NOP: The Rejects of Sillis (7)

Oh look, another chapter! We're back in the present for this one. Enjoy!

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The Nature of Predators Universe was originally created by u/SpacePaladin15.

Chapter Seven: Tactical Programmer Socks

Memory Transcription Subject: Lieutenant Isaac Yankovic

Date [standardized human time]: October 29th, 2136

Six venlil stood before Captain Andrews, shaven nearly to the skin and shivering in the crisp morning air of Warehouse 1480. She tried to avert her gaze from them as much as she could because they looked remarkably exposed without their wool. Instead, her eyes were on me, and they didn’t portray someone who was very happy.

“Yankovic, what did you do to them?” She asked slowly and sternly.

I smiled in spite of my superior's surliness. “We just took a little off the top, ma’am. No harm done.”

Andrews rubbed her temples. “Why?”

Thankfully, Raksim answered for me. If I tried to do the same, I wouldn’t be able to resist laughing. “To keep them from overheating in their uniforms. It's a common practice among the Exterminator Guilds.”

She took off her soft cap and looked down plaintively, as if she was mourning the loveable fluff balls she once knew. Something akin to a sphynx cat had replaced them—they were naked, alien, and pudgy.

Tiel was an exception to that last descriptor. Underneath all that wool, he was quite athletic, presumably from years of eating well and working hard on a farm.

The Captain tried one last time to look at them, but couldn’t bear the sight. “Just get them in uniform, please. This is embarrassing for everyone.”

Raksim, who was standing in my shadow as usual. Clicked his beak mirthfully.“I find it quite amusing.”

I don’t disagree.

Nedelin began calling names and handing out the alien’s new uniforms, which were packaged in cardboard boxes to keep them from getting mixed up. He and the 92 Sierras had been hard at work for the past several days, designing and manufacturing BDUs that would work with the aliens’ physiology.

In the meantime, I was resigned to supervising the Russians while they got our equipment in working order. The last gun that needed cleaning, a PKM, was currently disassembled and having its parts scrubbed of rust by a dozen privates.

The BTRs, on the other hand, were proving to be much more of a nuisance. A new olive-drab paint job and having their names stenciled on them in Cyrillic greatly improved their outward appearance, but these upgrades only disguised their rotten interiors. It took Halvah and Grigoryev’s crew days to get Katya’s engine running reliably, and almost zero progress was being made when it came to getting Olga operational.

To keep my blood pressure down, I turned my attention from an ongoing problem to one that was already solved.

The platoon’s nonhuman members unpacked their uniforms and began putting them on. The venlil and yotul’s topwear was just standard VKBO shirts and jackets that had been reduced in size slightly. The topwear for the gojid required a more creative approach. Instead of just resizing the standard jackets and button-up shirts, Nedelin and the 92 Sierras created something akin to an apron with long sleeves. The gojid put on the sleeves first, threw the strings around themselves, situated said strings between their quills, and then tied them so the whole garment stayed secure.

The 92 Sierras went with a similar approach for headwear. They took the standard VKBO soft cap, removed the big dumb star from it, and sewed in a draw string so it would stay on the aliens’ heads in spite of their differently-shaped skulls.

The bottom wear, however, had one small issue. The gojid could just wear shortened pants because their legs’ physiology wasn’t that different from a humans. The yotul and venlil, in contrast, were digitigrades. Unmodified human pants would be too restricting for them. Nedelin's solution to this conundrum, while giving them complete uniform coverage, was to give them cargo shorts that came below the knee–with holes cut in the back for their tails–and thigh-high, skin-tight leg warmers that overlapped.

Many of the aliens chose to put on the socks before their shorts, completely oblivious to the connotations the attire had for humans. When the Russians noticed, they started snickering and laughing among themselves.

I slowly turned my head to my Platoon Sergeant, who was not-so-innocently avoiding eye contact while lighting a cigarette. He brought the ones that smelled like mint today.

“Nedelin?”

“What is it, sir?”

I pointed to one of the offending articles. “What the fuck are those?”

“You said you wanted uniforms quickly. It was quickest solution.” He said this while shrugging. “If you wanted different uniforms, you should have given us more time.”

Raksim chimed in, “I see no issue. Mine fits just fine.”

For a horrifying moment, I was expecting to see my geriatric alien advisor in EMR-camouflage thigh-highs. Thankfully, his BDU didn't include any programming socks. It was just a dark green vest with some pockets built into it for storage and a canvas strap sewn into the chest as an attachment point for a holster.

I had gotten a Russian uniform fitted to me as well, so I would blend in with the rest of my unit on the battlefield, but I chose not to wear it for the time being. If Colonel Rainach ever saw me in it, it would just give him an excuse to harass me for being improperly dressed.

I took a quick look at the part of my platoon I assigned to cleaning guns. A 91 Foxtrot I bribed to be here on his off-time was inspecting their now rust-free final project.

“Time to earn your pay, old man. Which guns should we assign to which aliens, and why?”

Raksim picked up one of the AK-74s from the arsenal that was laid out on the floor. He tested its weight by tossing it a short distance into the air and catching it a few times. “With proper motivation and physical conditioning, the venlil and yotul should be able to keep pace with a human during a rapid offensive action–for a short time at least.” He drummed the weapon’s receiver cover with his claws before setting it back down. “I would keep their weapons light to capitalize on that possibility.

“What about the gojid?”

“Their legs are too stubby for them to get anywhere quickly. But they’re strong under all those quills from digging in the dirt all day. Give them heavier weapons and make them carry plenty of ammunition–” he gestured to the section of the warehouse floor that was covered by light machine guns and RPGs “–and they will excel while on the defensive.”

“Venlil and yotul for the assault; gojid for the rear guard,” I summarized.

“Correct, but we shouldn’t treat it as dogma. As much as we try to break their individuality during training, every soldier is different. We should pay attention to what they’re already adept at and do our best to use that skill to its greatest potential.” He fixed me with one of his eyes. “Now, I have a test for you, Lieutenant. What are your soldiers good at?”

“Tiel’s a good shot, Halvah’s a good mechanic, and Vil has courage.”

The krakotl’s tail feathers fluttered with annoyance. “I don’t understand what you see in that venlil. There’s nothing courageous about having a breakdown under pressure.”

“Have a little faith, old man. She’ll get better.”

“I can only hope so. She’ll be nothing but arxur bait otherwise.”

“What about krakotl?” Nedelin interjected. “What are they good at, besides giving our dear Lieutenant a migraine?”

Raksim waved a wing dismissively. “They’re the most useless species in the entire Federation.”

I raised an eyebrow at his answer. “How so?”

“We are the species most capable of and willing to inflict violence.” He displayed the onyx talons on his hands and feet. “But we couldn’t direct our abilities in any meaningful way. The krakotl had enough military might and political sway to create a coalition that could have swept the arxur back to Wriss and turned it to glass. Instead, we were focused inward, policing our own citizens and exporting our exterminators to other species to stave off a taint that always appeared in those most inconvenient to the people in power.” As he spoke, he gestured more and more with his claws. “We were a gun with no sights! A blade with no handle to wield! And when Kalsim unified us for a common cause, it only ended in our destruction! Billions of lives and thousands of years of history were wasted for–”

I cut him off. “Alright, old man. We get it.”

Raksim hissed and snapped his beak at me.

Captain Andrews politely cleared her throat to get our attention. “I hate to interrupt your… lively conversation, but our new helmets just arrived.” She pointed over her shoulder toward the entrance of the warehouse, where a forklift was setting down a plastic-wrapped pallet laden with cardboard boxes.

Its operator’s eyes were dead, and her face was completely blank, clearly demonstrating that she wasn’t getting paid enough to care about anything. She acted accordingly by leaving as quickly as she came without a word to anybody.

I picked up an AK-74 bayonet from the floor and took it out of its scabbard. I used it to remove the thin plastic that held the pallet together, and then I opened the top few boxes that were readily accessible. Inside of them, I found dozens of scuffed and scratched ballistic helmets, but not a speck of rust or rotten leather.

Andrews inspected the headgear alongside me. “I know they’re not much, but they’re better than those old steel pots, right?”

“I guess they are,” I said a little disheartedly.

Andrews smiled. “Well, if you're satisfied with those, wait until you see what the UN got us for the aliens.”

“You got us helmets from off-world?”

“Nope, you’ll see!”

Sergeant Nedelin had already ordered some of the more idle Russians to deal with the helmets. They took them off the pallet, unpacked them, and began fitting them with camouflage covers. As they went about their task, they revealed a novel variety of boxes at the bottom of the pallet–ones clearly and boldly marked with United Nations Research and Development.

Andrews leaned a little closer as I began to cut open the new packages. “I talked to some people in the UN, and they said getting helmets from the aliens would take months.”

“We don’t have that kind of time.”

“I know, Lieutenant. Let me finish,” she said reassuringly. “So I got in contact with an R&D team that needed their new design field tested. And they said that as long as I write back to them with an in-depth review, you can have these helmets for free.”

I threw open one of the boxes, expecting to find something high-tech and innovative, courtesy of the United Nations. Instead, I found several empty kevlar buckets alongside a haphazard collection of chin-straps, foam cushions, and plexiglass visors.

“What the fuck is this? A build-it-yourself kit?”

“Well, you're not far off,” Andrews explained. “Instead of making several helmet designs to fit several species, they made one kevlar outer shell that would fit most of them and made the liners interchangeable.

“How do we know which liner is for which alien?”

“It’s all in the instructions,” Andrews said as she pulled a booklet from the box and presented it.

“That would be helpful, but these aliens don’t know how to read English.”

As soon as I opened the instructions book, I realized that Captain Andrews had achieved a task that was nearly impossible; she found a research and development team that was competent on every level.

The instructions were pictorial, so any species could decipher them no matter what language they read. On the first page, I found a headshot of a venlil, indicating which species the directions were for. Below it was an interior view of a helmet, marked with simple geometric shapes. Upon closer inspection, the loose parts in the box were marked the same way. Even further down the page were a series of four images demonstrating the proper way to wear the helmet. The first two showed a venlil putting the helmet on with his ears standing up, resulting in them being mushed against either side of his head–he looked rather dissatisfied with this situation. In the latter two, he put the helmet on with his ears pointing backwards and was much happier as a result.

The next page of the instructions showed the same thing, except there was a gojid in the pictures and the symbols inside the helmet were rearranged. After that came the page for thakfi, yotul, and so on. I wasn’t able to find one for krakotl.

“Sorry, old man, they didn’t make a helmet for your species.”

Raksim rolled his eyes uncaringly. “I wasn’t planning on getting shot in the head anyway.”

“What do you think, Yankovic? Will they work for you?” Andrews asked.

“They’ll get the job done. Thank you.”

“You're welcome. And remember, you don’t have to do this alone.”

I gave her a small smile before calling for my two favorite privates: Tiel and Vil.

The two venlil stopped adjusting their new uniforms and hurried to my position in the warehouse. With the two of them before me, I could assess Nedelin and the 92 Sierra’s work. The clothes covered them and camouflaged them without restricting their movement too much, which is the least someone could ask for in a military uniform. The fact that the uniforms fit them well and actually looked good was just a happy little bonus. And the thigh-highs weren't that noticeable once the whole outfit came together.

If any of the other units learn about those, we're going to be a laughing stock.

“How can I help you, sir?” the white venlil asked.

“You and Vil need to figure out these helmets and help the other aliens get theirs set up. Understood?”

Tiel replied with a quick, “Yes, sir,” and lifted one of the boxes from the pallet.

Vil moved to do the same, and, as she did, I leaned down and spoke in a low voice so others couldn’t hear me. “ I’m sorry we couldn’t find a solution that allowed you to keep your wool. It seemed important to you.”

For a moment, she looked at me with pure malice in her eyes–not an unreasonable response, since I was the one who ordered the venlil to be sheared–but it only made her more adorable. Then her face fell, and she picked up one of the helmet boxes, struggling with its weight much more than Tiel did. “It’s okay,” she said in a way that didn’t convince me she wasn’t upset. “It’ll grow back.”

“For what it’s worth, I think you look good in your new uniform.”

As she walked away, her tail did a begrudgingly happy wag. “Thank you, sir.”

Raksim’s squawking laughter sounded from behind me. “Have you taken an interest in her, Lieutenant?”

“I’m interested in her success, if that’s what you mean.”

“I certainly hope that’s all you're interested in,” the krakotl said in a rather accusatory tone.

“Relax, old man; I know not to fraternize with the enlisted.”

A cruel light flashed in Raksim’s eyes. “Speaking of fraternization, Tiel and Nedelin–”

Shouting and cursing drowned out whatever he was going to say. It was coming from where the BTRs were being fixed.

I cursed under my breath and immediately marched toward the disturbance. I have been dealing with this crap for the last several days. The armored vehicles’ repairmen couldn’t go more than an hour without screaming at each other over some kind of disagreement. Judging by the number of times “Blyat,” “Cyka,” and “Idi na hui” were being said, this one was particularly bad.

As I approached, I recognized the voices of Halvah and Grigoryev coming from Olga’s engine compartment. I procured a wrench from a nearby tool box and slammed it against the vehicle’s hull to seize their attention.

Both of them popped out at the same time, but the Russian was the first one to speak. “Comrade Lieutenant, get this woman away from me! She is driving me insane!”

As Halvah spoke in turn, I noted that she slipped away as soon as she had her uniform on and had already stained it with engine grease.

“He won’t even listen to me! I keep telling him we should check the fuel system, but he only wants to work on the engine!

“Why would we touch fuel system when engine is not working?!”

“Because the fuel system is what powers the engine, you bald idiot!”

“Shut up! Both of you!” I snapped. “If this BTR isn’t functional in the next three hours, we’re pushing both of them into a ditch and setting them on fire! Understood?”

“Your superiors won’t allow that,” Grigoryev said dismissively.

I looked him directly in the eyes. “Did they allow me to open this warehouse?”

“Sir!” Halvah cut in, “You can’t be serious. We put hours of work into these machines!”

I gave her an extra-toothy smile in a deliberate attempt to unsettle her. “Would you like to find out how serious I am?”

Both of them shrank back and glanced at each other. If I had to guess, it was dawning on them that all their blood, sweat, and toil could literally go up in smoke. Not a moment later, both of them disappeared into the engine compartment. Through the vehicle’s side armor, I heard Grigoryev say, “Check the fuel system, Hedgehog. I will finish the engine.”

With that, I carelessly dropped the wrench on the floor and returned to where the alien members of the platoon were getting geared up.

While I was away, Tiel and Vil assembled their helmets. Now, they were wearing them as they helped others. Nedelin made the two venlil put the same camouflage covers over their headgear as the rest of the unit, which brought the entire BDU together rather well.

As Tiel assisted his fellow soldier, Captain Andrews crouched next to him and asked a few questions. “How does your new headgear fit, Private?”

The venlil looked up from the additional helmet he was helping put together. “It's comfortable enough, but it makes it harder to hear and see.”

The Captain took out her phone and opened the notes app. “Go on.”

“When I have this on”–he knocked on his helmet twice–“everythings muffled.”

“But not enough to make conversation difficult?”

“Not really. We’re doing that just fine right now.

“Maybe it's designed to dampen sounds to protect your hearing,” Andrews pondered aloud. “What about it being harder to see? It looks fine to me.”

“It might be fine for a human, but we have a wider field of view than you.” Tiel turned his head, and the eye he could usually use to look at her disappeared behind the helmet.

“Why would they design a helmet like that?”

Raksim intruded into their conversation with his usual tact. “The venlil are a spineless, easily-frightened race. Restricting their field of view keeps them from becoming overwhelmed and fleeing.”

Andrews rolled her eyes at him and finished taking notes. “Thank you, Raksim. Your insights are truly indispensable.”

A low chuckle sounded from the krakotl’s beak. “I try my best.”

Now it was my turn to intrude. “Knock it off, old man. I’m the only officer you’re allowed to annoy.”

He bowed apologetically and sarcastically. “How careless of me to forget.”

My eyelid twitched. Don’t strangle him, don’t strangle him, don’t strangle him–

A whistle came from the section of the platoon that was cleaning guns, drawing the attention of me and Nedelin. A corporal pointed in our direction and gave us a thumbs up, indicating the PKM they were working on had passed inspection.

“What’s the tally now, Sergeant?”

“One hundred-eight guns are operational out of 145,” Nedelin answered.

I sighed and pinched the bridge of my nose. It was a better outcome than I expected, but it still wasn’t good. “Put the guns that didn’t pass inspection aside; we’ll tear them down for spare parts later. Load the rest into one of the trucks with a significant amount of ammunition.”

Nedelin raised an eyebrow. “Everything? Including the explosives?”

“Everything; don’t even leave the bayonets out.”

His face grew even more concerned. “Is it wise to teach them to use that weapon, sir?

“We’re going to teach them to use everything. The more they know, the more effective they can be.”

Nedelin shook his head disapprovingly before departing to relay my orders.

Raksim cocked his head. “Bayonet?”

I couldn’t resist the predatory snarl that spread across my face. “You’ll find out soon enough, old man.

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