Chapter 1: Aggro-Culture

“You ever been to Borealis before?” the pilot asked, his voice coming through the open door to the cockpit.

The craft shook as turbulence rocked it, Ramos reaching for a nearby handhold to steady himself, securing his harness more tightly about his chest. He was the only passenger in the dropship – the other seats that lined the cramped bay were empty.

“No,” he replied curtly, trying to suppress the nausea that was starting to gnaw at him. The craft banked, shedding speed as it coasted through the upper atmosphere, the bright glow of flames bleeding in through the canopy.

“I hope they briefed you on the natives, at least. Did you read the pamphlet?”

“Yeah, I read it,” Ramos replied as he wondered how the pilot could remain so nonchalant. He might have run this route dozens of times. “I know about the heat and the gravity, and I got a briefing from an Elysian officer about etiquette back on the carrier.”

“Well, the Rask are a little different from the Elysians,” the man continued, raising his voice over the sound of the rattling. “They’re a little more aggressive, and they just got their asses kicked by the UNN, so they might not all be happy to see you. Just keep your wits about you, and don’t go wandering around the city on your own.”

“Thanks for the encouragement...”

“Why are you here, anyway?” the pilot pressed. “Forgive me, but you look a little too green to be a Marine. Are you a civilian contractor? They’ve been flying in all kinds of people to help with the reconstruction effort. I even brought in a flock of Valbarans a couple of days ago – those little guys didn’t shut up for the entire flight.”

“I’m an ecological engineer,” Ramos confirmed. “I do ecoscaping, desert greening, forestry.”

“So, you’re like a tree doctor?”

“Something like that. I was working on sustainable agriculture projects and reforestation in the Amazon before the UN pulled me out and sent me here.”

“That makes sense,” the pilot replied, seeming satisfied. “The Rask territory is fucked, for lack of a better word. Farming used to be practically impossible there, and the jungle band that usually protects Borealan territories is chock full of holes that let the desert creep in. Take a look out the window – should be pretty smooth sailing from here.”

Ramos did as the pilot suggested, unfastening his belt with a click and rising from his seat. He gripped a handhold on the bulkhead and leaned in to get a look through the nearest porthole, seeing a vast desert scrolling past beneath him.

Borealis was an arid planet that baked in the heat of its twin suns. At some point in its history, it must have been entirely carpeted in dense rainforests, but a changing climate had caused them to recede until only small pockets of greenery remained. Based on the extensive research that Ramos had done during the six-month trip from Earth, he knew that each of the territories – the planet’s nation-states – bordered a lake. These massive bodies of water were surrounded by a dense band of jungle that served both to create a micro-climate within their bounds and to shield them from the encroaching desert sands. They were like giant oases in a sea of dunes.

In the distance, he spotted the verdant canopy of the Rask jungle band rushing towards him. As the dropship passed over it, he saw the damage with his own eyes. Simply reading about it and seeing satellite images didn’t do it justice. The band literally looked broken, as though a giant had taken kilometer-wide bites out of it, the breaches letting sand spill through like water from a broken dam. The azure lake reflected the glow of the suns – large enough to rival Earth’s great lakes – but he didn’t need to be a surface hydrologist to see that it was drying out. Without the protection of the jungles and a reliable water cycle, everything was slowly being eroded, like air leaking from a hull breach.

It wasn’t all bad, though. As the dropship began to descend, he noticed that the desert between the bounds of the jungle and the shores of the lake was being developed. There were long, orderly rows of greenhouses whose glass glinted in the sunlight, and he could make out the telltale green circles of center-pivot irrigation farms breaking up the landscape.

There were a few small settlements dotted around between the farms, others hugging the near shore of the lake. The older ones were made up of stone buildings, but there were newer structures, too – prefabs in shades of white and metallic silver standing out against the yellow sands.

The dropship coasted over the lake, and as they neared the far shore, the territory’s city began to rise up. The squat buildings were constructed from blocks of beige sandstone, overlaid with protective mortar that gave them a hand-sculpted appearance, the wooden support beams that helped to reinforce the structures protruding from their facades in places. They had no windows, probably to keep the interiors cool and to prevent the sand from finding its way inside. Few were more than one or two stories tall, as the punishing gravity probably made that a challenge without advanced building techniques. The larger and more decorative buildings sported self-supporting stone arches, domed roofs, and load-bearing pillars. Between them were cobblestone streets reminiscent of the Victorian era.

What people Ramos could make out from this altitude were wrapped in protective shawls and cloaks, and there seemed to be few vehicles on the narrow streets. He could see a handful of trucks and buggies, but by far the most prevalent were the desert-camouflaged hulls of UNN military vehicles. Puma IFVs flanked by troops were patrolling the streets, and Timberwolf scout trucks surveyed the area with their drone swarms. These were probably peacekeeping forces left over from the recent conflict.

Ramos didn’t have very in-depth knowledge about the war that had ravaged the territory, but he knew that the ecological damage wasn’t a result of the fighting. It was an entirely natural process that had been happening for millions of years. The former Rask Matriarch – their equivalent of a president – had launched a rebellion against her allies and had subsequently been deposed. There were still Coalition peacekeeping forces made up of humans, aliens, and Borealans from neighboring territories policing the area. Now, the UN and its alien allies were helping to rebuild the territory and repair its declining ecology.

Not all of the buildings were squat and flat. Sitting in the center of the city was a massive compound surrounded by tall walls, a needle-like spire with a cap of white marble rising from each corner, shining like beacons.

Within their bounds was a sprawling cluster of large domed buildings, each one tipped with another towering spire, the embroidered flags that hung from them waving in the wind. The courtyard was paved with a covering of red marble, veins of lighter yellows and oranges winding their way through the massive blocks of stone, gradually giving way to an oasis at its center. The pool of shimmering water was surrounded by colorful desert flowers and spindly trees that reminded Ramos of desert palms – a little pocket of nature in the heart of the urban sprawl. That must be the Matriarch’s palace. It had to be fifteen thousand square feet at least.

“You’ll probably want to strap back in,” the pilot warned. “We’ll be landing soon.”

Ramos sat back down in his chair and fastened his harness, feeling the dropship shake as it transitioned into VTOL mode, maneuvering on its thrusters. It bounced as its landing gear absorbed the impact, rocking him in his seat, the roar of the engines winding down.

“Watch that first step – it’s a bitch,” the pilot warned, turning to glance over his shoulder from the cockpit. “You think you’re ready for the gravity, but you’re not. Just take it easy. Falls in one-point-three can be nasty.”

“Thanks,” Ramos replied, giving the pilot a grateful nod as he slung his duffel bag over his shoulder. He turned to the rear of the bay, a crack of sunlight forming as the troop ramp began to descend. Almost immediately, a flood of hot, dry air rushed inside to hit him like a fist. Already starting to sweat, he marched out of the bay and out of range of the craft’s AG field. His knees almost buckled as he walked out onto the landing pad, the tarmac so hot that it was practically melting, the harsh sunlight making him squint.

“Fuck me,” he grumbled to himself, readjusting a pack that had abruptly grown thirty percent heavier as it dug into his shoulder. It even felt like his hair was now lying flatter against his head.

As his vision began to adjust, he found himself standing in the middle of a makeshift spaceport. There were maybe two dozen identical landing pads, many of them occupied by other dropships and blocky Wombats – heavy lift vehicles used by the Navy to deliver cargo and armor to the surface of planets. They were enormous up close, like flying houses, eight meters tall and more than twice that long. Each of them had a row of cockpit windows raised high above the slanted nose, along with a set of four swiveling engines, each one about the size of a car in its own right. He watched as a cargo container slid out of the cavernous cargo bay of one of the craft on a set of rails, a nearby truck waiting to load it onto a trailer. Rising above the bulky craft were prefab structures and hastily erected warehouses, along with a control tower that seemed to be the tallest building in the vicinity. Everything was so bright, the pale sunlight bleaching away the color to give his surroundings a sepia tone.

There were people everywhere. He could see humans wearing Marine pressure armor with desert camouflage, engineers in yellow coveralls, and even some who were wearing casual clothes. Eight-foot Borealans towered head and shoulders above them, some clad in Coalition armor matching that of the Marines, while others were shrouded in shawls to protect them from the sand. There was even a pair of Krell helping to unload cargo, the sixteen-foot-long, alligator-like aliens handling crates that would have given a forklift pause.

Ramos walked over to a flight of stairs and made his way down from the elevated pad, each step weighing him down as though he was carrying an anvil on his shoulders. The pilot had been right – there was a big difference between reading about high gravity and actually experiencing it. From what he had read, spending more than six months on the surface without taking medication and breaks could do permanent damage to a human’s joints. Then there was the heat. As if the gravity wasn’t punishing enough, the place was a goddamned oven.

Wishing that he had a suit with a cooling element like the Marines who were milling about nearby, he made his way along the sandy road, searching for whatever passed for a terminal in this backwater. He paused to fish his phone from his pocket as a truck laden with a flat-packed prefab trundled past him, kicking up a cloud of dust. His instructions said that he was supposed to meet some kind of foreman.

After glancing around for a moment, he heard a voice rise above the clamor of engines and machinery.

“Hey!”

He turned his head towards the source of the sound, seeing a large alien jogging in his direction. To his surprise, it was a Polar. Their kind were native to the frozen ice cap of the planet, and unlike their cousins, they were covered in a thick layer of insulating fur that helped to shield them from the cold. As the stranger approached, he had to lift his head to look her in the eye, the eight-foot creature dwarfing him.

She was very obviously female, her generous figure straining against what looked like some kind of full-body environment suit, leaving little to the imagination. Her people used their fat layer to help keep them warm and to store valuable energy over the harsh winters, so her appearance was nothing out of the ordinary, but it was a strange sight to see in a desert. To him, she looked like a giant humanoid cat standing on its hind limbs, her digitigrade legs ending in boots that were designed to fit her feline paws. Tufts of impossibly fluffy fur were visible behind her visor as it spilled from her collar, her snow-white coat patterned with spots that resembled coffee stains. A pair of brilliant blue eyes peered down at him, her pink nose twitching curiously.

“You must be Ramos!” she began, lifting a tablet computer with a gloved hand. She spoke fluent English, but with a rolling accent that emphasized the Rs, her voice coming through a little speaker on her helmet. “I have been expecting you. What are you doing wandering the spaceport like a lost kitten? Come – we shall get you oriented.”

“Thanks,” he mumbled, falling in behind her as she did an about-face. He had to lean away to avoid being clocked by her long tail, the usually fuzzy appendage packed into a flexible tube.

“This is your first time on Borealis, yes?” she asked as he hurried to match her loping pace. “I can tell by the way you carry yourself. Do not worry – you will grow more accustomed to the gravity in time.”

“Are you my supervisor?” Ramos asked, watching another truck trundle past with a bed full of cargo containers. “They’ve been kind of vague about the details of my assignment.”

“Oh, how rude of me,” the Polar replied as she turned down a dusty path between two landing pads. “My name is Orzi, and I am responsible for managing the alien workers in the camp. You could refer to me as your supervisor, yes.”

“What camp?”

“Goodness, they did not give you much of a briefing, did they?” the Polar asked as she glanced back at him.

“Honestly, it sounded like they weren’t totally sure what I’d be doing until I got here.”

“That is understandable. They have been collecting experts and laborers from all over the Coalition,” Orzi explained, stepping aside to let someone pass. “Developing the territory has been quite the undertaking.”

Ramos followed suit, moving out of the path of half a dozen little aliens who were carrying a long girder between them. They were Jarilans – he had never seen one in person before. The creatures were humanoid insects little more than four feet tall, their bodies encased in colorful, iridescent carapaces that shifted hue in the sunlight as they moved. No two were the same color, and each one had a distinct horn that jutted from their forehead like a stag beetle.

They were holding up the heavy hunk of steel with their brawny upper arms, the lower, more slender pair waving at their sides. These were Workers, their builds short and stocky, their wide hips giving them a low center of gravity. The harsh conditions didn’t seem to phase them, and they trotted past him in an orderly row on their two-toed, digitigrade legs. He was amused to see that they were all wearing oversized high-vis vests over their vibrant shells.

“Comin’ through, Endo!” the lead Worker chimed as she passed him by. She looked up at him with a pair of large, expressive eyes, a set of feathery antennae trailing after her like long pigtails. Her face was made up of interlocking plates that moved as she spoke, forming a mouth, like some kind of china doll brought to life. He noted that her collar was covered with a soft, shimmering ruff of fur.

She trotted past him, Ramos watching curiously as her entourage vanished behind one of the elevated landing pads.

“As I said,” Orzi began, smiling at his surprised expression. “We have aliens from all over the Coalition here.”

They continued through the spaceport, heading out into the desert towards a cluster of prefabs that seemed to have been set down in the middle of nowhere. They formed a small settlement, like something one might expect to see on a burgeoning colony world. There was even the cylindrical profile of a portable fusion plant rising above the rooftops. Each structure was little more than a box with rounded corners and a few windows, suspended a foot off the sand on hydraulic stilts, thick power and data cables joining them together in a makeshift network. A few of them had satellite dishes on their roofs and air conditioning systems jutting from their otherwise matte white facades.

“This is where you will be staying for the duration of your assignment,” Orzi explained as she led him down a main street that was little more than a sandy path just wide enough for a truck. “Your residence will have environmental controls and AG plates, but if you want my advice – do not rely on them too heavily. If you do not give yourself time to adapt to the heat and gravity, each time you leave your quarters will feel like the first step off the shuttle.”

“What about you?” Ramos asked, looking the portly woman up and down. “Don’t I get a suit like yours?”

“Without this suit, I would suffer heat stroke and die,” she replied. “Your discomfort does not warrant such measures.”

She guided him to one of the prefabs, stopping at the foot of a set of metal steps that led up to its door. The number thirty-six had been crudely marked on the wall beside it with green paint.

“I believe this is yours,” Orzi began, checking her tablet again. “You may wish to stow your bag before we continue to orientation.”

“Who’s this one!?” someone yelled, Ramos recoiling in alarm. He searched around for a moment, then lifted his gaze, seeing something standing on the roof of the building.

There was a little Valbaran perched there like a bird, peering down at him with a pair of violet irises framed by dark sclera. It had a basically humanoid body plan, its digitigrade legs ending in two-toed feet that gripped the edge of the prefab, its long tail held out straight behind it for balance. It was only a foot taller than the Workers and probably lighter at maybe sixty pounds. A yellow jumpsuit covered in trailing, vein-like cables clung to its body tightly, revealing a feminine figure. The aliens had wide hips and powerful thighs packed with muscle, their torsos comparatively short for their stature. Its face reminded him of a lizard, with a long snout and a covering of fine, glossy scales in spinach green.

Their most prominent feature was their feathers, however. As he watched, a pair of tendril-like appendages attached to either side of her head stiffened up, a vibrant display of colorful plumage erupting from their sheaths to frame her face in striking red, like a headdress worn by a performer at Carnival. They used these feathers to signal emotions and to communicate, though Ramos had no idea how to interpret them.

“Catla’ten’qui!” Orzi chided, placing a hand on her hip. “What did I tell you about climbing on the prefabs? It disturbs the residents!”

“You’re fine, Orzi!” the alien squawked. She had a high-pitched voice, and she spoke in a familiar accent, like a parrot mimicking its owner. “You won’t get stepped on by a careless Rask or flattened by a truck!”

“You will be fine – just wear your visibility sash!” the irritated Polar called back to her.

“Who are you?” the Valbaran demanded, turning her snout to Ramos as she lifted a touch panel that was embedded in the forearm of her suit.

“Uh ... my name is Jorge Ramos,” he replied, glancing at Orzi in confusion. “I’m an ecological engineer.”

“Country or colony of origin?” Catla snapped.

“Er, Argentina?”

“Prefab thirty-six!” she barked, giving him another flash of colorful feathers. “Your allocation is twenty kilowatt hours and one-fifty liters of water per day. Exceed your allocation, and we switch you to the ration plan!”

“That seems ... reasonable,” Ramos replied with a shrug.

“Don’t spend too long in the shower, Earth’nay!” the Valbaran chirped as she began to bound away across the rooftops.

“What was that about?” he muttered as Orzi led him up the steps. They were a little small for her, and she had to balance her large boots on them, gripping the handrail.

“Catla’ten’qui and her flock are responsible for maintaining the camp’s utilities,” the Polar explained apologetically, pausing to swipe a card over a reader on the door frame. “The Rask territory is a harsh environment, and we have to be careful about how much water we use. One person exceeds their allocation, and the next finds that their toilet no longer flushes.”

“I see,” Ramos replied as he stepped into the prefab. It was about the size of a small apartment, the space divided up into a living area, a bathroom, and a bedroom. Over on the far side of the room was a counter with kitchen appliances and a sink, and there was a small table with a couple of metal chairs. Everything was human-sized, and he wondered if they just printed the furniture to order based on the species of the occupant.

“You should have everything that you need,” Orzi said as she made her way past him, her helmeted head brushing the ceiling. “If anything is missing, you can file a requisition form. The control panel is over here. This manages environmental conditions and lighting, and it tracks your utilities usage. Here – allow me to engage the AG plate.”

Ramos’ stomach lurched as he felt all of the extra weight suddenly lift off him, and he had to reach for a nearby wall to steady himself, his inner ear insisting that he was about to float right off the floor like a balloon. As his surprise subsided, he exhaled a sigh of relief, feeling cool air from a nearby vent start to wash over him.

“Better?” Orzi chuckled. “Just be sure to deactivate these systems before you leave for work lest you draw Catla’s ire. She is not above tearing the plate right out of the floor.”

Ramos set down his pack on a nearby couch, but he didn’t have long to enjoy the cool air and low gravity before Orzi was ushering him along again.

“Come – we must get you oriented,” she said as she shut off the power and directed him to the door. As soon as the field was deactivated, all of that extra weight piled onto Ramos’ shoulders again, like someone had draped a lead apron over him.

He followed her out onto the dusty road, and they proceeded to another structure further down the street. This one was larger – made from multiple modular prefabs that had been joined together to create a two-story building.

Inside was a reception area, and Orzi led him to an adjoining prefab that had been set up as an office. As he had suspected, the furniture here was a mix of various sizes and styles to accommodate different physiologies. The Polar headed for a suitably tall desk, sitting down on a reinforced chair with a hole for her tail. She gestured for him to take a seat opposite her, Ramos finding that the table rose to his chest, making him feel like a toddler sitting with the adults.

Orzi disconnected her helmet and set it down on the desk, shaking out a bob of fluffy hair the color of dirty snow, a pair of round ears that were situated high on her head twitching.

“That is better,” she said with a relieved sigh, hitting a touch panel embedded in the table. A holographic display flared to life to hover above its surface, and she began to manipulate it with gesture controls. “Let me see ... Jorge Ramos ... ecological engineering...”

He waited patiently, glancing around the room. It wasn’t too different from his own residence, but they had installed dividers to separate the office cubicles, and there were potted ferns scattered around for decoration. The air was cooler, but the gravity was still punishing. That would probably be the case for any shared spaces.

“Ah!” Orzi said, getting his attention. “I believe that I have found a suitable assignment for you. Do you have any experience teaching?”

“Teaching?” he repeated, his brow furrowing. “Not in a classroom or anything like that. I suppose I’ve taught farmers how to operate their equipment and how to improve their ecological footprint. I was actually working in the Brazilian Amazon before I was reassigned. We were creating agroforestry farms and restoring biodiversity.”

“Perfect,” the Polar chimed as she began to type at a virtual keyboard. Between her gloves and her claws, maybe it was an easier prospect than using a physical one. “I am assigning you to a pack. They will be your students, and your goal will be to teach them everything they need to know to perform their duties in your eventual absence.”

“A pack?” Ramos pressed.

“You have been briefed about interacting with Borealans, I presume?” Orzi asked as she glanced back at him through the wavering hologram. “They would not have let you come here otherwise.”

“I got a briefing from an Elysian officer on the carrier,” he explained. “He told me about how pack hierarchies work and how to avoid pissing off the locals. Don’t maintain eye contact for too long, don’t try to resolve disputes by being confrontational – that kind of thing.”

“The Rask are a little different from the Elysians,” Orzi began.

“Yeah, my shuttle pilot told me the same thing.”

“Equatorial packs – the group that includes Elysians and Rask, among others – have a very strict social hierarchy. There is an Alpha who leads the pack, and their subordinates form a pecking order, if you will. The Alpha commands absolute obedience and deference. This hierarchy is usually determined via bouts, which are brief, usually violent fights in which the strongest prevail. There are many more nuances, but that is all you really need to know right now. Matriarch Korbaz has given her people orders to respect the Coalition chain of command. Even if you are smaller and weaker than a Rask, they will obey you if instructed to do so by someone of higher social standing. We call these parallel social structures. The Alpha is not really obeying you – rather, they are carrying out the orders of their betters.”

“So, am I going to have any problems?” Ramos asked warily.

“I would advise being assertive,” the Polar replied. “Do not be aggressive and do not challenge the Rask directly, but they are more comfortable and easier to work with when the chain of command is readily apparent. They may become agitated if they are unsure of who has seniority.”

“I’m not hearing a no...”

“You will learn,” she added with a smile. “Remember – we are here to help these people. Their territory has suffered many hardships that contributed to their culture of piracy and raiding. It took a rebellion and a coup to install Matriarch Korbaz, and for the first time, the Rask have a leader who puts the welfare of her subjects first. We must make the most of this opportunity if we wish for the Rask to walk alongside us into a peaceful future.”

“Alright,” Ramos replied, swayed by her words. “When do I get started?”

“Right away, if you are ready,” she said as she rose from her seat. “We shall take a buggy to the work site and get you acquainted with your pack.”

Ramos gripped the tubular frame of the buggy as it bounced along, jostling him in his seat, the harness that secured him to the faded leather digging into his shoulder. Orzi’s generous frame was crammed into the driver’s seat beside him, her chest wobbling through the clinging suit as the suspension rocked her. The vehicle was some kind of homebrew Rask creation. If he had to guess, they had probably taken a civilian SUV and rebuilt the chassis to accommodate their larger stature and heavier build, leaving the engine and drive train intact. There were no doors, so Orzi had given him a pair of sunglasses and a bandanna to protect him from airborne sand.

They had driven out of the camp and into the open desert, heading away from the city, leaving the bright beacons of the palace spires behind them. It wasn’t sandstorm season, so the air was rather clear, a cloudless sky of deep azure hanging over their heads.

Conversation was made difficult by the roar of the engine, so he watched the landscape pass them by instead. There were no paved roads, and the shifting sands quickly swept away any paths or tracks, leaving nothing but an expanse of small dunes. The interior of the territory wasn’t totally devoid of life, however. There were patches of scruffy bushes and palm-like plants with thick, low trunks, their sharp fronds jutting out in every direction. There were even a few alien succulents with blooming flowers that added a splash of color to the otherwise uniform terrain. They weren’t exactly thriving in the nutrient-poor, sandy soil, but there was life clinging to existence here. It was hard to believe that the deserts beyond the bounds of the jungle band were even harsher than this.

They passed a few small settlements, the clusters of low buildings matching the style of those that he had observed during his flight over the capital. The Rask favored self-supporting domes and arches, and there were few windows, helping to keep out the heat and sand. Up close, he remarked that they were decorated with some impressive stonework in places. Where the buildings weren’t covered in clay-like mortar, he caught glimpses of intricate carvings and reliefs, the archways and pillars adorned with decorative flair. Their inhabitants had cultivated various desert plants nearby, adding a little greenery and shade to break up the monotony of the desert. He noted that the settlements were usually built on rocky outcrops that elevated them above the shifting sand, and he saw a couple that were clustered around permanent oases, creating their own miniature territories complete with bands of plant life that flourished beside the water. If what Ramos had read was accurate, recent surveys had put a lot of the Rask territory’s water volume in underground aquifers rather than in the lake itself, which was another valuable resource they would need help exploiting.