The Anaconda Insurgency

There was no resting under the sun. It was a saying from his days working the coffee plantation. While the sun was up, everyone worked, and not just the hired hands but the Madam too. Even after sunset, she was in the office of the estate house working. It wasn’t until he became an officer that he learned the true meaning of administration.

Sentinel Lieutenant Walter Otarion bent over the tiny desk of his quarters. One of his Sentinels received news of a loss in the family, and a leave of absence needed to be submitted. It was just one of many, many forms he knew painfully well, so well he could rewrite it verbatim.

This kind of work was not what they emphasized in the Sentinel recruitment process. Meting out vengeance on the Black-Market, patrolling the vast territory of the Triumvirate Factions, ensuring the supremacy of their sphere of influence, and delivering some more of that sweet, sweet vengeance on the Black-Market. Everyone had their own notions of what they thought it meant to be a Sentinel.

The academy snuffed out notions of grandeur within a week.

Still, he was in command of his own patrol unit and was a proud officer of the Sentinel Corps. The work was hard, often boring, and his life had been threatened twice already, but it wasn’t picking coffee beans and he trusted his team with his life. Otarion wouldn’t trade his commission for anything.

He signed the form and popped the cap back on his pen.

“Sir!”

He started as Sergeant Ironsi appeared at his door, cheeks flushed from running. “An officer just came … inspection.”

Otarion’s stomach clenched. “When?”

“Any minute.”

He shot to his feet. “I want everyone in their blacks and whites! Spot check the barracks and get them on the parade ground in ten minutes!”

“Yes, sir!”

Otarion stuffed the completed form in the proper folder, then hastily gathered his sketches and drawings and stuffed them in his backpack. No officer would stand to see art mixed with official documents. With the desk properly straightened, he stripped out of his field clothes and threw on the black and white uniform slacks and coat. It was a habit he learned long ago while serving as a cadet. Always have the blacks and whites cleaned and pressed.

Surprise inspections within the academy were laughably frequent, but not in the field. Inspections happened, but never on the spur of the moment. Sentinels had better things to do than jump to frivolous demands, and the senior officers knew that. Otarion scowled as he fumbled with the coat buttons. After two years of patrol, they’d been given a cushy assignment as security for the Order’s embassy in Anaconda. This was an out-of-the-way corner of their prospective assignment field. What senior officer in their right mind cared enough to not only visit but demand a surprise inspection?

His communicator vibrated on the desk with an angry rattle. Otarion vaulted over the bed and checked the screen. The message was from Sentinel Major Joshua Regis. As Ironsi said, he was requesting an inspection.

He grabbed the black helmet from the dresser. It was designed to cover his entire head. The wide visor was woven like that of a fencer’s mask, only the metal was significantly stronger. Dressed in the black and white uniform and with the helmet tucked under his arm, Otarion checked himself in the mirror. The sight brought a touch of pride to his posture. Over the last few years, his face had lost any remnants of baby fat and taken on a more shaped appearance. His dark hair was cut short, and, in his time as commanding officer, he’d learned the essential skill of the glacially cold stare. In full uniform and with his above-average height, he’d made Black-Market felons tremble.

Assured he was up to standards, Otarion bounded down the steps to the main floor of their barracks. The building was never intended for military use. From what he gathered; it was an old, converted storehouse from back when the embassy was someone’s private estate. The long room that took up most of the space was lined with beds in neat rows, each partitioned off by thin screens. Sentinels were tidying their mini squares and brushing each other down.

“Let’s go!” Otarion shouted.

They rushed for the parade ground. It wasn’t actually a parade ground, just a stretch of grass on the side of their pseudo barracks big enough for the purpose. Otarion walked down the line of Sentinels. A check of their uniforms left him disappointed. When he first was assigned the unit, he maintained the strict standards beaten into every Sentinel during training. After months in the field, those standards slipped. Patrol was unpredictable. They might have been in the wilderness for a few months, stuck in a skirmish somewhere with Black-Market criminals, or here at an embassy. Sentinel uniforms were made to withstand anything, but it didn’t mean they always looked pretty. It would have to do.

“Helmets,” he ordered. In unison, they slipped them on. Otarion took his place in front of his unit and called them to attention just as the major rounded the corner. He saluted. “Unit is prepared for inspection as ordered, sir!”

The major saluted back. “Very good, Lieutenant Otarion. I understand your unit just finished a stint in Urmeth?”

“Yes, sir, we arrived here two days ago.”

The major nodded, then turned his attention to the waiting Sentinels. He walked up and down the line, assessing. The major was of average height with the muscle that suggested he hadn’t come from a desk job. His helmet hid his face, but his voice sounded older. It rang with the familiarity of confidence and authority but with a subtle strain that suggested he rarely raised his voice for anything.

“My name is Major Joshua Regis, and I will be taking personal control of this unit.”

Otarion’s breath caught in his throat. His horror and shock were too strong to hide, and he was exceedingly grateful for the helmet. After only two years of command and it was being stripped from him? Just like that, and for the major to tell him in front of his Sentinels without any kind of forewarning? What had he done to deserve this?

“We’ve been given special orders from the high command. A month from now, the ambassador is hosting a gala for the Midsummer’s Eve festival, and we have reason to suspect an insurgent group will attempt to disrupt the festivities. That will not happen. These are your new security assignments.” He withdrew his communicator and listed off names and where they would be stationed.

Otarion only half-listened as his mind shuffled through every possible infraction that might have earned him this humiliation. He made a paperwork error a few weeks ago on their Urmeth patrol, and it might have been because of a failed search and rescue earlier that year. Would they reassign him to another unit, or would they keep him on as a junior officer? And why was a major taking control of the unit? Majors didn’t lead patrol units. Captains might, but this sort of command position was a full two steps lower than a major’s usual bracket.

“Any questions on your assignments?” the major asked as he finished the list. Otarion’s mouth went dry; his name hadn’t been called. He hadn’t been assigned anywhere. Dread clawed at his stomach at the new prospect that, somehow, he’d done something worthy of being dismissed.

“Oh, God,” he breathed.

“One last thing.” Regis paused in front of Keller. “What is your name?”

“Private Tobias Keller, sir.”

“Keller, how many months are spent in basic training for enlisted?”

Otarion could see he was momentarily thrown by the question. “Err, six months, sir.”

The major turned to Velds. “How many months did you spend in specialized training?”

“Six months, sir.”

Finally, he addressed the sergeant. “Sergeant Ironsi, including the six months of training and the six months of specialization school, how long does an initiate serve before becoming a Sentinel.”

“Another year, sir.”

“And what is the success rate for initiates to complete their two years and take their oath?”

The sergeant frowned. “I don’t know, sir.”

“Among enlisted, it’s forty-two percent. The fact you did succeed says a lot about your character and your ability. The uniforms you are wearing were bought with your success.” With a raised eyebrow, his tone grew cold. “I suggest you care for them with pride. This is your only warning. Do I make myself clear?”

“Sir, yes, sir!”

“You are dismissed. Lieutenant, with me.”

Otarion deflated as he followed the major into the barracks. So, he was going to break the news of dismissal in private, but not spare him the humiliation of being removed from command in front of his Sentinels. Maybe it was part of his punishment. He’d heard stories of the high command’s vindictiveness to officers who disappointed them.

He walked slightly behind as the major systematically examined each room. The long room was immaculately clean and ordered. The bathrooms were equally so, and the small lounge that acted as their recreation room was spotless. Otarion silently thanked his unit. At least he could leave with a good inspection under his belt. The major said nothing through the inspection until they climbed the narrow staircase to the officers’ quarters. Otarion unlocked his room and handed the major his file folders.

“Everything should be in order, sir.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Regis said, and he crossed the hall to one of the unused rooms. It was as stark as Otarion’s with a narrow bed shoved in the corner with the fine-meshed curtain to ward off the mosquitos. There was a dresser against the far wall, a desk, and an extra chair. The files were set on the desk and the major sat down. “Inspection passed, Lieutenant Otarion.”

Otarion swallowed hard. “My room has the better view if you want that one, sir.”

“That’s alright. I prefer an east-facing window. It makes mornings easier.” He gestured to the extra chair. “Please, sit. There’s a lot to go over.”

Otarion pulled the chair a little away from the wall and sat. Regis removed his helmet. He was definitely older than the twenty-somethings of the unit, but just how old eluded Otarion. He was blond with his hair just a tad longer than regulations allowed. There were no wrinkles, his face was timeless in a way he couldn’t quite put a finger on. The only real indicator was his eyes. They were bright green but with the depth of hard experience, only the life of a Sentinel could inflict. Early-career as a major, he decided.

“I apologize for not breaking the news to you beforehand, but I want you to understand you are not being sent away or dismissed. You’re to remain here as a junior officer and my aide. You’ll find I am not heavy-handed in my command. So long as you continue to help run the unit as well as you already have, then we’ll do fine.”

Otarion forced himself not to physically wilt with relief. He wasn’t being dismissed. The relief was followed by a pang of resentment. If he hadn’t done something unforgivable, then why? Otarion removed his own helmet. “Sir, what’s this all about?”

Regis regarded him with the same scrutiny he gave the major. “You have nothing to fear. You’ve done nothing wrong. In fact, your record is quite impressive. Twenty-four and already in command of your own unit. Your scores through the academy and specialization school were consistently above average, and the last two years of your command have been handled very well. Where are you from originally?”

Otarion pursed his lips. The major was avoiding the question. “Oras, sir.”

“I wouldn’t have pegged you as an islander. What do your parents do?”

Heat rose to his cheeks. “They’re farmhands for a coffee plantation, sir.”

“Humble beginnings are nothing to be ashamed of. Most Sentinels come from your background.”

That might’ve been true for the enlisted, but officers were another story. Recommendations and many hours of community service were needed for entrance into the academy. The community service was the easy part. He spent his summers as a volunteer of the coastal patrol guard. The recommendation letter was secured by the Madam. It so happened she knew of his interest in joining the Sentinels and called in favors from various contacts to make it happen.

“Did you always want to be a Sentinel?”

“I didn’t know it was an option for me. My goal was to join the coastal patrol guard as a full-time sailor, but the captain I was volunteering under suggested I apply for the Sentinels.”

“Has your time as a Sentinel been what you expected?”

He shrugged. “No one really knows what it’s like when they first join. If anything, we’ve seen more action than I was expecting. There isn’t a Sentinel in our unit who hasn’t had their lives threatened at least once. No casualties yet, but … I dread the day it happens.”

Regis nodded in grim understanding. “So does every officer, and it won’t get easier.”

“Sir, what’s this all about?” he asked again. “I’ve never heard of a major joining a unit like this.”

Regis sat back with his fingers laced together in front of him. “We have reason to believe this insurgent group will attempt to assassinate the ambassador. That’s why I’m here.”

Otarion straightened in alarm. “Why?”

“I have my suspicions. Anaconda’s Director is giving the ambassador the Maelstrom Tourmaline at the gala. I believe it is partly because of that, but we need more intel. How experienced would you say your scouts are?”

“Intermediate to advanced. If you need information, they can get it for you.”

“Good. Have them report to me at the top of the hour. Tell Sergeant Ironsi that every Sentinel is to go armed whenever they leave the barracks even when they’re off duty. I don’t think the insurgents will strike before then, but I won’t take chances.”

Otarion got up to leave and asked, “What of my assignment, sir?”

“Remain available for the meantime.” He swiveled to face the stack of files, then looked back. “And one more thing, we’ve been invited to dine with the ambassador this evening. Be ready fifteen after six. Dismissed.”

Otarion clenched his teeth. He stiffly saluted and left the major to his work. Remain available. It was insulting. An assassination plot was suspected, and Regis wasn’t going to use him in their efforts to foil the insurgences’ plan. His first instinct was to place a guard on the ambassador, then scour Anaconda and ensure no stone was left unturned in the hunt for the assassins. He would need to talk with Sergeant Ironsi about the assignment details Regis laid out. He could remain available while he covered their bases.

When he descended the stairs to the long room, he found several of his Sentinels waiting for him. Sergeant Ironsi was the first to ask the obvious question. “Were you demoted, sir?”

Sure as hell feels like it. “I’m no longer your CO, just a junior officer of the unit. Sergeant, we need to talk.” He glanced around. The dividing screens were anything but soundproof. “Come with me.”

They stepped outside to their little portion of the embassy’s garden. Once he was sure they were far enough away that no one could eavesdrop, he explained. “They think there will be an assassination attempt against the ambassador at the party. The guard rotation is one fail-safe, but we need to nip this in the bud. Regis asked that the scouts report to him at the top of the hour. We’ll need intel.”

The sergeant pulled out his communicator to log the order. “Got it. I checked over the guard rotation while you were dealing with the inspection. The major knew what he was doing to secure this place. It’s about as airtight as we can get with twenty-eight Sentinels to use.”

“Can you give me a copy of the assignment detail? I want to check for myself. Also, everyone goes armed when they leave the barracks. Even off duty. The assassins might choose to strike earlier than expected.”

The sergeant added the order. “Should we go armored?”

Otarion frowned as he considered that. Plate probably wasn’t necessary, but the woven mail shirts they could wear under their coats wasn’t a bad idea. “Mail for now. I don’t want to tip off the assassins we know something’s up.”

“Got it. Sir, a question?”

“Yes?”

“Is the major just here to deal with the assassination plot? I mean, once it’s dealt with, will things go back to normal?”

That was a great question. Majors didn’t lead patrol units. Perhaps this was just temporary and once the ambassador was made safe, then the major would return command to Otarion. “He didn’t say. I’ll keep you updated on that.”

“It better be,” he grumbled. “The unit was furious at what he did to you. They won’t follow him happily.”

Otarion’s eyes narrowed. “They don’t have to like him, but I’ll personal flog anyone who disobeys his orders.”

The corner of Ironsi’s mouth twitched into a thin smile. “I’ll convey your sentiments. Will that be all, sir?”

“Yes, thank you.”

The sergeant returned to the barracks. Otarion eyed the embassy and sweeping gardens around it. The building was in the same style as the rest of the city, faced with white plaster and accented with black iron railings around the patios and verandas. Wide stretches of grass kept the oppressive jungle at bay. The gardened areas were carefully manicured to reflect the beauty of the surrounding jungle. From experience, Otarion knew the wilderness was nowhere near so lovely or so devoid of critters and bugs. Though the embassy staff tried to defend against the onslaught with the mesh nets and bug-repelling lanterns, nighttime was a war against mankind for the mosquitos.

His eye caught on two Sentinels as they hurried from the embassy kitchens toward the barracks. It was Velds and one of her scouts. Otarion chewed the bottom of his lip in thought. Major Joshua Regis hadn’t dropped in from nowhere. If anyone could shed light on their new CO, it was Senior Scout Velds.

He jogged to catch up with them. “Velds,” he called.

She and Keller altered their course to meet him. “Sir,” they said in unison and saluted.

“Go on, Keller. We’ll just be a moment.”

The young scout continued toward the barracks. Velds shot Otarion a wry smile. She was lithe with short hair and eyes as green as their surroundings. Ironsi dubbed her the pixie when she first joined, and the sergeant suffered a black eye for the offense.

“Velds, I need a favor. I know you’ve got contacts all through the corps. Major Regis says he’s here because of an assassination plot against the ambassador, but I think there might be more to it than that. There has to be.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I could understand coming here as an investigator or as support, but there’s no need to take the unit from you. Drama is never good for unit cohesion, and we can’t afford disunity with something like this.”

“Exactly. Can you find out more about him? Where his last posting was, who ordered him here, anything to explain what’s going on.”

She nodded. “On it, sir. I’ll let you know what I find out.”

The rest of the morning was spent scouring the guard detail. It was infuriatingly perfect. With nothing else to do, he remained at his desk being available. Otarion pulled out his sketchbook. Officers were encouraged to learn a fine art. The academy thought it made them more well-rounded. It was also one of few ways to decompress, and every officer he ever met stressed how important that was off the job. Otarion worked through three whole sketches when the clock on his desk chimed five-thirty in the evening. After a hot shower, he pulled out his class A uniform from the dresser. He begrudged lugging it around but being stationed at an embassy required it for occasions like this. He threw on the white slacks and crisp, black coat complete with the silver rank bars and white belt. The only bit of color on the entire uniform was the golden leaves of the olive branch within the Sentinel emblem. He stepped in front of the dresser’s mirror, straightening his officer’s cap and belt, then strapped on his saber.

A quarter past six and he was at the steps of the barracks. The major appeared a moment later in an identical uniform but for the added decoration of his higher rank. “I’ve never liked white slacks,” Regis said with a note of exasperation. “It’s impossible to keep them clean.”

Otarion resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Just that morning he lectured them on the pride they should take in their uniforms. At least his is up to regulation standards, he thought. The major wasn’t a complete hypocrite.

They made their way across the garden and entered the embassy’s main building. The dining hall was situated on the ground floor. It was needlessly huge with a dining table that could seat twenty. On one wall was a massive world map. Seven clearly defined rings encompassed seven worlds each, all with their names inscribed beneath them. Seven regions, forty-nine worlds. No matter what world, each one shared the same sun, moon, and stars. Along the edges of the map were exquisite paintings of the various myths describing the shattering of the World, though Otarion doubted anyone knew what had happened all those millennia ago.

The ambassador and his wife, as well as a handful of other key diplomats in the embassy, were already there. When the two Sentinels entered the room, the ambassador spread his arms in welcome with a broad smile. He was older with graying hair and traces of wrinkles around his remaining eye, the other was covered behind a black eyepatch. There was a pronounced limp in his leg as he walked, and Otarion wondered just what accident scarred the man so badly.

“Major Regis, Lieutenant Otarion, I’m glad you could come. It’s not often I see Sentinels without their helmets.”

Regis shook his offered hand. “We’re honored you invited us.”

“I know the class As are everyone’s least favorite, but thanks for indulging us,” the ambassador added with obvious amusement.

Otarion also shook his hand. “You served?”

“A long time ago, yes. After my medical discharge, they dropped me in the diplomatic offices. Apparently, ex-Sentinels make good diplomats.”

“I’ve heard that before,” Regis said. “I’m so sorry for your injuries.”

“Thank you, major. I can’t tell you how much your service is appreciated. I know what it’s like to spend months on end away from your family. If you ever need anything, just let me know, and I mean that.”

Regis smiled a true, genuine smile. “Thank you, ambassador. That’s very kind of you.”

The ambassador’s expression shifted from the sincere to the serious. “Have you received any further news about this plot?”

“We have our scouts gathering intelligence now. The embassy has been made safe, and the Sentinels will go armed at all times outside the barracks. Even so, I don’t believe these assassins will try anything until the gala itself.”

“That was my reading of the situation as well.” He smiled, then, and said jovially, “We’ll set it aside for now. Enjoy the evening!”

The dinner was not as lavished an affair as Otarion feared. They did not sit in the overly large dining hall but rather sat outside on the veranda with a view of the jungle garden, cooled by misters and brightly illuminated by the bug-repellant lanterns. He only had to squash one mosquito, so they must’ve done something. Through the dinner, Otarion had half a mind to ask how the diplomat got his injuries, but if he knew anything about war stories, they were seldom fit for polite dinner conversation.

They were well into the main course when the ambassador’s wife said, “Major Regis, I’m very grateful you’re here. It gladdens me the high command is taking the threat against my husband so seriously.”

Regis inclined his head. “It’s what we do, madam. Hopefully, we can get a better grip on the situation once our scouts report their findings. The Sentinel scouts are the best in the Factions, after all.”

Otarion bristled. If his opinion of his CO could go any lower, it did. Sentinel Scouts were very good, some of the best in the worlds, but they were not the best. That title would always belong to the Night Azerie. The Triumvirate Factions were, as the name suggested, a confederation of three nations. The Azerie Order were the supreme judges and guardians of that confederation, made all the more powerful by their command over the Elements. The Sentinels served under their banner with intense pride. For Regis to discount their superiors so flippantly was downright insulting.

“With all due respect, sir, Night Azerie are the best.”

“Well, of course,” Regis said with a laugh. “Night Azerie are no doubt the best anywhere, but there are only two. They don’t really count as a scout force.”

“Have any of you ever met an Azerie?” one of the diplomats asked.

The ambassador took a sip from his water glass and said, “I’ve seen one. My company was called in to deal with a pirate gang in Drakestone. By the time we got there, half their force was already destroyed. Azerie Avery of Earth had lured them into a narrow pass and buried them in rock and ice singlehandedly. He acted as the vanguard while we took out the rest of their fleet. It was terrifying and thrilling to watch him work.”

“Did you get to talk to him?” someone asked.

The ambassador shook his head. “I was too awestruck, too shy, but one of my buddies did. He said he was as down-to-earth as the best of them and happy to talk with any Sentinel who approached. Not that many had the guts to do it.”

“I’ve met one,” the chief political strategist said. “I was an aide in Alphamega’s city hall when I was just out of college. There was this big case at the regional courthouse and Azerie Julian of Ice was presiding over it. After the trial, he walked into the city hall, with no preamble or announcement, just walked through the front door and asked if the Director was available. While the chief administrator scrambled to find her, I and a fellow aid were left standing there looking like gawking idiots.”

Otarion laughed behind his napkin, not that it was necessary. Everyone was smiling. He doubted he would ever meet an Azerie in his life but gawking like an idiot would be exactly how it would play out.

“Did you talk to him?” the ambassador’s wife asked.

“He forced us to,” he said with a laugh. “He asked us about our schooling, how we liked our work, that sort of thing. We talked for twenty minutes, and toward the end, I almost forgot who I was talking to. He was so relaxed and chill, no pun intended. When the Director arrived, he wished us the best, and you could tell he meant it.” The diplomat shook his head with a forlorn smile. “You would never know talking with him the hell he’s been through. We’re very lucky to have them. I just hope they don’t suffer any more tragedies. God knows they can’t take anymore.”

There were murmured agreements around the table. Otarion looked down at his half-eaten dinner. No, the Order couldn’t take any more. Civil war brought their numbers to near extinction levels, a series of assassinations ordered from within the Black-Market further reduced their numbers, and then the Salikoth Raid against the Black-Market elite a few years ago brought their number to exactly twelve. There was a very good reason the Sentinels despised the Black-Market.

**********************************************************************

It was three days before Velds had news. In that time, Otarion assisted the major with administrative work and monitoring the embassy. Very little of his job changed. Most of the major’s time was spent with the ambassador, and every morning he woke early to run with the more PT dedicated Sentinels. Each day for one hour in the afternoon, he pulled aside a handful of Sentinels to assess their combat skills. Otarion watched one of these lessons from his window when Velds’ message appeared on his communicator screen.

The major is from Colonel Stackhouse’s company, and his assignment to our unit was pushed through by the colonel and General Jericho. It’s not temporary, either, it’s logged as permanent. I’ll dig a little more to find out just what he did to deserve this kind of punishment from the high command, but he’s not here just because of the threat against the ambassador.

Permanent. What hope had taken seed in his heart to be returned to command died. Major Regis was here to stay. His eye caught on the two names. Colonel Stackhouse was head of special forces. He didn’t remember seeing any decoration on Regis’ uniform to suggest a background in special forces. Then there was General Jericho. That name brought more mystery to the situation than answers. General Jericho was the head of the Sentinel Corps. He scarcely could imagine what Major Regis had done to earn this kind of singled-out abuse and not be dismissed entirely.

Otarion scowled at the training session down below. The major was skilled, patient, good-humored, and slowly gaining the acceptance of the unit. “What did you do?” he wondered aloud.

He thanked Velds and returned his attention to his work.

A few days later, Velds returned to the embassy. Otarion joined the major in the other spare officer’s room which had now been converted into a legitimate office. Velds stepped through the door and approached the desk.

She saluted. “Senior Scout Eliza Velds reporting as ordered, sir.”

Regis and Otarion reciprocated the salute.

“Welcome back, Velds,” Regis said, and he gestured to the chair across from the desk. “What have you learned?”

She sat. “We have the coordinates of their base of operations and identified the key leaders of the insurgency. As you said, they’re a radical secessionist group that would see Anaconda cut ties with the Factions to form their own independent state. They see the ambassador accepting the Maelstrom Tourmaline as an affront to their history and peoples.”

Otarion frowned. “Wasn’t the tourmaline made by Azerie?”

“It was,” she said sardonically. “They’ve conveniently forgotten that fact. They’re spinning the story as a great loss to raise sympathy for their cause and claim the Factions stifle their regional identity.”

“And what would targeting the ambassador solve?” Otarion asked. “If he were to die, it would bring hell down on this group.”

“I believe that’s the point,” Regis said. “They’re not a very large or influential group. Given enough time, infighting will bring them to their knees. However, if the high command sends in a company to deal with them, it lends a certain level of legitimacy to their organization and will stir up sympathy from the public for what will be perceived as an overly ruthless reprisal. Sentinels have a reputation for that.”

Then they shouldn’t give us reason to come knocking down their doors, Otarion grumbled to himself. “Alright, so what’s our next move?”

The major sat back in silent consideration. Finally, he said to Velds, “When you return to the field, pay close attention to the locals. Identify people who can either help us infiltrate this insurgency or give us the necessary knowledge to do so ourselves. While you’re undercover, gently remind the people of the stone’s origins. I will work with the ambassador on ways to further undermined their propaganda efforts. Once we have that underway, I will join you and your scouts in the jungle.”

Otarion turned to the major. “What do you want me to do?”

“Oversee things here while I’m away. Nothing is to get in this embassy that we don’t know about. We will not allow them to further establish their legitimacy by causing a scene here.”

“Yes, sir.” It was something. Not much, but it was better than remaining available.

**********************************************************************

The Midsummer’s Eve gala came all too quickly. Otarion ensured the embassy was the most secure premise in all of Anaconda. Regis and Velds’ scouts waged a behind-the-scenes war against the insurgents be it sowing seeds of distrust among the identified leaders or spreading misinformation to their contacts. Otarion was shocked when he heard Regis was the one who identified the two assassins picked for the coming assignment.

“He’s incredibly effective,” Velds said as she voraciously ate the oatmeal and fruit laid out on her plate. But for two scouts left to monitor the insurgents’ base, everyone returned from the jungle the day before the gala to prepare for the event. “He identified the assassins the second day he was with us, and you should’ve seen the way he moves through the jungle. He must’ve been a scout or maybe a ranger before joining special forces.”

Otarion resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He was getting tired of the unit’s never-ending praise of the major. The man was being severely punished by the high command. He couldn’t be that great. “Did you find out anything more about him? Like what God-awful thing he did to get the General and Colonel Stackhouse to hang him out to dry?”

“Nothing, sir,” Velds said with obvious displeasure. “And I mean nothing. Any information or records on his past assignments are classified to high heaven. Every scout I’ve reached out to is coming across the same barriers.”

Otarion scowled. “This is starting to grate. Why our unit? I could understand sending him for this operation, but why is it so permanent? Why does he come off as so great and fantastic when there’s shady stuff going on from high command? It just doesn’t feel right.”

“Why don’t you just ask him?”

“I tried.” Otarion stood to leave her to her meal. “Keep me updated, and good work out there. You guys deserve the day of rest.”

Late that afternoon, Regis summoned him to the office. The major was bent over a map of the surrounding region with a protractor and pencil in hand. To Otarion’s surprise, the ambassador was with him.

“Welcome back, sir.”

“Ah, Otarion. Well done securing the embassy. The ambassador was just praising you for your work.”

Otarion nodded in thanks to the ambassador. Regis set aside the protractor and straightened, his eyes not leaving the map. “Our scouts have planted the seeds of discord and dissent within the organization. The assassins left the base early this morning and disappeared into the jungle. We tracked them some ways but lost them when they reached the city proper. I believe they will try to impersonate guests at the gala tomorrow or come as a plus one with another.”

“It would be impossible,” the ambassador said. “Every guest and their plus ones were vetted and screened weeks ago.”

“They couldn’t impersonate staff either,” Otarion added. “My Sentinels have memorized everyone’s names and faces over the last couple of weeks.”

Regis tapped the pencil against the desk in thought. “Hmm, it will be interesting to see how they try it. Regardless, when they fail in their mission tomorrow and don’t return to report, the leadership will know their organization is compromised, and with the distrust already there, the group will fracture and disintegrate.”

Otarion frowned. “Sir, shouldn’t we arrest the leaders now since we know who they are?”

“We will, but only after they try to assassinate the ambassador.”

“Why not before then?”

“We have the evidence to make an arrest and they would get a decade behind bars, probably less. They’ve been careful not to attach themselves to the more heinous crimes of their radicalized foot soldiers. But if we can peg them with the attempted assassination of an ambassador, they will swing and never pose a threat to the Factions again.”

Otarion frowned. It went against his sense of self-preservation to argue, but the plan sounded absurdly risky. He glanced to the ambassador, then back to the major. “Sir, I can’t say I’m comfortable risking the ambassador’s life this way.”

“But I am, Lieutenant Otarion,” the ambassador interjected. “I asked Regis to do it this way. It’s much better for these terrorists to swing than sit behind bars. A dead terrorist can’t influence fellow prisoners while in jail or try their hand at secession once released.”

There was nothing for it. Otarion nodded in reluctant agreement. “Very well, sir. My Sentinels won’t let you down.”

The embassy gala was a smaller affair than it perhaps could’ve been. Only a hundred guests were invited. There were a handful of men and women scattered throughout who knew the face of every guest in attendance. An unknown would’ve been spotted, the Sentinels flagged, and the threat quietly removed. These were the people Otarion watched as he stood slightly behind and to the right of the ambassador. Some of the guests attempted to talk to him. Otarion gently wished them a good evening, explained he was working and resumed his surveillance. Regis was never far away, either, acting as a satellite guard or remaining planted on the ambassador’s left.

As the evening grew old, the anticipation had Otarion taunt as a wire. Nothing was happening. No breach in security. No weapons had to be confiscated at the door. Everyone here was who should’ve been here. There weren’t even unruly guests. The festivities were going on as planned without a hitch.

“Major,” the ambassador said in a momentary lull of activity. “Is it possible they’ve thought better of trying?”

Regis shook his head. “I won’t be convinced until we hear confirmation from our scouts at the base the mission was called off.”

Anaconda’s Director approached with a wide smile. “Happy Midsummer’s Eve, ambassador!”

“Happy Midsummer’s Eve. I hope you’re enjoying yourself.”

“Very much so,” with a flourish, the statesman produced a polished box from his coat pocket. “As promised, the Maelstrom Tourmaline. It’s a shame we can’t present it to the Azerie themselves, but God knows the Sentinels could use a boost of morale.”

The ambassador accepted the box. “As Major Regis and Lieutenant Otarion will tell you, this is greatly appreciated. Sentinels take the Order’s history very seriously. Giving us the stone will raise hopes across the corps.”

“It’s true,” Regis said. “It’s an extremely kind gesture. We won’t forget it.”

“It’s my pleasure. I know you’ve had to deal with dissidents while here but know the large majority of my people would salute you gladly. I certainly do.”

There was a round of heartfelt handshakes, and the ambassador tucked the box in his coat pocket.

It was nearing midnight when the last of the guests departed. Regis spoke with the scouts still on site at the insurgents’ base, and his confused frown didn’t make Otarion feel any less tense. They were walking through the embassy’s upper halls of the west wing. It was the residence portion for the in-house diplomats, the ambassador and his wife included. Otarion ran through the list of Sentinels set aside for the night shifts. Until they were certain the threat was passed, the security would remain. Including guards posted at the ambassador’s door.

The movement was out of the corner of his eye from a dimly lit bedroom. Otarion shoved himself in front of the ambassador, but the assassins were fast. The instant he reached for his saber the knife was plunged into his stomach. Otarion gasped in shock. The assassin rammed the knife hilt into his head, and he reeled back, dazed. He didn’t remember hitting the floor, but when he opened his eyes, Otarion found himself staring at the fight from the ground. Regis was locked in a bitter melee with the two assassins. The ambassador had his wife pressed up against the far wall with a knife in hand prepared to defend her.

Otarion struggled to rise. He felt his side where the knife had gone in, but there was no blood. The mail beneath his uniform coat had done its job. Regis took the knife’s blow to his side, just as Otarion had, but in the instant the assassin was close and vulnerable, Regis whacked him across the head with the hilt of his saber. The assassin dropped like a sack of flour. The remaining assassin lunged. Regis pivoted to miss the strike and with lightning precision snatched the assassins’ knife-hand and wrenched him forward off-balance. Otarion tensed as Regis drove his saber through the man’s back. The assassin was dead. He’d seen grievous wounds, even inflicted them, but Otarion had never seen anyone die, and his brain wasn’t sure how to respond.

The major leveled his saber tip on the dazed assassin and kicked the knife from reach.

“Otarion, are you alright?” he asked.

“Y-yes, sir,” he said, and he struggled to his feet. His head throbbed and he could feel the blood trickling down the side of his face.

Regis glanced to the ambassador and his wife to confirm they were safe, then knelt to search the prisoner. “Very good. Get some Sentinels up here to take this one into custody. We’ll need to question him. Tell Velds to take her scouts and ten Sentinels. They can now arrest the leaders of the insurgency.”

Otarion pulled out his communicator. “If they don’t come quietly?”

“Use restraint, I want them alive, but,” his expression turned glacially cold, “kill them if you must.”

Otarion called Sergeant Ironsi.

It was well past midnight when one of the unit medics sat Otarion down in the barracks and cleaned away the blood from his head wound. The ambassador and his wife were secured with two guards at their door and the windows of their room bolted shut. Otarion suggested a Sentinel remain on guard within the room, but the ambassador refused. For three hours he and Regis were in near-constant phone calls with diplomatic offices, Anaconda’s Director, and the Sentinel high command. The man wanted nothing more than a few hours’ sleep before the morning drama.

Otarion didn’t blame him. The minute he was patched up, he would follow the ambassador’s example and go straight to bed. His communicator vibrated. It was probably Velds with news of their success. He checked the screen and froze. The name appeared as Sentinel Colonel Royce Stackhouse. The medic stepped back as though afraid of being burned. Otarion wet his dry lips and answered.

“Lieutenant Otarion speaking.”

“Good evening, lieutenant. This is Colonel Stackhouse. Congratulations are in order, your unit performed very well in Anaconda.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I’ll make this short. I realize it’s the middle of the night for you. Tell me exactly what happened this evening. Everything from the events at the gala to the assassination attempt.”

It was not a short conversation. Otarion relayed everything, and the colonel extracted every detail from him, down to whether Regis used a saber or knife in the fight. “Was the major injured at all?”

“No, sir. In fact, the assassins didn’t seem to stand much chance against him. Come to think of it, the insurgency didn’t stand much of a chance.”

There was the creak of a chair as the colonel leaned back. “Is that so? You’ve been with him for a month now, what do you think of Major Regis?”

Otarion stiffened. The tone in the colonel’s voice was inscrutable, guarded. He wondered if the man knew of Velds snooping, or the fact he was already aware of the high command’s treatment of Regis. Otarion felt as though he’d inadvertently stepped onto thin ice and was watching it crack beneath his feet. “The unit’s taken a liking to him, sir. He’s a good leader and very knowledgeable. They’ve grown to trust him.”

“And you? Do you trust Major Regis?”

Otarion’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t necessarily like Regis, and he wasn’t quite ready to forgive him for taking his command, but the major saved his and the ambassador’s life and personally spent the last couple weeks with the scouts in the miserable jungle to stop these radicals. Not all officers would do that.

“I trust him, sir.”

“I see. Thank you for your help, Lieutenant Otarion. Get some rest.”

The connection broke. Otarion exhaled a tense sigh and wondered just what he’d done to be placed square in the middle of such crossfire.

The next morning the insurgent leaders were behind bars with Sentinel prison keepers on their way to take them into custody. Velds reported that it hadn’t been difficult securing them. The base guards were easily overpowered and the leaders all but cowered in a corner in the face of their unexpected, ferocious arrival. The ambassador heaped praise on the major and the entire unit. So much so, news trickled down from the upstairs offices’ commendations were in the works. Everyone thought the major would get something. Not only did he orchestrate the entire operation, but he’d been the one to deal with the assassins. Otarion had his private doubts.

The commendations did come, without pomp or ceremony, just a box of the pins and a letter from high command. Otarion stifled a yawn where he stood. It was barely dawn when Regis ordered Ironsi to assemble the Sentinels on the pseudo parade ground. The major appeared from the barracks with the box in hand.

“Attention!” Otarion called, and he saluted.

Regis returned the saluted. “I’ve received word from high command. They’re very pleased with our success and have given each of you an extra three days of leave time to spend. The unit has also been recognized with a meritorious service award, and Senior Scout Velds and her Sentinels have each been awarded a Scout’s Leaf for their exemplary work.”

Regis handed Otarion the box and pulled out the leaves. The scouts came up one by one to receive their pins, each one immensely pleased with themselves. Once the pins were distributed and everyone returned to their place in line, Regis continued.

“I was also notified we have been reassigned to Drakestone. I will have further details to give you soon, just know that we will be headed out by the end of the week.”

Otarion’s brows shot up in surprise. This was supposed to be a six-month posting. What was high command doing? He glanced to Velds and got a slight nod from her. She knew something.

“Dismissed,” Regis said, and he returned to the barracks.

It was only with the dismissal that the unit broke into cheers for their scouts and clapped their comrades on the back. Sergeant Ironsi appeared at Otarion’s side and said, “What’s with the whiplash assigning?”

“I’m not sure.” Velds extricated herself from the others and joined them. Otarion extended his hand. “Good work, Velds. You guys deserve it.”

“Thank you, sir. Did the major say anything to you about all this?”

“No. Do you know something?”

“Drakestone was the general’s idea. We’re supposed to be hunting poachers, and we’ll be joining one of the navy destroyers to do it.”

Sergeant Ironsi shook his head in wide-eyed bafflement. “They’re yanking us across the worlds for that? This is ludicrous.”

“The aide I talked with thought so too. Whatever beef they have with Regis, they don’t want him anywhere long enough to make friends like the ambassador. That’s the only reason I can come up with, especially when you factor in the major didn’t get a single commendation. No ribbons, no medals, nothing. He wasn’t even formally attached to the unit’s meritorious award. Only you were listed as our officer.”

Otarion exchanged a startled look with Ironsi. He didn’t expect Regis to get any sort of special recognition, but to be so thoroughly excluded was a special kind of vindictiveness. “And you have no idea what he might’ve done to deserve all this?”

“Nothing.”

Otarion pursed his lips. There was something very wrong, or at least very petty, going on behind the scenes. “Let’s not mention this to anyone else. I don’t want to undermine the unit with a wild rumor mill. Keep digging but be careful about it. You don’t want to get on the wrong side of the high command on this one.”

Velds and Ironsi agreed.

Otarion returned to his quarters and set about preparing the forms and documents for their departure. No sooner did he take another look at the leave of absence forms did Regis tap on the door frame.

“A word, Otarion?”

“Yes, sir.” He got up to follow the major into the office, but he waved him down. Otarion sat and watched the major as he leisurely stepped to the window.

“I was told you spoke with Colonel Stackhouse. I hope he was not overly harsh to you.”

“No, sir. He just asked for details on the assassination attempt.”

“Hmm. Senior Scout Velds is very good at her job, within and without the corps. I know you have questions about my presence here, and I would not blame you for hard feelings at the loss of your command, but when something is marked classified, then it is classified for a reason.” He turned face to him, and the hint of a wry smile touched his expression. “Remind Velds of that when you next see her. I would not want her to receive a reprimand from Colonel Stackhouse. It might hinder her chances of being promoted to special forces later in her career, and that would be a waste.”

Otarion nodded. There was no point denying the implied accusation he was at fault for the snooping. “I will tell her, sir.”

“Thank you.” Regis moved to leave, then paused at the threshold. “And Otarion, someday soon I will tell you why I was put here, but you must give me some time. Trust does not come naturally to me. It never has.”

The major left. Otarion sat back in his seat and stared at the forms on his desk, unseeing. A gnawing sense of guilt chewed at his heart. Perhaps he shouldn’t have had Velds go behind the major’s back, but he couldn’t take back their prying now. Other officers would’ve been insulted, and they should’ve been reprimanded for the offense. All Regis did was offer a quiet warning. Otarion shook his head in puzzlement and picked up the pen.

One thing was certain, there were worse officers to serve than Sentinel Major Joshua Regis.