“Where?”
 
“Back.”

“No. Where does it hurt?”

“Oh.”

Koldin pointed. Mehrab crouched.

“Move it.”

Koldin flexed his ankle.

“Again.”

He did.

Mehrab pressed around the joint with two claws.

Koldin's ears moved backward.

“Zhat hurt?”

“No.”

“You made a face.”

“Didn't.”

“You did.”

Defort said, “He did.”

“Shut up.”

Mehrab pressed another spot.

Koldin flinched.

“Zhere.”

“Yeah.”

“Bruised. Don't kick anyone tomorrow.”

“I'll schedule around it.”

Mehrab stood.

“Cold compress if it swells.”

“Right.”

The medic went to his cot. Most people knew very little about him.

He had trained somewhere in the Heart, knew enough medicine to be useful to humans and yinglets alike and spoke about the body with the impersonal familiarity of a mechanic discussing a machine whose owner was standing nearby.

Someone had once told Koldin that Mehrab had grown up in an autonomous Siamak anarchist enclave.

Koldin knew three things about Siamak anarchism.

One, it involved anarchism. 

Two, the enclaves were autonomous: a different interpretation of the yinglet social structure that still existed in certain parts of the Heart. The most that people outside them knew is that it was species-agnostic, and that Siamak anarchism regarded industrialized civilization as backwards.

Three, asking Mehrab about either produced shorter answers than asking nothing, so Koldin never asked him about it.

Obs’rt arrived sometime later.

His entrance required the familiar negotiation with the barracks doorway. The baxxid drew his long body inward, angled his head in a certain way, then unfolded himself within the room.
Everyone moved slightly without being asked.

Not fear. Geometry.

Obs’rt possessed enough body to alter the arrangement of furniture merely by existing.

His khaki protective garment remained fastened over the vulnerable sections of his torso. One scythe-shaped forelimb carried a satchel. The other had been fitted with the articulated artificial hand he used for paperwork, maps, instruments and all the other small manipulations the world demanded from creatures not built for pencils.

He looked around.

Six eyes. Six separate points of attention.

Defort discreetly put the unfinished sandwich down.

Obs’rt said nothing about it.

That was worse.

He moved toward the far end of the room.

“Tomorrow's morning schedule has been amended.”

Defort sighed.

“Of course it has.”

Obs’rt's head turned.

“Would you prefer an unamended schedule?”

“I'd prefer no schedule.”

“That can be arranged through discharge.”

“No, sir.”

“Then we retain the schedule.”

Boisrond grinned around his cigarette.

Obs’rt opened his satchel and removed a folded sheet.

“Standard readiness until further notice. Vehicle inspection at eight hundred. Communications check at eight-thirty. Weapons inspection at nine.”

Defort looked toward the submachine gun.

“Loaded?”

“For inspection?”

“Yes.”

Obs’rt paused.

“That is traditionally helpful.”

Defort nodded gravely.

Koldin watched the baxxid.

Obs’rt could be infuriating about rules, but the rules had purpose.

He did not demand theatrical obedience. He did not invent work merely to prove rank. When conditions changed, he changed the plan. When somebody under his command said a task could not reasonably be done, he asked why before deciding that refusal was cowardice.

This made him unusual enough to inspire loyalty.

Obs’rt folded the paper.

“Any unresolved issues from today?”

Boisrond lifted his coffee.

“Kitchen budget.”

“No.”

“Then yes.”

“Noted.”

Defort pointed toward Koldin.

“His foot.”

“Already examined,” Mehrab said.

Obs’rt looked at Koldin.

“Operational?”