Tales of the Wide Spaces/001
Life had gotten much, much busier at the San Luis border crossing, much to the dismay of Evelia Namazi, private in the Federal Border Guard.
Up until recently, the very term border crossing had been all but a joke. San Luis was a sleepy little border town, a mere stone's throw from the invisible line that had separated Nouvelle Alexandrie's state of Napoleon from what had until recently been the Green. Aside from the crushing heat, it had been the perfect posting for someone who loved peace and quiet and the chance to catch up on some reading, for on the other side of it were the eastern faces of gently sloping hills, and beyond and below them, hundreds of square kilometers of sheer, mind-numbing nothing - mildly radioactive desert that no one in their right mind would want. The only thing that had saved it from being useless was the fact that the... the Sorry, or the Surlied, or whatever the strange dragonlike things called themselves... were demonstrably not in their right minds, and sometimes came in from their roaming to sell things.
But now, apparently, the smelly creatures had competition. First, the the feds and Constancia had begun conducting joint maneuvers out there, Zurvan only knew why. A depot had been set up, supplies trucked in, temporary barracks erected, and so on. And now, for whatever reason, the Thracis had felt this to be a perfect time to decide that they wanted all that sweet, sweet nothing for themselves and started setting up cities and things. Fair enough, her opinion; if they wanted to waste their time drinking dust and getting cancer, that was their business. But the sudden expansion, without warning or discussing with either of the two powers currently moving around in it, had resulted in a certain amount of international asperity, and a reinforcement of the base
And thus, now that there were officials around meaning business, Pte Namazi had actually had look like she was doing something with her time and stand watch, staring at the barren landscape, until her brain started turning to mush. She supposed that she should count herself lucky that her post had a shade.
The merciless Euran sun overhead had just begun its long arc toward the horizon behind her when something started filtering through her glazed eyes and into her brain. She blinked, and squinted into the distance, then reached for her binoculars.
Behind her, a voice asked, "Any rampaging hordes coming, Namazi?"
"Could be, Sarge," she replied sarcastically, trying to resolve the reddish-brown dots. The owner of the voice sat down beside her. Sergeant was his name, not his rank; he was Private Thierry Sergeant. It said a lot about him that Pte Namazi wouldn't've been willing to bet that he hadn't taken up a military career solely for the punning opportunities it provided. "I think we've got lizards out there."
She handed him the binoculars, and he raised them to his face. "They're called Çerid, Namazi," he chided. "They're people now, nice and legal."
"People don't look like that. Or smell like-" Pte Namazi stopped. Prejudice was one thing, but untruthfulness was another. "-well, I guess some people smell like that," she conceded.
"You've got some nerve," Pte Sergeant replied easily. "Standing out here for hours, you smell like a sweat rag on legs. ...those're Çerid out there, all right, but there's an awful lot of them. We might want to let our guests know before anyone had a chance to get panicky."
Pte Sergeant went to call up the depot, and Pte Namazi took up the binoculars again. The Çerid that had visited San Luis had never been violent, true, but you heard stories about raids and bounty hunting and mercenaries. And just because they weren't violent didn't mean they were no trouble. Things had a way of disappearing when they came through, including a coffee maker she'd bought for herself and the other border guards (not that she was bitter at all, of course).
As the minutes passed, Pte Namazi became increasingly concerned. Çer males traveled in groups, sometimes up to three or four dozen, but at least that many stretched in a line out of sight, and they were still coming - making no attempt to hurry or be stealthy, but still coming. As she watched, more lines of them began to come into sight - first two or three, then five, then nine...
There were hundreds of them. At least. She stared at the sight, utterly aghast.
"Uhhh... Sarge?" she called.
Throughout the afternoon and into the evening, the valley below the border crossing steadily filled with bodies in all the hues of autumn foliage. Aside from a few curious individuals, they remained there. There were a few scattered springs emerging from the hills on that side, so possibly they were merely willing to stay where the water was... for the moment. On the other hand, the hillcrest was lined with as much manpower and military equipment as could be mustered, so maybe they just didn't want to try to charge a watchful enemy uphill. For Pte Namazi, who was used to seeing Çerid as eager, even reckless, it was rather surprising. In numbers like that, they could have done some real damage, inferior tech or no - not that even that was guaranteed, since sometimes they got their paws on firearms.
After being allowed a few hours of sleep, she trudged reluctantly back to the border crossing. In the valley below, a hundred campfires twinkled like stars. It was a pretty sight, but under the circumstances not one she wanted to risk being too enthralled by.
As evening turned to twilight, Pte Namazi tried not to relax. Everyone knew that Çerid slept whenever they felt like it, and had no trouble seeing and hunting at night, and she had no intention of being caught napping. Regardless, when she became aware of the first Çer approach, it was much closer than expected; there was no sound, even on the crumbly rock slope, only the blockage of a campfire by the thing's silhouette. "Stop!" she shouted. "This border is closed!" She raised a flashlight in one hand and eased the other toward her sidearm; the sounds of approaching boots from either side suggested that the army patrols nearby had heard her.
The Çer had stopped at her shout, but there were others behind it. They shielded their eyes from the light, but she knew what they looked like; long muzzles, lots of teeth, two antenna-like organs sticking out of the sides of their heads from just above and behind the eyes. A few of them were noticeably bigger than the others, with dark markings on their faces; those were the females.
Various soldiers came to a stop in a semicircle around the party of Çerid. Pte Namazi knew nothing about their facial expressions, but insofar as it was possible to tell, they looked uncomfortable or nervous rather than angry. A few of them muttered to each other in their own language.
"On behalf of the Federal Forces of Nouvelle Alexandrie," a voice called out, "be advised that you have approached the border of the Federation which it our duty to defend! What is your purpose here?"
More muttering. Finally, a gravelly voice replied: "Tashtalid çir! Oro veliçi Al-eg-sa-der-yen!"
"Oh god. Private Namazi, a word..."
Eyeing the Çerid, she hurried over to a figure she recognized as Sergeant Licona, a member of the army contingent from the depot, and saluted. He asked, "Private, I think we've just been told they don't speak our language. Have you or any of the other border guards even picked up any of theirs?"
"Not that I know of, sir. Usually the traders that show up here have managed to pick up Alexandrian or Martino from somewhere."
"Figures."
The Çerid had been conferring among themselves while Namazi and Licona spoke. Their spokesman - or, rather, spokeswoman; it was a female - raised her voice again. "Raaaay. Few. Jees."
There was a silence, and then, quietly, "Did... did it just say-"
"I think so, sir. 'Refugees'."
Sergeant Licona sighed. "Oh, this ought to be fun. Limbrook, get the major on the line, will you?"
