God's Dogs Book 2

Part 2

One of the penalties of refusing to participate in politics is that you end up being governed by your inferiors.

Plato

The team was finishing up its year with the Coyote candidates. They spent their teaching sabbatical from operations with the third year students, which included the four students they helped through boot camp: Manuel and Joseph; Nina and Jian.

There were about thirty-five students left in the class, and a few would drop out during the two-week hiatus before the next year began. River was checking in with Nina and Jian about their intentions.

She ghosted up next to them on the parade ground as they were walking from their last class to the cafeteria for dinner.

“Coyote River,” Jian, a stern Asian young woman with smoldering coals for eyes, greeted her, “Any plans after next week?”

River eyed the girls, fleshed out and walking with the graceful predator carriage of a Coyote, rather than the stiff bearing of the soldier.

“Just back to saving the galaxy,” River quipped.

“You seem to have a reputation for doing so,” Jian said off-handedly.

That caught River by surprise. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Nina, the taller, sturdier Tibetan woman, said. “We had different Coyote teams for year one and two. When they learned you were the team assigned to our boot camp, both of them told us how lucky we were to have such legends as our trainers.”

“Now you’re messing with me,” River retorted.

“No,” Jian exclaimed. “It’s true. One of them told us your team operates so far out of the box you need a tracking beacon to find it.”

River smiled. “Well, that’s probably true. But what about you two? Are you coming back for fourth year?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Nina said and Jian nodded her agreement.

Then Jian asked, “How does the final test work?”

“There’s no secret about it,” River shrugged. “You stand before the masters and they probe you to see if your authentic self is where you live from.”

“We heard that,” Jian sighed. “What does it mean, though?”

“Well, the authentic self needs to embody the values of a Coyote. You must burn with the purging fires of compassion, and paradoxically burn with the cold fires of the protector.”

Jian’s faced scrunched into a frown. Then her face cleared. “I think I get it.”

Nina laughed. “I think you are it.”

Jian turned on her friend and exclaimed, “You, too!”

River laughed at the exchange. It was good to see the way they supported one another. Coyote training did not use competition at all. Or, more accurately, each candidate competed against him or herself.

Nina went on, “Assuming we pass the test, then what?”

“You spend six months to a year with an experienced team to learn the operational ropes. Then you get assigned to a permanent team.”

“Who makes that decision?” Jian wanted to know.

“The temporary team helps Master Chin figure it out, and I’m sure Master Lu is part of the process.”

The girls looked at each other and River picked up on the look. She went on, “Jolene and I were a lot like you two. We went through training together. Then we joined a larger family of brothers, sisters, aunts, cousins, and uncles. Your heart has room for lots of people.”

“I’m beginning to see that,” Jian said. “The other two teams expressed pride in your accomplishments, and they said they didn’t even know you well. One of the female Coyotes told me she figured it was your award that went on Coyote Wall a few years ago.”

River dodged the hero-worship and said, “Well, it is a big family. We kind of know each other, but when the teams from Amazonia form their own independent program, we’ll probably have fewer of us.”

“How many teams are there?” Nina asked.

“I don’t know. I think the number, if not classified, isn’t published. During the war with the Empire, we had about 500 teams, counting the ones from Amazonia. I think we're done to 300 or so now.”

“So, about two thousand Coyotes back then,” Jian said. “That would mean there are less than two thousand now.”

“Sounds about right,” River agreed. “A nice, big family.”

After the candidate graduation ceremony, the school emptied out for two weeks. Then the next term would begin. Quinn’s team enjoyed a two-week break as well. Then they marched into Master Lu’s office for their next assignment.

After they found seats in the cozy alcove next to Lu’s desk, he told them, “The shock of the Congress’ existence has settled down through League space. New trading alliances are forming. Students are heading off to universities in Congress space. The ASI Solomon has accepted responsibility for the League’s interaction with the Congress. So all seems well on that front.”

Moss interjected, “No patrons for us, right?”

“No,” Lu smiled. “You made sure of that, it seems.”

Quinn said, “That young consul, Singh, did a good job.”

Lu chuckled. “He says his success came from following your advice. He’s assigned to the embassy at the regional center’s capitol.”

“Now what?” Pax asked.

“There are many sentient species in the galaxy,” Lu began. “We will primarily deploy with the hominid ones, and you’ve met some of those.”

River interrupted, “Is that because of the different psychology of each category of species?”

“Yes. At least, it’s what the Congress has determined, but I think it’s safe to say the final spiritual goal is the same across species. The developmental ladder to get there can be radically different.”

“That makes sense,” Pax agreed. “Although, I was hoping to meet some exotic species.”

“Well,” Lu smiled and got back on track with his briefing, “you’re in luck. Your next assignment is to mediate a war between a hominid species and a cephalopod species.”

“Like an octopus?” Moss asked.

“Yes,” Lu said and his smile deepened. “It appears this species sees invertebrates as a higher order of specie in the animal kingdom. They should, by right of their superior design, rule over the lesser species in their local space – such as the vertebrates, the hominids, they are at war with.”

“Why us?” Quinn asked.

“Because of your proven track record of coming up with creative solutions to the problems you’ve faced in Congress space,” Lu answered.

“We’re fighters,” Moss pointed out, “not diplomats.”

“The task is to enforce a cease fire between the combatants to let the diplomats broker a lasting peace.”

Quinn nodded as he saw the sub-text. “They think that when we protect the peace, we’ll come up with a solution to the conflict.”

“‘They’ being the Silvertonae,” Lu said. “They requested you specifically.”

Pax wondered, “Is this mediation under their leadership?”

“Yes. You will work with their diplomatic team, which includes Silvertonae and a cephalopod species from a different planet, and a mixed platoon of SpecOps soldiers – Silvertonae and cephalopods.”

River smiled. “Sounds like fun. I liked the elves we worked with last time.”

On the way back to the Coyote wing, River asked Moss, “Did you check in with Joseph and Manuel?”

“Yep. They’re coming back.”

“So are Jian and Nina. I think we can pick the winners, Moss.”

“Maybe we should just line them up in the beginning, and we go down the rows and say, ‘That one and that one.’ It would save so much time.”

She looked at him with bewilderment and then started laughing.

The Satya transported them to the capitol of the region. There they transferred to a destroyer headed to the war zone. An elf met them as they boarded the bulbous-nosed war ship. He wore a one-piece dark green ship-suit.

“Greetings,” he said with a quick bow. “I’m Tzai-Guandon. In your military ranking system, I would be a Warrant Officer, and my duty is to be your liaison.”

Quinn dropped his duffle on the deck to allow Moss space to guide the grav-sled with their gear forward. He faced Tzai and said, “I’m Quinn, and these two containers need to go to the ship’s armory.”

The elf turned to the three tall, bear-like Hurangs behind him. “These crewmen will assist.”

One of them grabbed the sled and set off. The other two shouldered the team’s gear and fell in behind them as Tzai led them to their quarters.

“I was told that the last time you were aboard our ships, you stayed with a SpecOps platoon in their separate spaces,” Tzai continued. “That insulated you from the crew. This time, you’ll be in officer’s country, and you’ll have more contact with the crew.”

They continued forward along the portside passageway, up a flight of stairs to a hatch, and through the hatch to officer’s country. Tzai paused before hatches halfway down the corridor.

“These are your berths. Two to a cabin. The crew will stow your gear. Please follow me to the ward room so I may complete your orientation.”

They looked in on the sparse rooms – bunk beds, skinny table, and a bathroom; walls painted pale green. Then they followed Tzai forward through another hatch to the ward room.

It was bolted down tables and chairs and side tables. They sat, and a steward came forward to offer them menu tablets.

Tzai went on, “The crew complement is about three hundred from ten different species. We match the species to the jobs they are best suited for: Sentic for command, Durani for engineering, and so on.”

River interrupted, “Only ten? How many races are there?”

“Hundreds more,” Tzai said. “Few are suited to working aboard a warship, though.”

“Why is that?” River persisted.

“It is a function of high intelligence that most species abjure war,” Tzai answered. “It is wasteful at best and needlessly destructive at worst. Most races give up the practice of war in favor of cooperation, trade alliances, and art.”

Moss muttered, “No wonder we didn’t fit in.”

Tzai flashed a quick smile that showed no teeth – baring one’s teeth could be considered aggression. “My understanding of your species is that you retain your capacity for war, and in the Coyote instance use it as a spiritual discipline known as a Way.”

“Is that an oddity?” Pax asked.

“You are the only ones I know of,” Tzai answered. “There are warrior races in the Congress, or warrior castes within races, but uniformly those instances are roles within those cultures. Actual warfare is viewed as a failure of diplomacy, rather than an extension of it.”

“That’s a very civilized view,” Moss offered.

“Much is gained through cooperation,” Tzai said, missing Moss’ subtle sarcasm. “Little is gained from war.”

“And the Silvertonae,” Quinn queried. “What is your species best at?”

“Strategy,” Tzai answered. “We are also clever at technology, and we are a friendly and harmonious people that delight in a good party.”

Moss grinned at that. “I can see why you were assigned to us. The Guardians weren’t much for socializing.”

“The Sentic are a serious lot,” Tzai confirmed. “And since you are now members of the Congress, you don’t need minders.”

“Do you have a family, Tzai?” River asked.

With that, the socializing began, and it continued for the few days it took to arrive at the war zone. Tzai was gregarious and answered their questions, introduced them to species they hadn’t seen before, and generally entertained them. And he did have a family awaiting him on his home world.

They transferred from the ship to a space station orbiting a world that was 75% water with dozens of Australia-sized sub-continents. One small moon orbited it. The planet’s name was unpronounceable, and Moss shortened it to Oolong. The main cephalopods, which Moss dubbed Oolies, lived there.

The station was a globe two hundred miles in diameter. Along its equator were the docking ports. A central core, running top to bottom, was the power and engineering center. At ninety degrees to the core, floors after floor filled the north and south hemispheres. Those contained the various offices, warehouses, living spaces, commercial districts, and so on of a thriving inter-stellar trading community.

They found their way to the level supporting diplomatic teams and were assigned a large suite. Four bedrooms radiated from a central living area with functional couches, chairs, tables, and cooking area. Tzai left them there to settle in. It was local night, and he told them he would escort them to their meeting tomorrow with the diplomats and the platoon leaders.

Moss guided the hover-cart with their mobile armory to a corner and stood both cases upright. They were oblong containers ten feet tall that opened like upright suitcases to lay flat against the wall. In one was an exo-suit of heavy armor and their light armor; in the other was weapons, ammo, and repair tools. Moss left them sealed for now.

The next morning, Tzai called for them and they followed the corridor a few hundred yards to a conference room. Along the way, they passed not a few neatly attired beings bustling to their own destinations along the pastel blue corridor.

The conference room was also pastel blue. A long table bisected the room, and side tables held food and drinks. Seating was stools that could adjust both vertically and widen horizontally.

Moss and Pax joined others at the food table. Tzai led Quinn with River tagging along to a group of Sentics.

“Commander Donic,” Tzai said to a Sentic with a scarlet pauldron on his left shoulder, “this is Quinn, team leader for the Coyotes.”

Donic turned and dipped his triangular head a fraction. “Coyote Quinn, it’s good to have you. Mediator Tar-Dorseen will call us to order shortly. You should gather sustenance. It may be a long meeting.”

“Thank you, commander,” Quinn said and turned to the side tables.

River noted, “That was a diplomatic brush off.”

“At least, it wasn’t hostile,” Quinn returned.

The gist of the meeting, which Quinn saw included the cephalopod diplomats by holo-conference, was the Ooli started the war by trying to annex a nearby (relatively speaking) world. The Ooli felt they operated from a place of divinely ordained manifest destiny. Move out the inferior race of indigenous people, and move themselves in.

“Where have we seen that before?” Moss muttered as the meeting broke up for lunch.