Black Velvet

Much like what he had seen of Elysian culture, everything here was intricately decorated. The walls were covered in engravings and hanging animal pelts of indeterminable origin, what might be horns or antlers from similarly unknown animals proudly on display. The rough bark of the tree trunk that made up the core of the room had been stripped away, exposing the smoother wood beneath, from which were hung woven tapestries. It was too dark to make out what they depicted in any clarity, but it was impressive all the same. The wooden floorboards had been covered with rugs that looked like animal skins, the roots of the tree must have been selectively stripped away to keep the floor level. There were various pieces of furniture scattered about the circular room. He could see chairs and benches clearly built for Borealans, their legs carved to resemble the paws and claws of animals, like something you would have seen in a Victorian-era study. There were shelves on the walls and a few tall tables that were loaded with unknown items and trophies, all equally difficult to make out in the gloom. It came across to Jules like a hunting cabin as built by someone who only had access to archaic tools and materials.

From around the trunk of the tree strode something very large, the dim light from the candles reflecting off its black coat to give the impression that it was carved from a solid slab of onyx. It was a Borealan, at least eight and a half feet tall, putting it near the upper limit for its species. As it drew closer, Jules realized that it was unlike any Borealan that he had seen before.

He was familiar with the Elysians and the Rask, with their partial coverings of fur, and he had seen pictures of Polars who were entirely enveloped in a fluffy coat that helped them survive the cold climate of their home territory. This creature was covered from head to toe in jet black, velvety fur, so shiny and slick that it almost made him look wet. It was obviously a male, broad-shouldered, and sporting the muscle tone that living on this planet necessitated. The thin fur clung to his figure such that Jules could make out muscles and veins, even in the dim candlelight. Despite his stature, he was not as stocky as the other Borealans. He was less toned than Yuta, lithe and sinewy like a swimmer or a gymnast as opposed to a weight lifter or a bodybuilder.

The alien's gait was graceful, quiet. Just like his ghillie-suited subordinates, he seemed to flow through the environment like water. His eyes were a striking, reflective green, staring down at his guests with enlarged pupils as they peered back at him in turn.

Unlike the other Araxie that they had encountered, this one was wearing only a pair of leather shorts and a harness that went over his shoulders and across his broad chest, almost like some kind of primitive tactical rig. There were pouches and bags sewn into it, along with other tools and items. Jules could see small vials of liquid in a leather holster, what must be a canteen, as well as a large knife sheathed on his hip. In contrast to the colorful beads and feathers that the Elysians favored, the decorative flair here was made mostly from animal parts. It wasn't garish, there were no bright colors or patterns that might draw attention to the wearer, it all seemed very muted and practical. There were small bones, tufts of animal pelts, and he wore a kind of hanging loincloth made from fur over the top of his shorts.

"Welcome," the alien said, his voice deep and gruff. "I am Bozka, Patriarch of the Araxie."

"My name is Jules Lambert, I'm here on behalf of the Coalition Security Council," Jules replied as he tried to put on an air of confidence. Once again, he was determined to stay on top of the situation. He wasn't going to let this alien's sheer stature and his strange appearance throw him off, which might well be the intent. "This is Sergeant Simmons, Corporals Edwards and Velez, and our Elysian guide, Yuta."

The two Borealans exchanged suspicious glances. It was odd seeing them together, they were so similar and yet so different. There were Borealans with varying hair colors and skin tones analogous to human races, but there were also subspecies that were far more distant from a genetic standpoint, more akin to the differences between a human and a neanderthal. That wasn't to say that one population was archaic while another was modern, just that they had adapted to different environments and diverged often in total isolation from one another.

"You speak for the Coalition?" Bozka asked, glancing between the humans and examining their strange clothing and equipment.

"I represent the Coalition, yes," Jules replied as he tried to direct the alien's attention back towards him. This Bozka needed to understand that he was treating with Jules and Jules alone. "Your government made an official request to join the Coalition, correct? It's my job to evaluate your territory and ensure that you're capable of fulfilling the commitments that being a member entails. I'm authorized to negotiate treaties on behalf of the CSC, and then make a recommendation to the council, which they will then vote on."

"You will...test the Araxie?" Bozka asked, cocking his head.

"In a way, yes. When you have the time, I'll run you through the different criteria and requirements, and I'll be needing unrestricted access to your territory while I'm here. Government, military, banking institutions...if you have them."

Jules was starting to suspect that the government might consist entirely of Bozka, and if they had any banking institutions, their vaults were probably full of shiny beads. Could the Coalition mandate that five percent of the territory's GDP be committed towards defense spending if the gross domestic product was comprised primarily of animal hides and leather slacks?

No, things in the Araxie territory were not as they seemed. Much like the ghillie suits worn by their soldiers, this primitive exterior was masking something deeper. The bayonets, their language skills, the transmission...

"It will be so," Bozka said.

The Araxie in the ghillie suit who had led them here stalked past them, whispering to the Patriarch in their own language, none of the humans able to understand them. Jules looked over his shoulder at Yuta, but she shook her head, indicating that she had no idea what was being said either.

"I am told that you require accommodations, and a...liaison," Bozka said as his underling stepped away. "Tell me, what is liaison?"

"A liaison is someone who can act as an intermediary during our stay," Jules explained, "someone who can interact with the locals and speak their language. Someone who knows the local customs and who can assist in negotiations."

"I believe I understand," the alien replied, gesturing to one of the tall tables with a long arm. He wanted them to sit on the stools that were spaced out around it. Jules did as he was asked, the Marines following suit, clambering up onto the seats. They were scaled up for use by Borealans, making them far too large for a human. It made Jules feel like a child sitting in a booster seat. Yuta, on the other hand, seemed perfectly at home. She crossed her arms and leaned them on the table as the Patriarch sat down opposite them.

"The first thing I'd like to ask," Jules began, "is what prompted you to contact the Coalition? What's your motivation for wanting to join?"

"Is it not obvious?" the Patriarch asked.

"I have some ideas, but I'd like to hear it from you."

"The Coalition strengthens the other territories. You give them weapons, technology, power, and protection. Those who do not wish to swear allegiance are left behind, at the mercy of those who do."

Jules exchanged some worried glances with the Marines, Yuta raising an eyebrow.

"That's...not our intention," he replied. "The Coalition is a voluntary assembly of like-minded governments that offers mutual protection against common threats. By bringing new governments into the fold, we strengthen and enlarge the alliance with the ultimate goal of improving security and stability across Coalition space. We provide weapons and equipment along with training in their operation, but only in the context of bringing a member's security forces up to specification. Any trade beyond that is usually carried out by independent organizations."

The Patriarch did not seem convinced, but Jules wasn't quite sure what he was suggesting. He might be laboring under the misapprehension that the Coalition would just give out crates of guns and free spaceships like candy. Trade was an important benefit of joining the Coalition, but as he had explained, that was usually carried out by independents. It wasn't the Coalition who provided the Elysians with their spaceships or their appliances, those were independent traders.

"I have not understood all that you have said," the jet-black alien continued, "but the Coalition strengthens our enemies. They attack us with Coalition weapons, your technology makes them strong."

"That's not possible," Jules replied, a frown darkening his features. "One of the core tenets of Coalition membership is a respect of sovereignty. Any member state that was found to be engaging in hostile actions against a neighbor would be violating the terms of that membership. They would be expelled."

The Patriarch stood abruptly, making Jules jump and setting the Marines on edge. Yuta bared her teeth reflexively, the fur on her tail puffing up like a startled cat. The Patriarch remained soft-spoken, however, making his way towards the door.

"Come, I have something that you must see."

Jules slid down off the stool, confused, his companions following after him as Bozka led them out into the village. Some of the villagers had come down from their hiding places now, milling about and craning their necks to get a look at the newcomers. They were all similar to Bozka in appearance, their lithe bodies covered in a coat of silky, black fur that made them hard to spot in the darkness. They were all dressed sparsely, the males wearing shorts and the females wearing a combination of shorts and leather slings to conceal their breasts. Most of the aliens wore some kind of utility belt from which satchels and small bags were strung, or a chest rig covered in pouches. A few wore the camouflaged cloaks over their shoulders, it appeared that they could be flung over the wearer to conceal them in an emergency. There were children, too, or perhaps kittens would be a better term to describe them. They were squat, chubby creatures that clung to their mothers like monkeys as they watched the humans with wide eyes.

The two guards who had been posted outside the Patriarch's dwelling flanked him on either side, their bayonets glinting in the starlight. How had they obtained those bayonets? It must have something to do with the Patriarch's claims, and Jules was beginning to feel a sinking sensation in his gut. Something was very wrong here.

Bozka led them through the giant trees, weaving between the domed huts that were built around their roots, eventually arriving at a wooden box. It was maybe nine feet by nine feet, constructed from sturdy wood, and on the near side was a barred door made up of thick poles that had been tied together with strips of leather. Two Araxie were standing to either side of the door, their camouflaged cloaks draped over their shoulders, their spears clasped in their hands. They were guarding it, their eyes scanning the jungle beyond warily, Jules' gaze drawn to the inky darkness behind the bars.

Bozka said something in his native tongue, the guards sharing a glance before turning towards the barred door. One of them opened it, while the other stood ready, the bottom end of his spear poised to jab as if he expected to face some kind of dangerous animal.

Jules took a couple of steps backwards as he heard the sounds of a scuffle, claws scraping against wood, vicious spitting and hissing like they had an angry tiger locked up in there. The two guards dragged a third figure out into the open, its hands bound behind its back, one of them giving it a swift swipe to the back of the legs with the haft of his spear to bring the captive to their knees.

A curtain of matted, blonde hair obscured its face until the second guard took a handful and raised its head, forcing it to look the Patriarch in the eye.

"Rask!" Yuta spat, her voice dripping with venom. It was a male Borealan with ebony skin and straw-colored fur on his forelimbs and tail. He glared back at them with his yellow eyes, he looked crazed, practically foaming at the mouth as he hissed and growled at his captors. He was covered in scars, Jules couldn't tell how recent they were, and he was wearing what looked like the tattered remnants of a dark blue UNN combat suit. It was similar to what the Marines were wearing, their black armor placed over the top of it. This one had been modified, it didn't look standard issue. It was overlaid with leather in places, and there were patches and markings that he didn't recognize. It was torn, stained with blood, it looked like the Araxie had been roughing him up.

"What is the meaning of this?" Jules snapped, his eyes darting between the prisoner and the Patriarch.

"The Rask have been raiding our jungles for months," Bozka explained, "they have been attacking us with Coalition weapons and supplies. Rifles, radio equipment, Coalition armor, and food rations."

"Clawless bitch!" the Rask hissed, his insult apparently directed at Yuta. She recoiled, her disgust palpable as she bared her sharp teeth at him.

"We ambushed a raiding party some time ago, this one survived the battle," the Patriarch continued. "We took him captive along with what weapons and gear remained, interrogated him, learned how to use his radio equipment."

"So that's how you put a call through to the UNN," Simmons mused, "you captured a transmitter from the Rask."

"What were they doing with UNN gear?" Velez asked, "where did they get it?"

"From your people, obviously," the Patriarch replied.

"No, no," Jules said as he shook his head emphatically. "We supply the Rask government with weapons and equipment, yes. But they signed treaties assuring us that they would ban piracy and that they would respect the articles of the Coalition charter, one of which prohibits hostile action against neighboring territories. He must be some kind of criminal, an outlaw."

"Is this true, Rask?" Yuta asked. The Rask turned his eyes up to her, a wide grin on his face. He didn't reply, he merely chuckled to himself. One of the guards jabbed him in the gut with his staff, the laughter halting as the sandy-haired alien groaned and doubled over.

"Stop that," Jules demanded, the guard looking up at him in surprise. "There are conventions that deal with the treatment of prisoners, too. If you want to join the Coalition, then mistreating a captive in full view of the Coalition diplomat who was assigned to evaluate you is a bad way to go about it."

"Do you protect your allies over the victims of their crimes?" Bozka asked sternly.

"What? Absolutely not, and this person is no ally of ours. But that doesn't mean that you can beat a subdued prisoner, regardless of what his crime was."

The guard looked to the Patriarch for confirmation, and Bozka nodded his head.

"Can you show us what you recovered?" Simmons asked, "maybe we can figure out where it came from."

Again, the Patriarch nodded silently. He set off into the village, flanked by his two guards as the others began to drag the Rask back into his cell. Jules looked back over his shoulder as they shoved him inside and shut the door. He would have to go through the charter with the Patriarch and make sure that he understood the concept of prisoner's rights. If he discovered that the Rask was being denied food and water, or tortured for information, the Araxie would have to shape up pretty damned fast.

"They usually come in wheeled vehicles," the Patriarch explained as they walked. "We do not know how to operate them, nor do we have any use for them, and so we let the jungle reclaim them. Once the Rask are dealt with, we bring back whatever we can carry. Some of it has obvious uses, like blades, and rifles. What we cannot identify, we store at the edge of the village, where it can do no harm."

They arrived at another wooden shack, this one far larger than the prison cell. Jules could see no weathering or moss growth, which indicated that it might have been constructed more recently than some of the other structures. Bozka led them inside while his guards took up positions at the door, Jules and his companions stepping into a dark room. The Patriarch retrieved an item from his rig and then reached up to light one of the hanging candles with some kind of flint or maybe a magnesium tool, striking the two halves together until they produced a spark. The room was lit by the flickering flame, and Jules was immediately reminded of a tool shed. Instead of tools, however, it was packed with recovered UNN technology. There was a whole armory in here.

The Marines began to walk around the room, examining the items as Jules looked on. Every wall and surface was strewn with pieces of armor, weaponry, and other random gear.

"Ceramic armor made for Borealans," Simmons muttered as he struggled to lift one of the massive chest-pieces. "XMRs, magazines, batteries, spare barrels and parts. Grenades, flares, laser designators. What have you got over on that side, Edwards?"

"We got some self-filling canteens, the ones with water condensers. Plenty of MRE packets, ten thousand calories apiece, the Borealan variety. Medkits, this looks like a tablet computer, a collapsible shovel."

"This is some kind of powder revolver," Velez said as he showed them a handgun that looked as though it weighed more than the average rifle, visibly straining as he turned to place it back on the table. "Not UNN-issue, there's other Rask shit here too."

"How do you know this stuff came from the Rask?" Jules asked.

Velez turned around to show him a serrated dagger that was closer to the size of a machete, a cruel gut hook shaped into the pointed end.

"Because the UNN doesn't make anything like this, and I've never seen anything like it in Elysia, either."

"So, some of this gear came from the UNN, and some of it didn't?"

"Hard to say exactly where it came from," Simmons said as he turned an oversized XMR over in his hands. It looked identical to those used by the Marines, except that it was blown up in scale, designed to be used by the larger member species of the Coalition. "Someone has scratched out the serial numbers on these. It looks like UNN tech to me, though. This is mil-spec, it's not surplus. Same goes for the armor and the grenades."

"They were definitely manufactured by the UNN," Edwards confirmed as he opened one of the MREs and spilled the various packets onto a table, examining their contents. "This is all standard-issue. Someone is misappropriating Coalition supplies, if that's happening before or after they reach Borealis, I have no idea."

Jules fished in his pocket for his tablet computer, the screen lighting up his face as he began to type.

"We need to document everything that was recovered, and I need to take some statements. I'll be making a full report, and there will certainly be an investigation into the Rask activity. Will that be enough to assuage your concerns, Patriarch Bozka?"

"That sounds satisfactory," he replied. He still seemed suspicious, but the fact that they were doing something about it was a show of good faith, at least.

CHAPTER 3: WINE AND DINE

The negotiations dragged late into the morning, Jules and Bozka sitting around one of the carved tables in his dwelling while Yuta and the Marines milled about outside. It wasn't that they were prohibited from sitting in on the discussion, but the recent events and their strange new environs were of far greater interest than drawn-out political discussions. Not only was going through the conventions and ensuring that the Patriarch understood them all a difficult and time-consuming task in itself, but many of the concepts were entirely alien to him, requiring a more in-depth explanation than usual.