Michael trudged through the red-leafed section of the forest with his morning cup of coffee in his hand, heading to the ritual circle once again. He had made this trip every day for a week, briefing this or that officer on the Earth side on what had happened and about conditions in Westeros.
It was another fine summer day, the humidity having been cut down by a thunderstorm the night before. It smelled like tree sap and flowers, and bees were buzzing around here and there. Despite the trees with mute, screaming faces weeping blood all around him, it was the most normal he had felt in months.
So far he hadn't been reprimanded for his behaviour, dismissed or arrested by his newly arrived subordinates. The camp now had a pair of prefabricated buildings, previously sited on the base at the other side of the portal. There was electricity, provided by a generator. There was medications, good food, candy… and coffee.
It was also extremely boring. The Children of the Forest had backed way off, only the golden-eyed son of a bitch being around at any given time. The prisoners were quiet, cowed by Lord Tyrion's nasty wound on his rear. Jon Stark, Val and the small detachment of Free Folk not aligned with Canada were keeping to themselves. There were no threats, no lords to deal with, no questions of logistics to settle except who got what. The biggest problem so far was when the only former Thenn in the Laughing Tree tribe demanded coffee first.
I guess I should enjoy it, Michael thought, When more of us get here, it's going to be busy all the time. That seemed inevitable to him. Aside from his own conduct, the questions from the brass had largely been about Westerosi military capability, which was not particularly impressive. To a nation with firearms anyway.
Given the Long Night had been playing every night for folks back home, an all-night horror movie feature, the conclusion was obvious: It didn't matter that there was no way to return to Earth, something needed to be done about the threat.
Michael wasn't looking forward to the something. I'll probably be relegated to some interpreter role for a colonel. The American colonel, most likely. Being able to speak every language of the world was too useful to waste in combat. The thought troubled him enough that he stopped and gulped down some coffee.
When the cup came away from his lips, he found Ygritte had appeared from behind a tree. She was dressed in her grey silk from the waist up, and boots and trousers looted from some knight, both too large for her. She looks good. Her face was placid, but he wasn't an idiot. She wasn't happy.
Michael searched his mind for a reason why she might be upset, but came up empty. "Morning," he said, figuring he'd find out what was wrong quickly.
Ygritte did not respond, but knocked his mug out of his hand, sending coffee flying onto the grass.
Damn it, I wasn't finished with that. Michael frowned at her, brushing a spot of coffee off his uniform sleeve that had strayed onto it. "Right… what was that about?"
Ygritte responded by slapping him. His cheek stung and his left eye began to water. Michael was getting angry now, and took a step back. The spearwife followed, and began raining blows on his arms and chest. He attempted to grab her wrists to stop the assault, but it began to peter out.
At last, she stopped entirely, her arms hanging straight down at her sides, fists still balled up. "You were going to sacrifice yourself."
"Ah," Michael mouthed, blinking the tears out of his eye.
"Ah," Ygritte repeated, "Is that all you say?"
Michael shook his head. "It was going to be a last resort," he said, "I wasn't just going to jump on an obsidian knife like I liked the idea. It's only if there was no choice."
Baring her teeth, Ygritte scowled up at him. "And you would've left me here?"
Michael shook his head rapidly and held up his hands. "No, no, you would've been sent to Canada, same as everyone else."
Ygritte hit him in the chest again, just once. "You think I'd want to be there without you?!" she roared at him, "Are you soft in the head?! That is not what the gods brought you to me for!" Without waiting for an answer, she stomped off, fists swinging with each step.
"Shit," Michael said aloud. His stomach churned with annoyance. I'm going to kill whoever told her. He wanted to chase her down, explain why he had to be the one to volunteer for the sacrifice if it came to that.
One thing at a time, his rational mind said. Ygritte could wait. The brass would not. He picked up his empty mug from the grass and marched on.
The ritual circle was not far. He found the place entirely deserted once he made it past the roving patrols of unicorn riders, their smell replacing whatever remained of the coffee scent he had been enjoying before. Michael reached the centre of the spiral stones without issue, and with a sigh, put his hand on the altar.
"Open," he commanded. The translation magic did its work, changing the word to the 'True Tongue'. The ferrous smell of blood hit his nose briefly, as it always did, and the bubble of unreality closed around the entire ritual circle in a flurry of angry red weirwood leaves. The bright sunny sky disappeared, replaced by dark grey. The horizon rose up with taiga forest and hills. Rain was falling hard.
Michael held out his hand, feeling none of the large droplets hit him. Rather, they fell straight through his corporeal form, landing on the snow-covered ground. Freezing rain, lovely, he thought.
The delegation was waiting for him at the edge of the circle on the other side, under the cover of a large tent and dressed warmly for the weather. The cattle fencing that had surrounded the area the previous day had been partially replaced with HESCO walls reaching three metres into the air easily. There were newly raised towers peeking over the top too, men with machine guns watching with boredom. The yellow arm of an excavator peeked over too.
That's new. Michael walked out to meet the leaders waiting for him, wondering what the hell was going on.
Colonels Wilson and Tremblay of the First and Third Battalion respectively were most immediately recognisable, both having been his most highly superiors among officers actually in the field. They both had that weathered look about them that let anyone with a brain know they hadn't always been colonels. They had climbed the same path Michael himself had begun.
There was a third colonel, David, the American one from the Space Force. The same that had quietly listened in on all the briefings so far. He looked ever more bored as the days passed by. Michael could guess why; he had probably expected to be leading an expedition through the portal, not screwing around in one of the more remote regions of Canada.
The fourth person was someone Michael hadn't met before, but was very clearly a government representative of some sort. She wasn't wearing military issue anything, being well wrapped up to the point that only her face above her mouth could be seen. Her narrowed brown eyes told the tale that she really didn't want to be there. Or that she doesn't like me and my record one bit.
Deciding it was proper form, Michael stood to attention, looked directly at his own superior officer and saluted. Civvie present.
"At ease, Lieutenant," Tremblay said, returning the salute. Michael went to a parade rest, and stood just a little more comfortably. "This is Pamela Khalid, from the DND."
Michael nodded a greeting to her. "Here to bless proceedings?" he asked, "Nice to meet you."
Khalid didn't reply, she huddled her arms together against the cold. Yeah, you really don't want to be here.
"What do you want to be briefed on today, sir?" Michael asked Colonel Tremblay, "A recap for the civilian leadership?"
"They watched every one of your interviews already," Wilson stated, "And those of the others. O'Neill, Zheng, Sayer and your auxiliary leaders translated by him. They've read your reports, watched your own footage as well as the things that Brynden Rivers have shown us. They know everything."
A lump rose up Michael's throat. Damn, am I being shitcanned right here and now? No matter how much history he had with the platoon, they wouldn't obey him over the brass. If being arrested and disarmed was to be his fate, he wouldn't weep. He straightened up again, holding his head high.
"Do you want the good news or the bad news first?" Tremblay asked carefully.
"The good news, sir." Why the hell not? Could use some.
Tremblay's brow rose. "Dealer's choice. Congratulations, you are being promoted to Captain."
"A little early," Colonel Wilson added, "Though not unwarranted. You survived, and managed to do it with more than just your rifle. And I'm told you've already taken the exam, though that's not strictly necessary either."
The lump in Michael's throat melted away, replaced by a cold sweat. Oh this is going to be much worse than getting discharged and arrested. He cleared his throat. "Thank you," he said, "But I'm guessing the promotion is also part of the bad news."
Tremblay, Wilson, even Davis smirked and exchanged looks.
Khalid pulled down her scarf from her mouth to speak. "The government is not pleased about some of the details of your adventure. Particularly your entanglement with the local chieftess, however much it turned to your advantage."
Michael grimaced. Yeah, I knew that would come up.
"But the broad strokes it does approve of," Khalid continued, "You attempted to use diplomacy often, and succeeded in some cases where none would have expected you to. You issued fair warnings to those you did fight. None of the agreements or declarations you made have brought our country or military into disrepute. You did good work that can be built on."
"Wouldn't be the Army if good work wasn't rewarded with more work," the American said, "I bet that holds even up here in Mooseland."
"God damn right," Wilson replied flatly.
Khalid cleared her throat, objecting to the tangent in the conversation. The colonels' smiles turned to frowns. The chill along Michael's spine grew colder still, like he was actually standing in the rain. Should've guessed they're just the messengers.
"It has been decided that you require the authority of a higher rank going forward," Tremblay said, returning to business, "Lieutenant is an officer's rank, but it still implies being a subordinate. Captain is a rank we feel the locals will respond better to."
Michael had to chew on that one for a bit. "Why do I need a rank that the Westerosi will respond better to, sir?" he asked.
"Because there will be no expeditionary force," said Khalid, "Neither Canada nor the United States will be sending you reinforcements."
Any feeling of cold was immediately replaced by burning anger. "Why the hell not!" Michael said, "What about the god damned ice demons, the walking dead guys and the forever winter?"
"Captain, you'll hear the reason now," Tremblay stated.
Michael shut up at once, realising he had stepped onto the line and had come close to crossing it.
"You are not going to be abandoned," Wilson continued, "But the situation is not so simple. This Rivers-Bloodraven guy made it clear he would not allow anyone else through, and neither would these Children of the Forest. He also said this island you're on is the only place these 'Others' can use to get here. He has listened to every conversation we have had with you, and must have gleaned that we are far more capable than they are in military terms."
"Which should've been obvious already when you blew away those medieval knights," Davis added, "That was something to see, let me tell you."
Tremblay nodded. "I'd say so too. Either way, Mr. 'Bloodraven' says that even if we manage to open the wormhole ourselves, he'll dump anyone we send in the middle of the ocean, or in a volcano. We view that as a credible threat, he's already demonstrated control of the wormhole or whatever it is."
Davis sighed heavily. "And there is still the problem of getting back. The guy might be lying about it requiring a blood sacrifice, but we're still a long ways away from understanding how anything works. The Pentagon isn't going to put anyone on any missions they won't come back from unless there's a guarantee you guys can't take care of the threat yourselves."
"The Canadian government feels much the same," Khalid added.
Michael wanted to put his face in his hands, but instead took in a breath. "So Rivers won't let us be reinforced? That's pretty stupid for a guy that claims to be concerned about the ice demon problem. The more of us over here, the more secure things are."
"The man believes the platoon already in place is enough," Colonel Wilson replied, "And we don't disagree with that assessment, for now. The last time these Others became a problem, they were defeated by what looks like a Bronze Age civilisation. We have an understanding with Mr. Rivers. If things go south, he'll allow a larger force. He's also going to facilitate continual resupply of your force, even beyond the scope of the mission we are to give you."
Michael relaxed a little. "I damn well hope so, sir, because it sounds like we're being asked to live here for the rest of our lives." Sounds like I might need to make my own deal with that asshole.
"You and your soldiers will not be left to your own devices," said Khalid, "We will keep working the problem of opening the portal. In the mean time, your salaries will continue to be paid, and you will be allowed to buy things for transport here beyond what we will provide as part of military and humanitarian assistance. You will be allowed limited contact with your families, via letters and video recordings of course."
"Of course," Michael said, "Our families might give away the whole game if we were allowed to tell them the uncensored truth. Assuming journalists would believe it."
Khalid stared at him half-lidded for a moment. "The time is coming for us to reveal the existence of that world you're on," she replied flatly, "Too many people know about it already. But we are still working on the 'how' of disclosure."
So they need to work out how best to make it sound like a good thing. The Colonels shifted their weight uncomfortably. Evidently they thought that was poor reasoning too.
Michael crossed his arms, rather than saying something untoward. "And I'm sure that's another reason you don't want to risk sending me reinforcements. Losing a hundred people to a magic portal by accident might be believable, but sending a strong force is hard to define as anything else but invasion. Not without permission from the locals, anyway."
Khalid's eyes shifted away from Michael and looked up at Tremblay. "You were right," she said, "He is astute."
"Wouldn't have gotten this far otherwise," Michael said, "But you don't need to worry. I signed up to do the heavy lifting, as have the rest of the soldiers here. The civilians…"
"Will have their own purpose," Khalid interrupted again, "There's plenty to learn from Westeros. Academically speaking."
Michael nodded. The civilians couldn't likely be trained to be real soldiers any time soon. They might as well do something useful. And a lifeline to home was still more than he had before. The trip to the Isle had been worth it, in the end.
"My orders, sir?"
As soon as the briefing ended, Michael had Zheng drive the crawler to a location a little ways off from the camps, on the road that had been cut through the forest from the shores of the God's Eye. Once that was done, he ordered the relevant personnel to meet him there, away from prying eyes.
The Patricias section leaders arrived first; O'Neill, MacDonald, Schafer, Nowak and Melnyk. Sayer tagged along too, though he hadn't been asked for. All seemed to be in a good mood; the establishment of the supply chain from back home had that effect on almost everyone. Fear of starving to death or dying of some nasty disease had disappeared.
Like Michael, his fellow soldiers wore just T-shirts above the waist, on account of the midday heat, but they were kitted out for a fight nonetheless. That was now the SOP while they were on the Isle; at any time the Children of the Forest might withdraw their welcome. In truth, they already had.
Trailing behind reluctantly was Sergeant Portelance, the senior military police officer that had come through to Westeros. She had her light brown hair tied up in a tight bun, and her beret sat precariously at an angle. Her face was like someone who had been asked to bite off their own tongue. That had been a frequent sight over the last few days, and not just from her. The thunderchickens had been particularly somber the whole time.
The MPs had been tasked with keeping some of the younger Free Folk away from the new supply tent, and pistols had been fired in the air before O'Neill instructed the cops on the proper technique of using fists and batons with restraint instead.
The young men and women had just been testing boundaries, but the cops didn't really appreciate that on account of said men and women having swords and axes on their belts. I've been here too long, Michael had thought at the time, I think casual, organised thieving is normal behaviour.
"Sir," MacDonald said in greeting as the NCOs arrived, "I take it there's news from home?" This had been the first such meeting that hadn't been at a particular time of the day, it wasn't hard for him or anyone else to tell that something was up.
Michael held up a hand. "Wait, we're not all here yet," he said, "The civvies need to hear this too." Schafer and Nowak took that as a sign to park themselves on top of some tree stumps.
"Speak of the devil, sir," O'Neill said idly, before giving his head a sharp forward motion in the direction of camp.
Doctor Cloutier and Doctor Shih were making their way through the trees towards the crawler. They were dressed down as much as they could be for what was effectively midday in summer, but lighter clothing hadn't made it from home yet. So heavy winter boots and thick trousers were complimented with undershirts. The pair were sweating so much that it made Michael feel warmer.
"Well now," Doctor Shih said, shifting her mop of dark brown hair away from her eyes as she arrived, "Anyone ever tell you guys you look scary?"
"Sorta the point," Zheng grumbled back, "We're not here to flirt with anyone."
"Oh, I don't know," Doctor Cloutier smiled happily, taking off her glasses, "There's something irresistible about a man in uniform. Or a woman, for that matter."
"Glad to hear it," Michael said, with just as much cheer. They're in a good mood now, might as well lean into it while I can.
"I'm sure you are," Shih said.
Cloutier put her glasses back on, having wiped sweat off her brow. "Don't suppose you'll tell us why we're here," she asked, "You've mostly ignored us since we arrived, except to tell us what we can't do."
"Which was a long list," Shih added.
Oh this is going to be good. "Happy to tell you," Michael said, "You are here as penance for your sins."
Cloutier peered back blankly for a moment. "I'm not sure I follow."
"You two were identified as the ringleaders of the farce that brought all of you here," Michael said, "The protest on the Spiral? The security guys went through the tapes and saw you organising the civilians on-base. Hell, they caught Shih here flirting with the civvie dentist that was brought up to deal with someone's tooth before it killed them."
Doctor Shih looked suitably pleased with herself at the honourable mention. "Bet you're happy I did though," she said, "He's the only medical guy we have."
Michael shrugged a little in response. "Well for your efforts, you have been appointed the civilian representatives of this expedition."
Clouter gave a sly smile. "Does that mean I have authority?" she asked, "Civilian leadership is a cornerstone of our society, after all."
Half the NCOs scoffed as one. Well, they'll enjoy this next part. "No, you do not have authority, Cartman," Michael replied, "This is a military operation. You'll advise me. And you will follow my orders, for your own safety.
"Are you threatening us, Lieutenant?" Cloutier asked, "I am not impressed by threats."
Michael shook his head. "If you guys go do something on your own without me knowing, the locals will rob, rape and kill you at the drop of a hat. We are in the middle of a warzone, and the concept of war crimes is basically a guidebook, not a prohibition."
The Professor looked to the ground and kicked a small rock away. "We are not imbeciles," Cloutier retorted, "But do not except us to be quiet when you are making mistakes."
"From what I hear, expecting you to be quiet is a tall order," O'Neill remarked.
"Prefer women just shut up, Sergeant?" Cloutier asked.
"That's not…" O'Neill began to respond.
"Enough," Michael interrupted, "You know why you specifically are here now, so I'll move on to the actual agenda, if that's okay with you?"
The professor rolled her tongue around in her mouth for half a minute. "Perfectly," Cloutier said, in an angelic tone that promised either that she would be good or the exact opposite. Michael narrowed his eyes, thinking maybe he should have requested to be able to choose the civilian representatives, but moved on.
"I was given good news, bad news and our orders," he announced, addressing the entire assembled group now, "I'll tell you the bad news first. It's not a short list." Might as well stay on form.
"There will be no going home, and no reinforcements. Not even the rest of your platoon…"
The group erupted in protest, half-deafening him. Michael felt anger boil up to his head at their outburst. "Shut the hell up!" he shouted back, "That's a god damned order!"
The jaws of the soldiers snapped shut immediately. The civilians got in another word or two before they got the picture. Michael looked to each of them. "I get it, that's a quite thing to announce, but I'm not done yet. The government has rejected my request for your LAVs, light artillery and more C4."
There was another outburst, though this time it was more muted. The civilians didn't really get what was bad, and the soldiers were just trying to follow the order to be quiet. All but Zheng, who put her hands over her face. "Fuck," she declared, meaning to say it under her breath but projecting the word further than intended.
"Fuck is right, Corporal," Michael said, "And on top of that, hanging around here isn't an option either. The Children of the Forest have made it clear, they want us gone. If we don't get gone soon, they'll shut down the portal home and force us off this island that way. So either way, we'll need to go back into the active warzone."
"Absurd," Cloutier said, "Can we not negotiate to stay here?"
"The brass already tried," Michael said, "They sent an official up from Ottawa to do it, even."
"It's my fault," Sayer said, "They think I'm descended from warriors that killed their ancestors, and they remember that stuff."
"Not just that this time, Private," Michael countered, "The more they learn about us, the more of them see what we've done since arriving here, the more they're afraid of us all."
Sayer nodded once, though his face was still stoney. He really doesn't like being blamed for his ancestors' victory.
Michael sighed and leaned back against the crawler behind him. "There is good news too. First, this island is not the only place where we can get resupplied from home. There are other ritual circles all over this continent, and some on the next one over too. The Children of the Forest are preparing a map for us, a parting gift."
"Real fucking nice of them, sir," Nowak growled, "Any chance of a foot massage too?"
Michael didn't bother answering that. "The next piece of good news is that only way the Others can get to Canada is via the spiral on this island, Brynden Rivers saw to that. So we don't have to go all the way back north chasing the ice demons to stop them getting through the way we four Originals fell through."
"Thank Christ," O'Neill said, "The thought of trudging all the way back is something we can all do without."
The Free Folk probably don't agree, Michael thought. Mance having the Canadians on hand would probably make things less complicated on the border between the Stark lands and the Gift. "It gets better," he said, "Christmas has come early even if the LAVs are staying at home."
The soldiers all perked up at that.
"What kind of presents are coming down the chimney for us, sir?" MacDonald asked.
He pulled out a list from his chest pocket, holding it up like it was the golden ticket and began reading it off. "We're getting fifteen crawlers, a half dozen pickup trucks, both with fuel trailers, and a trio of those TMP recon buggies. For each section, a 50 cal machine gun, a C6 machine gun, a Gustav recoilless rifle, a C20 designated marksman rifle and a shotgun."
O'Neill guffawed. "I'm definitely taking a shotgun."
"Not finished yet," Michael said, holding up his free hand, "For the whole platoon, another two 50 cal machine guns, two GMG 40mm grenade launchers, a 81mm mortar with smoke and illum, and a pair of Raven recon drones to supplement our warg recon element."
There was a lot of pursed lips and nodding among the Canadian NCOs when Michael looked up. "Not enough to bring down a castle, but enough to put the hurt on any army that comes knocking," Schafer said.
Which is of course the point, Michael thought to himself.
"Plenty of mobility too," Nowak said, chewing on his cheek as he thought about it.
MacDonald shook his head. "It's not enough," he said, "These lordly buggers live in castles. We need the ability to crack them open like walnuts if we need to. And if this 'army of the dead' grows large enough, forget about it."
Michael frowned. "I know, and I said as much," he said, "The DND representative assured us they would send more if it came to it. Even promised to send reinforcements if Rivers agreed the situation was critical."
"That promise is about as solid as one-ply toilet roll, sir," MacDonald responded, "You couldn't even wipe your arse with it." Doctor Shih snorted at that, appreciating the analogy.
What does he expect me to do? Fly to Ottawa for a chin wag with the Defence Minister? Or is it the magic ghost he expected me to convince? "Out of my hands, Sergeant. I tried. I'm going to keep trying. The Americans are also involved, I'm hoping Washington might step in and send better stuff, but that'll take months to decide on."
MacDonald looked like he could use a smoke, all of a sudden. He's not going to like the next part either.
"More good news; we're all still getting paid. We can buy things we want, on top of what the government will send us. You can request to have your personal things sent here too, if you wish. And a few of us have been promoted."
"Promotions mean they want us to do something," Nowak thought aloud, "Something difficult."
There was a collection of nods at that statement. Michael knew it to be true. The orders they had received were not to go for a nice walk on the nearest beach.
"Who are the lucky ones, sir?" Melnyk asked.
Michael pointed to O'Neill. "You're getting bumped up to Warrant Officer, O'Neill," he said, "Congratulations."
The newly-minted Warrant Officer straightened up, eyes wide with surprise. "Thank you, sir," he said tentatively, "Long overdue… but unexpected."
Happy the man would fit the role, Michael then looked to MacDonald, who was already annoyed enough to look like he had eaten a super-sour candy. "Sergeant, I argued that you should be a W.O., as the senior-most sergeant of your platoon. But O'Neill has the seniority over you, he has the translation magic, and the brass doesn't think there'll be any problems integrating our units. But I know you, I know what you're capable of, so I'm going to keep arguing it. Watch this space."
"Sir," MacDonald said, non-committal. Yeah he's not happy. And I don't blame him.
Michael moved on to Zheng. "You're getting bumped up to Sergeant," he told her.
The now ex-Corporal grinned. "Jumping up two ranks?" she said, "Nice. I was close to getting Master soon anyway, but still."
Michael rolled his eyes. "It's to support the theory that you're a Princess," he said, "The brass want us to keep up that whole charade."
"Yes, let's just casually lie about how our society works," Cloutier sighed, "That's the moral thing to do. I know, the local aristocracy will treat us like dirt if we don't, but with so many guns…"
"You'll lie and you'll like it," O'Neill interrupted, "Best start working on acting like a noble." Cloutier looked at him askance over the top of her glasses, but said no more.
"That's pretty good," Michael joked, pointing at her, "Keep that up." Cloutier turned her gaze on him, as he turned back to Zheng. "You'll be in command of the recon element, and you'll also be the liaison officer to the local force element. I know you have your problems with them, but they respect you. Both the brass and I think you will suffer no fools while leading them. Plus, Sayer will be assisting you."
"Yes, sir," Zheng said.
"Do I get a promotion, sir?" Sayer asked hopefully.
"No, but you're now considered part of the regular force," Michael answered, "So you're going to be getting paid a whole lot more than before."
"Nice," Sayer smiled, "Do I get backpay?"
Michael let out a chuckle with exasperation. "Ask the brass tomorrow." Sayer's smile widened, like he was going to enjoy trying to wrench his money from the hands of the administrative staff. Good luck.
"Melnyk, you're also getting promoted to Sergeant. You'll lead the vehicle crews as well as your own weapons detachment. Also you'll combine with Sergeant Portelance's MPs to provide a reserve force."
Melnyk nodded. "Makes sense, sir. I'm most senior of the Master-Corporals. Sergeant Ryan didn't come through with us, and she was the LAV Sergeant… so I guess we need a replacement."
"That we do," Michael said, "We're going to have a lot more vehicles now too, so we'll be counting on you to keep everything working smoothly."
Melnyk gave a thumbs up. "Last in terms of the promotions is me. I'm a Captain now, for whatever difference that makes. Probably just a bribe to keep me sweet on accepting the other promotion; ambassador plenipotenary and extraordinary."
"That seems unwise," Cloutier chimed in again, "Captain AND ambassador?"
"Yeah, gotta agree with that," Shih said, "They're just handing you the keys?"
"Military leader with the ability to negotiate treaties?" Cloutier continued, "That's way too much power in the hands of one man. Particularly a military man."
The military men and women glared at the two civilians collectively. How did two people with such a low opinion of the military get jobs working so closely with the Army?
"The government didn't want to send diplomats here because they can't go back after the job is done. And we won't always be able to consult via a ritual circle, because they don't exist everywhere."
"So they should appoint a oversight committee," Cloutier said, "From among the civilians that are here."
Over my dead body. Michael kept that thought from being verbalised. "Ultimately, because we are trapped here, any decision we make may affect the lives of every member of this expedition. So the government felt it correct to grant me the authority to negotiate in their stead." And they'll disavow me if I do anything wacky.
"So they trust you," Cloutier mused aloud, "That's what I heard about you."
That made Michael just downright curious. What did Teixeira tell her? "Glad to know I have the reputation of trustworthiness."
Cloutier smiled at him. "That's not quite your reputation, Angel Eyes."
Laughter bubbled out of Michael. Teixeira and his big mouth. He quickly made his best Lee Van Cleef impression.
"But you know the pity is, when I'm paid, I always see the job through."
There were one or two chuckles at that, but Michael didn't see who from. He was too busy staring down Cloutier. Her smile seemed to die. Yeah, Teixeira definitely told you too much. But that problem would keep. "Moving on… We are no longer soldiers of the First and Third Battalions. We are now the Canadian Protection Force West, Princess Patricia's Canadian Light Infantry."
Melnyk blew a fart noise out from his mouth. "CPFW? What a shit acronym."
Noises of agreement came out from Michael and every other Canadian. Their lives were already an acronym soup.
"The new unit's name tells you what our new mission is," Michael said, "Our orders are to create as good a forward defence for Canada as possible. To do this, we're to begin trying to get the Seven Kingdoms to recognise the threat and put aside their differences. Failing that, we will assemble a coalition."
"How the hell are we supposed to do that?" MacDonald asked. "What makes the lunatics on the Rideau think we'll get anyone to listen to us?"
Michael decided to regurgitate the logic given to him wholesale. "The nobility here are a warrior class. They generally only respond to a few things; gold, marriage offers or military strength. The government doesn't want to throw gold around, because that'll become an expectation in every dealing with have with them. We're not offering up anyone for marriages."
"God damned right," Portelance said, just before Zheng could.
"Exactly," Michael said, "We can try a few other things, I'm sure some knowledge and Earth products might be very valuable in trade. Either way, that leaves the last thing, and I think you'd agree we do that thing well."
"What we do best, sir," O'Neill added with a sniff. Michael shot him a point of the finger and clicked his tongue.
MacDonald gave his moustache a scratch with his thumb. "I don't understand why they don't send reinforcements, sir."
"I thought they were afraid of the Long Night," O'Neill agreed, "What changed?"
"'Bloodraven' showed the brass that people with obsidian daggers and pointy sticks beat the apocalypse last time," Michael replied, "So now they think a more advanced society with organised governments and steel weapons can do it themselves. With a little guidance to stop them killing each other in the mean time."
"They want the locals to wipe their own arse, rather than us doing it for them," O'Neill concluded.
"That's smart, at least," MacDonald said, "The government doesn't want Canadians to die, so they'll sign up a bunch of the locals to do the heavy lifting."
"They're not our meatshields, Sergeant," Michael said, "We may be here a long time." He quickly regretted saying that, realising it opened up the wound further; the question of returning to Earth.
"We need to get home, sir," MacDonald said, "We have families and lives to live!" There was muted agreement among the other NCOs at that.
Michael felt his patience start to fray. "Feel free to express your discontent at your next debrief with home!" he said firmly, "The only option is with a blood sacrifice and we don't know if that works for sure. You want to draw straws?" Because I'm sure as shit not volunteering again.
MacDonald backed down at that.
"So we stay here and just conquer the continent?" Cloutier interjected, "Threaten them to stop their political squabbles or we'll shoot them?"
Hell yes, Michael wanted to say. "Not quite. The politicians are worried about exactly that perception, and that we'll all turn into Cortezes and Pizarros. That's probably why they won't give us artillery and plastic explosives."
"What, do they think we'll go rogue and forty or so soldiers can take an entire continent?" O'Neill complained, "Cortez-Pizarro my arse, even if we had tanks we couldn't hold the whole bloody place."
"Parliament Hill failing to give a shit once again," Nowak shouted, throwing his arms, "We're mechanised infantry, for God's sake! Give us our damn LAVs at least!"
Michael frowned. He couldn't really argue with their logic. He could just give the explanation he was given. "The government see this whole place as a second New World scenario, regardless of whether or not we get a way home. The exact words of the civil servant were that the government was determined to 'do everything right this time'."
Portelance stood forward, into the circle. "We need reinforcements, sir," she said, "There are only forty-something of us, and my MPs are not infantry. I'm not an expert, but it seems obvious to me we do not have the numbers to keep the civilians secure and accomplish the objective the government wants. Sir."
O'Neill cleared his throat, asking for Michael's leave to answer. He granted it with a small wave towards the police sergeant.
"I know I'm repeating what has been said before… but just four of us made it across this continent, with only some guns, some C4 and the right moves. We survived literal ice demons, a penal legion on a ice wall, made peace between two peoples that killed each other for thousands of years, slapped down a massive medieval army… We can do this, Sergeant."
Michael was impressed. O'Neill had fallen into his role as platoon warrant officer already. Even MacDonald looked relatively convinced.
Portelance stepped back again. "If you say so, O'Neill."
"I do."
An awkward silence fell over the group, and some heads hung low, eyes on the ground. Michael knew they had more objections, and they'd come out in the days to follow. The meeting had accomplished its purpose.
"I'm sorry we're not going home," he said to them, "I wish there was something we could do. I wish I could strangle that Bloodraven asshole myself. But now we have a mission. That changes everything. We're no longer here by accident. We have a purpose in sticking around."
He paused, not sure where he was going with it exactly. "I've been in bad spots together with most of you before. We didn't come out unscathed, but we did come out of those fights with the win. I expect you to do the same this time, to do your duty."
Many faces rose up at that. That's it, remember who and what you are.
"So if Frosty the Snowman shows up with a bazooka and a bad attitude, I expect you to chin the son of a bitch. Be ready to rock and roll at the drop of a hat. Understood?"
The group stared, as though Michael had two heads.
"Understood, Captain Duquesne!" O'Neill shouted at top volume, giving them the prompt they needed.
"UNDERSTOOD, CAPTAIN DUQUESNE!" came the collective response of all the other soldiers, the proclamation Cloutier and Shih exchanged glances with each other, like they didn't know how to react.
His ears ringing slightly, Michael smiled nonetheless. We might pull this off after all.
Happy Canada Day in advance, my dear readers!