and carry out the plan of the day."

There was an "Aye aye, sir" from the skipper, and a similar response from Flick. They saluted, which was returned and cut. Hold on now, Woody and Sniper were at attention, too. The whole squadron was. None of this seemed to bother Rear Admiral Townsell or Wing General Orund, who patted him on the back as they got back aboard the shuttle.

Commander Elmhurst about faced.

"Squadron, carry out the plan of the day. Dismissed!"

The formation broke. A US sailor blasted out of the shuttle with two medium size boxes. He sprinted up to Col. Oontini, snapped to and saluted. Flick returned and then the box was thrust at him. Only a few words were exchanged and the sailor saluted again before sprinting over Commander Elmhurst, repeating the ordeal with other box. Then he darted back onto the shuttle and was gone.

Woody, Sparks, and Sniper gathered, so she approached. Woody was putting his pocket knife away and she joined the circle as he opened the flaps. He looked in and laughed.

"What is it?" Sniper said.

Woody reached in and pulled out a squadron patch, one that looked exactly like what was painted on the nose landing gear of the farroms. He passed it to Sniper as Flick walked up with a smile. His box was nowhere to be found.

"I thought he was joking! Wow!"

"New unit patch?" Woody said. "Did you know about this?"

"No. Next time I was up after I dropped your painters off I saw him finishing a check flight for someone in the next bay over. He came up, looked at my nose gear and said 'patch artwork does not belong on vessels'. I send Shave to start people cleaning and he orders the one off of mine to his office. He said he was going to use it as a patch; I thought he was going to use it to cover that hole in the wall where they never replaced the cover last retrofit."

Woody took another one out.

"You guys use velcro?"

"Nope. Yours has velcro, our has... there's no word for it. It sticks to our space suits and some of the uniforms. No, there were two different runs."

"Huh."

Woody pealed his "Lancers" patch off and stuck a "Ghost Knights" one in it's place.

"Does this make us the Ghost Knights instead of the Lancers, sir?" Sparks said.

"That's what I'm understanding from the Navy; at least for the duration of the exercise."

He passed the box to Sparks.

"Make sure everyone gets one."

"Yes sir. I'll have S4 order more of the Lancer ones as well."

"Are we out?"

"No, but,"

Sparks nodded towards down the flightline where farrom crew members were flowing steadily and directly towards the sailors and marines, Wraith patches in hand, eyeing up Lancer maintainers. His eyebrow twitched.

"I have a funny feeling most of the current 212 patches will be on their way out of the solar system at the end of the exercise."

Just as Sparks turned to distribute the new patches Shave walked up, tapping an [FLI-682 Wraiths] patch on the fingers of his other hand. He paused when he came to them, giving Woody a polite 'good afternoon', and held the patch out to Sniper, pointing at the shield and crossed lances still on his flight suit.

"I'll trade you."

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