Chapter Eight
YLOGH, BD+56 2966 TWO (“TURKH’SAAR”)
Humans swarmed past the tank, maintaining the careful, erect crouch that was intrinsic to their species. Lacking tails for counterbalance, they would have fallen on their hideously flat faces had they tried to lean any further forward.
They advanced in two waves, the rear rank aiming through the widening gaps in the first as the point men fanned out through the room. Yaargraukh was only indirectly aware of their sharp professionalism; he was too startled by their numbers. This was not a routine security sweep of the building. That could have been managed with three, maybe four men, at the most. No, this looked more thorough, more focused. Had one of the humans seen him enter the refectory? Were they searching for him? Were they trying to—?
A short, heavily-built human wearing fatigues with a rough, lateral camouflage pattern reached the pleated plastic sheeting that separated the kitchen from the dining hall. He peeked sharply around the corner, waited out a two count as he rose slightly to change the position of his head. He glanced around the door jamb again, but longer, surveying the other room. He glanced back, took one hand off his unusually long rifle, and spread his fingers, waving twice toward the front of the building.
From behind his tank, Yaargraukh heard a mutter. “Rear is secure. Team One is in position. Team Two, you are go for front entry in five, from my mark. And…mark.”
Yaargraukh reasoned he had at least five seconds to observe the humans around him without much possibility of being detected. He moved slightly closer to the side of the tank. What he saw amplified his growing perplexity.
Several soldiers were wearing loose-fitting fatigues of the strange greenish color that human militaries labeled “olive drab.” Two were in the tiger-striped pattern that their eyes read as effective camouflage. All of those were armed with the long, vaguely familiar rifle. Like the AK, its magazine was mounted in front of the trigger guard.
Three soldiers had slightly darker and greener fatigues and were armed with more of the anachronistic AK-47s. Two others, wearing slightly browner uniforms and hanging toward the rear, carried bolt-action rifles; although antique these weapons fired bullets of sufficient mass and velocity to kill a Hkh’Rkh with one shot. Granted, that outcome was unlikely unless the hit was in the head or the cardiosac, but still, it was enough of a possibility to earn the weapons a healthy measure of respect.
The camo-striped soldier at the entry stood, waved in the group that had evidently swept the dining hall: five soldiers, also carrying AK-47s. Their clothes appeared too big for them and the smallest was a female. They resembled Indonesians at first glance, but Yaargraukh’s practiced eye picked out subtle differences in physiotype and facial features. The hurried, non-English words they exchanged with the tiger-striped man at the doorway confirmed Yaargraukh’s hypothesis; they were definitely not speaking Javanese behasa, although this tongue had some of the same sounds, and moved with the same liquid fluidity. However, he had only learned English and German and had no better guess at their language than, “not behasa.”
These new troops and the others glanced toward a point over Yaargraukh’s head. From behind the worm tank, a final group approached: five human males, two in the camouflage fatigues, two others in olive drab, and the last and oldest in what looked like a dark blue flight suit. The latter nodded to the larger of the two soldiers wearing camouflage. “Signal the CP secure, Rich. Break squelch, only.”
“Yes, sir,” the rangy soldier replied. He began manipulating the dials on an unusually large hand radio.
The silver-haired male in the flight suit nodded toward the closest of the handling tables. “Okay, gentlemen, let’s clean that off and take a look at our situation.”
The immediate shift into well-rehearsed actions demonstrated that this group had performed these tasks many times in similar surroundings. Two soldiers cleared the table and wiped it down with rags they seemed to be carrying for that express purpose. Half of the initial entry team left, followed by the five East Asians who had cleared the front of the building. The remaining members of the entry team took up posts at the various doors into the kitchen, except the camouflaged one who had signaled the all-clear on the doorway into the dining hall. He joined what appeared to be the group of officers gathering around the table.
One in slightly greener olive-drab and carrying an AK-47 produced a long tube, snaked out several maps, spread them flat. The camouflaged door-checker leaned in toward the silver-haired leader. “Orders, sir?”
“Yes, Sergeant Owen. Pull in our scouts and dress our perimeter to protect this building. Then signal the chopper jocks to reposition the slicks to the freight lot at the rear entry.”
“You want them to power down, Colonel?”
“No, they’re to keep the rotors turning. We’ll be dusting off in less than ten minutes. Once you’ve passed those orders, send out the search teams. They are to keep their eyes peeled for any easy, worthwhile salvage.”
“Sir, we have not secured the ’ville beyond the perimeter. Those teams will need security against ambushes.”
“You were makvee sogg, Staff Sergeant. I’m pretty sure you can make those security assignments on your own.”
Sergeant Owen smiled. “Yes, sir.”
The tiger-striped officer let the radio dangle in his grasp. “Report from Kresge. Greek Nick has gone missing, along with another salvage scout.”
“What?”
“No more info than that, Colonel. But the pilot on Nick’s Huey, Captain Turnbull, dropped him near the last observed position of the first scout car we saw enter town. That was the last anyone saw of him or his partner.”
“Damn it. Who’s the next senior scout after Greek Nick?”
“Rating Koruda,” supplied the man with the AK-47, using its stock to hold down a map corner that kept trying to curl up. “He is also senior automobile mechanic in ell zee. Is most competent.” His English was strongly accented: Polish or Russian.
“That means putting Koruda in charge of today’s greasemonkey gang—from the Scorpion,” countered Sergeant Owen.
“Bozhe moi,” muttered the officer in the brownish uniform.
“You said it, Arseniy,” the blue-suited colonel affirmed with a nod. He glanced at the tiger-striped sergeant. “Will the greasemonkeys cooperate with Koruda, Emmett?”
“Well, they’re submariners, sir—but I think so. No promises, though.”
The colonel straightened, hands on hips, head slightly forward. His voice confirmed what Yaargraukh had conjectured from the posture—annoyance. “In that case, Sergeant Owen, you will personally see to it that Scorpion’s crew cooperates. Completely and respectfully. All our people have to work together. Even the ones who still dream about killing each other. Hell, even the slopes take orders from me, now.”
“Sir,” said the officer with the AK-47, “Colonel Paulsen’s policy regarding derogatory language—”
“Damn it; yes, you’re right, Alexander. I meant to say ‘even the Vietnamese take orders from me now.’ But you get the point, Emmett?”
“Sir, yes, sir.”
“Then get about your job.” He wagged a lazy salute at Sergeant Owen, who responded with a far more crisp one before leaving at a trot.
The taller of the two tiger-striped soldiers who’d entered along with the colonel scratched his ear. “Emmett’s going to have his hands full with those greasemonkeys, Colonel Rodermund.”
Rodermund hung his silver-maned head. “Good God, not you, too, Robert.”
He was about to reply, but not before the tiger-striped officer holding the radio interceded abruptly. “You know how it is, Colonel. Personnel may snap-to when the brass announces new directives, but it’s hard for NCOs to enforce them in the field.”
Rodermund raised his head. “Rich, I know perfectly well that out in the mud, good intentions and theory break down in the face of gut reactions and reality. But look deep into my one good eye, Captain, and tell me if you see any indication that I give a damn about what the men—er, persons—of this command like.”
“Not the faintest sign of that, sir.”
“Good. I’d hate to think that your vision is going, too. Now, what’s our best guess at continued enemy presence here in the AO?”
“Half a platoon, at most. But the opposition isn’t making it easy to get a headcount. Their survivors have gone to ground.”
“Gathering for an attack?”
“Doubtful, sir. We’re not detecting any radio chatter on other frequencies, and we shot up all their support weapons and hardpoints on the way in. Best guess is that they’re just hoping to wait us out.”
“Damn, isn’t that just like the A Shau all over again. Where do you figure they are, Rich? In their burrows?”
The officer named Rich frowned. “Well, sir, we can be pretty certain that’s where their civilians are. But I’d say most of their troops have holed up in the town.” He paused. “Having our search teams combing through those buildings could get pricey.”
Rodermund nodded sharply. “Good point, Captain Hailey. Runner!” he shouted. One of the olive drab security personnel peeled off from his position near the side door and ran to the colonel. “New orders for Lieutenant Kresge and our search teams. Do not engage enemy infantry directly. In the event of contact, Kresge’s infantry is to identify, isolate, contain, and mark with smoke for our gunships to suppress. Kresge is to follow up with gas if the enemy remains active and refuses to surrender. He is not to kill any enemy soldiers.”
“Colonel Rodermund, sir, the lieutenant’s gonna wanna know what to do if they come straight out after our people…sir.”
Rodermund paused, then: “Shoot to immobilize. If possible.”
The runner turned pale. “Sir—?”
“Son, if Kresge gives you any flack, you tell him to come see me after this op. I am fully aware that his troops are nervous and don’t want to take any chances. But we need to take one or more of the snorkelheads alive, so those are his orders.”
Despite all the implications of what he had heard, the increasing probability that the humans were indeed trying to capture him, and the constant threat of discovery, Yaargraukh’s reflexive thought was, “Snorkelhead?” Is that really what they call us?
The humans had resumed their council of war. The officer named Alexander checked his watch. “Sir, I point out there is not much time. Taking prisoners may require a more direct method.”
“Such as?”
The tiger-striped sergeant named Robert leaned forward. “Assuming that some of enemy have retreated to their caves—well, we’re all small enough to work in them like tunnel rats. Better than.” The Russian named Alexander nodded.
“God, no.” Rodermund leaned away from the makeshift map table. “I’m not sending any men down those holes. Kreuzer tried that on the second op—and look what happened.”
“Just a suggestion, Colonel,” the tall, tiger-striped sergeant disclaimed, hands raised in that peculiar human gesture that signified either an assertion being retracted or an exhortation being diminished. “I just figured that, if you’re still looking for the snorks’ cadre, they might have ducked in there. Hidden among the females and junior snorks.”
Rich Hailey looked at his subordinate, shook his head. “I doubt it, Bob. Their males always come out for a straight up fight.”
The officer named Arseniy shook his head. “They are all duraki.”
“No, Lieutenant,” the colonel said slowly. “I don’t believe they’re stupid. I think the snork soldiers are doing what’s expected of them. By coming out into the open, they draw the battle away from their noncombatants.”
“Or it just keeps them out of the way,” the American sergeant offered with a shrug.
Rodermund stood straight, a gesture which even Yaargraukh could read: the discussion was over. “Whatever reason the enemy has for refusing to hide among civilians, we’re not going to figure it out here. And we don’t need to. Whether they’re noble, stupid, or both, I’m not sending men into one of those dens. Costs too much, even if we were to gain the intel we need.”
Alexander’s voice was as carefully oblique as his comment. “On other hand, casualties have been light—very light—over last two months.”
Rodermund frowned. “Yes, Lieutenant Shvartsman, and I intend to keep them that way, as much for morale as force preservation. Or do you have access to a reserve regiment of which I have been kept unaware?” Rueful, gallows-ready grins crinkled most of their faces. Shvartsman’s own smile was more stiff, as if he was not amused but merely fulfilling a polite obligation. “Now,” the colonel continued, his own grin fading quickly, “what’s the bigger tactical picture, Alexander?”
The Russian lieutenant gestured toward the maps. A few aerial photographs were strewn among them. “Naturally, all is guesswork. And I am not photo reconnaissance specialist. Was only trained in bomb damage assessment for our flight wing.”
“That’s more expertise than the rest of us, Lieutenant Shvartsman. Continue.”
“Da, sir. So far, all is as expected. No enemy activity seen along western road. Radio traffic during and after our attacks was brief and not extensive; not enough to signify enemy coordination for a major advance.” He pointed to the largest of the maps. “Road network suggests that mechanized platoons we engaged today came from here.” He tapped his rifle’s cleaning rod on the map, then one of the aerial photos. “A larger town. Likely to be motor depot and garrison here, in fenced lot outside limit of buildings. Long structures inside compound are, we think, garages.” He moved the pointer further away on the large map. “Here is largest community we see on map or photographs from captured intelligence. Two days to drive, given speeds we have now observed of their APCs.”
Rich Hailey leaned over the maps, scanning. “Still no evidence of air assets?”
Alexander Shvartsman waved a dismissive hand at the table. “None. But lack of evidence does not mean lack of air assets.”
Rodermund nodded. “Point well taken. I’ve been particularly concerned about this feature.” The colonel pointed to one of the photographs. “This could be some kind of short airstrip. Maybe a heliport.”
Shvartsman nodded. “I agree, Colonel. But even if enemy has STOL or VTOL craft, we shall be gone before they can arrive. And again I stress: unless their technology is much greater than ours, this base lacks evidence of necessary infrastructure for jet aircraft. Unless these photos are outdated.”
Captain Hailey craned his neck, twisting his head to get a closer look at the photos; he did not seem as familiar with them as the other two. “These don’t look like surveillance photos.”
“They do not,” Shvartsman agreed. “They resemble prospecting or, er, survey pictures. Before satellites, KGB often acquired photographic intelligence of other nations by, eh, ‘commissioning’ surveys though false businesses.”
The sergeant named Robert leaned closer to get a look, too. “So you think these might be satellite images?”
“Possibly, Sergeant Lane. Some pictures from orbit have distortions that are consequence of altitude of observation, cannot be fully corrected by optics. These?” Shvartsman shrugged. “Maybe.”
Sergeant Lane crossed his arms; his black brows pulled together into a shallow, bushy vee. “So if the snorkelheads do have satellites, why haven’t they found us yet? Satellites did a pretty good job of that during the Cuban Missile Crisis—no offense, Lieutenant Shvartsman.”
“I take none. We all survived. That is good outcome. But I have same question about satellites.”
Colonel Rodermund leaned away. “Maybe they don’t have many. Maybe this photo was snapped by a high altitude recon flight.”
Captain Hailey scratched his ear. “Which only changes the puzzle, since we haven’t seen any aircraft, either.”
“We haven’t seen any intact aircraft,” the colonel amended. “We did find that weird delta-shaped wreck that looked like a refugee from the scifi late late show, five weeks back. And that didn’t just fall out of the sky; those holes were combat damage.”
Sergeant Lane nodded. “Yeah, and it had at least a year’s worth of growth covering it. Which might explain why we haven’t seen planes and why they might not have satellites.”
The Russian lieutenant named Arseniy glanced around at the rest of the nodding HQ staff. “What do you mean by this?”
Rodermund smiled. “Robert means there might have been a shooting war upstairs.” Seeing Arseniy’s baffled expression, he added. “All the way upstairs, Lieutenant Pugachyov. In outer space.”
“Space combat?” He looked around the group, smiling and stunned at the same time. “What have you all been drinking? Or”—he glanced at the Americans—“smoking?”
Robert Lane smiled back. “I didn’t say it makes much sense, Arseniy. But then again, none of this does.”
Rodermund held up a hand. “We can fret about all the mysteries later. Right now, let’s assume that the snorks have airmobile assets similar to our own, say twenty percent faster. What’s their minimum reaction time?”
Shvartsman pursed his lips, scanned the largest map. “It would take them minimum three hours to reach this town.”
“More than enough time for us to finish our salvage operations and be long gone,” Hailey nodded.
Yaargraukh wished he could point out that the captain’s assumption was only accurate if the Patrijuridicate had kept its promise to keep Turkh’saar demilitarized. Which now seemed increasingly unlikely: the only delta-shaped atmospace vehicles in the entirety of the Hkh’Rkh inventory were military. And the only other two species which had visited this system—its Arat Kur co-owners and the Slaasriithi raiders—did not have any delta-shaped craft at all. So, if Jrekhalkar and his sire’s Old Family backers on Rkh’yaa had broken the rule against militarization, there was no certainty that they did not have more vehicles of that type in storage. Or attack jets. Or missiles for space, air, or even ground defense. And if they did, today’s attack on Ylogh might have provided Jrekhalkar and his local allies what they had wanted for so long: a target that loitered long enough to be attacked. Suddenly, Yaargraukh wondered which was the greater immediate danger: the human guns around him or the possibility of inbound Hkh’Rkh missiles and attack planes?
“Doc coming in,” called one of the door guards.
The group at the map table turned toward a very different figure who came through the side door. He was even taller than Rich Hailey, had very dark skin, and was dressed in camouflage fatigues that had an almost pixelated appearance. His head protection surprised Yaargraukh momentarily; at first he mistook it for the iconic helmet of the German Wehrmacht, with its somewhat flattened crown and neck-protecting rear extension. But a second glance told him that although it was patterned after that “sallet style” helmet, this was a much later piece of technology. In addition to the fabric outer surface, it did not bounce on its wearer’s head like the Germans’ original, heavy metal helmets. This was lighter, probably made of a ballistic compound more akin to plastic. Furthermore, it was adorned by clips and rails typical of modern, modular armor systems that mounted various sensors, comms, and other support implements. As the darker human approached the table, he snapped a salute at the colonel.
Rodermund returned it. “What’s the word on casualties, Lieutenant Franklin?”
“Not as many as we feared, sir. Two WIA. One just a through and through, another we’ll need to medevac ASAP. Two KIAs.”
“Who?”
“Greek Nick from the Scorpion and Wally.”
“‘Wally’?” muttered Hailey, frowning. “Sorry, Isaac. I don’t recall anyone named Wally.”
Lieutenant Franklin shrugged. “That’s just what the greasemonkeys nicknamed him. They didn’t mean anything by it; they liked him. He was a good mechanic and handy with an AK.”
Rodermund nodded. “Wally was one of the Pashtuns, wasn’t he?” Shvartsman stiffened slightly.
Franklin pulled off his helmet, scratched at his hair, which was shorter than most of the others’, and had a tightly curling texture. Yaargraukh placed his features: subsaharan African. “Yeah. Wali Fahim. He’s going to be missed by a lot of people, not just the other mujahideen.”
“Also Greek Nick will be missed,” Arseniy added, making a brief crossing gesture: from forehead to belly, then right shoulder to left. “He told good jokes. Was a good cook.”
“Yeah,” Lane agreed. “And he was one of Clive’s best scroungers. That’s going to hurt.”
Rodermund’s voice was so low that Yaargraukh almost didn’t hear the words. “Every one of them hurts.”
The silence that descended over the humans would have been strange to other Hkh’Rkh, but Yaargraukh had learned that the humans mourned their battle-dead immediately and lauded them later, rather than lauding them immediately and mourning them later, as was the Hkh’Rkh way.
It was the newcomer, Franklin, who glanced quickly past the colonel’s shoulder, toward shadows approaching through the plastic pleating that led to the dining hall. “Looks like an update, sir.”
“’Bout damned time,” muttered Rodermund with a fast glance at his watch.
A new human appeared, wearing a flatter, panlike helmet covered in some sort of mesh. His uniform was the heaviest yet, and a deeper, almost forest green with some brown in it. Upon entering, he saluted, but with his hand turned up and palm fully outward. He stomped his foot slightly as he adopted the strange, rigid posture that humans called “at attention.”
The colonel couldn’t keep a smile off his face as he returned a salute which waved away the one profferred by the new arrival. “Don’t sprain yourself, Clive. What’s the haul?”
“Everything but Christmas pudding, sir. More fuel and food than we’ve ever seen before. Fourteen of their giant shotguns, twenty-one of their assault rifles. Three of those rotary guns. Some grenades. Got a few of your lads nicking the baby-Bofors from the snorks’ carriers, but at least half of those will only be good for parts. Hull fires weren’t kind to ’em. Destroyed a lot of their ammo, too. But the teams on the plains haven’t reported back yet, and those carriers were more intact. And the dead snorks in the open—well, we can be sure of getting all their kit.”
Rodermund thought, turned to Sergeant Lane. “Bob, head out back and see if you can wave one of the Jollies toward the plain. I don’t want to lose any of that gear.”
“On it, sir.” In a few long strides, Lane was out the wide, bay door behind Yaargraukh.
Rodermund had already turned back to Clive. “What else?”
The wiry human blew out his cheeks: a startling behavior that, in any other creature, would logically have been an aggressive body-enlargement display. But among humans it simply signified exasperation or momentary perplexity. “Too long a list, sir. A lot of little electric devices. Tins of what might be food or chemicals or paints; can’t read the labels, naturally. Water purification plant, but it would be hard to move.”
“And taking it would be hard on the civilians, given all the toxins that leach into the water. We’ll leave it. What about the scout cars?”
“Find of the day, sir,” Clive beamed through the grime on his face. “Koruda found one good as new where poor Wally and Greek Nick snuffed it. It was equipped with what looks like a long range wireless, but that took some rounds. Now it’s only good for the tip.
“The recce car that raced into town just ahead of us wasn’t far off. The bonnet and front right wheel are in rough shape, but it’s otherwise right and ready. Good for parts, at least.
“The third took a little longer to find. It was on the western edge of town, lying on its side. Apparently it ran off the road when our lads bagged the driver. Looks a bit shabby now, but all the bits are there and working.”
Rodermund nodded. “So, two functional scout cars and a third for parts. Excellent. Give Rating Koruda my compliments. Now, can we get them on the Chinook?”
“Just barely, sir. I’d recommend breaking up the disabled one, load the parts by hand. There isn’t room for all three vehicles on the after-ramps in your big whirlybird, Colonel.”
Rodermund and Hailey looked at their watches at the same moment. The colonel frowned. “How long will it take the greasemonkeys to break it down, Corporal Strather?”
Clive Strather didn’t blink. “Ten minutes, sir. Maybe five. We found power tools that we can run off the car’s battery, so long as we keep the motor idling.”
Rodermund looked at Strather as if worried for his sanity. “Son, five or ten minutes? That’s just not possible.”
Strather’s steady gaze broke, wandered sideways. “Well, sir, that’s true, of course—if we were to be starting now.”
Rodermund appeared to be trying very hard not to smile. “I see. And exactly when did you start the breakdown?”
“Soon as we found the bloody thing, sir.” The corporal swallowed; the strange, vulnerable bone that humans called the Adam’s Apple cycled once, quickly. “Sorry for acting without orders, Colonel. But time was wasting and we—”
“Son, in my military, we call that ‘taking the initiative.’ But still, ten more minutes is longer than we hoped to be here.” He summoned another runner. “Find Lieutenant Kresge and inform him that we are dusting off in fifteen minutes. He is to commence collapsing our perimeter back to this building. Leave a triangle of three listening posts fifty meters beyond the line. NCOs are to coordinate plans for a fast, staggered withdrawal to the choppers. I want our men on the slicks and unassing this AO as soon as Corporal Strather is done. If we’ve found Colonel Paulsen his intel prize by then, great. If not, we’re gone. With the additional cloud cover rolling in from the west, the light is fading fast—and we are not going to start flying in the dark. Too much risk.”
There was a commotion in the dining hall: loud shouts, a momentary struggle, and then a cluster of figures burst through the plastic sheeting. At first, all Yaargraukh could see were a half-dozen humans, struggling to drag a large, resisting figure into the room—and then he had to discipline himself not to inhale so sharply that the snorkel’s intake might whistle.
His radio-bearer Ezzraamar staggered into the room, one leg bleeding heavily. Behind him, the American sergeant, Emmet Owen, kept his long rifle trained on the wounded Hkh’Rkh. “Look what we found,” he said. Although the phrase was jocose, his tone was anything but.
Rodermund stared. “Son of a bitch.”
Captain Hailey raised his rifle slightly, but the expression on his face was one of caution, not hostility. Isaac Franklin, on the other hand, began drifting toward Ezzraamar in what appeared to be a state of distracted fascination.
Hailey jerked his head in the direction of their prisoner. “Have you checked him for bombs? Bugs?”
Owen nodded. “He’s clean. Trust me, Cap’n, he was genuinely trying to escape. Took three shots to that leg to bring him down.”
“They’re tough,” Rodermund agreed.
The wiry, pan-helmeted human named Clive put his head back in the side door. “We haven’t made a pretty job of it, but we’ve got the car in parts. Ready to go, Colonel!”
Rodermund nodded. “Very good.” Then to his command staff. “Start loading the slicks. Any man who lags will be cleaning latrines for a month—and his NCO will be in boo coo shit with me. Move!”
As Shvartsman started rolling up and returning the maps to their tubes, and Emmett Owen began overseeing Ezzraamar’s limping progress to the rear bay door with a six-man security escort, Yaargraukh felt his breath grow short. I cannot leave a fellow-Warrior to such an uncertain fate. I must— And then the half of him that was an officer retorted: what you must do is report what you have seen and heard, back in the Clanhall in Iarzut’thruk. That is your first duty. Besides, this information may sway Jrekhalkar, might even stop the fighting. You cannot assume that Caine Riordan will arrive in time to help. Indeed, he may never have received your message.
Yaargraukh settled back into the depths of the tank, tried to ignore the worms that were winding deeper into the longer fur that covered the juncture between his shoulders and torso. To even the most jaded observer, it was clear that these humans were not part of an officially sanctioned invasion force. The physical evidence had always indicated to the contrary; their own speech now proved it.
But bigotry was not only invulnerable to the appeals of logic and deduction; it was often blind to counterproofs such as those Yaargraukh had just witnessed. And furthermore, there was one missing puzzle piece, without which Jrekhalkar might yet dismiss the new evidence as inconclusive, and potentially misleading:
If humans of the Consolidated Terran Republic had not brought this strange, ill-equipped group to Turkh’saar, then who had? And when? And, above all, why?