Diamond Leader
"Diamond leader?" Meriteh Sanglor's day had not been good, it sounded like it was about to get worse, though.
"Yes, gun-servant?"
"Ancient Ranjit Rynalor would like a word..."
"He already owns all the words, why would he want some of mine?"
"Sir?"
"That was a joke, son, send him in, and for the love of the stars, I hope you didn't keep him waiting."
"No, Sir, I came here immediately, and assigned him an underly to keep him comfortable while I fetched you."
"Good."
"Ancient." "Diamond Leader." Sanglor's danger sense tingled. "Such a lofty title you chose to gave me, all these years ago, old friend." "No one else would make better use of it, Sanglor." "Rynalor, you've been the boss for so long..." "I have many responsibilities, Sanglor, I am imputable for your actions, please tell me you've been careful..." "I've been considerate, but I've been dropped into a theatre of war that forgives no mistakes, nor allows any leeway." "Understood, I knew you were the right choice for a difficult assignment, and I always said just how hard it would be for anyone, when I made my suggestion." "I don't know if I hate you more or less, for dumping me in this soup! The Terrans are..." "They're not really terrans, you know." "What?" "Well, that is to say, those that call themselves Solians are the real terrans, the Terrans from Thallax are migrants, and not 'true terrans'." "Well, we are True Tlalor, and we will overcome, but I don't see how that helps us!" "It does not, it's just a quirk of the language. They call themselves terrans to add a veneer they do not deserve." "Could we use this for morale?" "I don't see the usefulness, they're still numerous like rats, and we treat them as such, saying they're not vermin from terra doesn't help us..." "I see your point, old friend, but I hope you have some good news. This slog is killing our true believers like nothing I've seen..." "Do we have many of those left, Diamond?" "Agate-level or above were one in five at the beginning of the campaign, they've gone down though. How many can you reinforce me with?" "That's going to be difficult... The Ruk have launched a Wagga-Wagga, as their language goes, while the Fillifer have stood up a Great Tree at Kondor and used its mystical power to become invisible to prediction, according to the priests. Those scrawny-necked pencil-pushers are making excuses!" "Well, considering how much effort the Fillifer put into the growing of a tree, they were expecting results. A whole brigade of their best shortened their life by ten years to make it grow!" "But they live hundreds of years, only slightly less than us True Tlalor." "And if I called for hundreds of Tlalor to sacrifice a decade just to achieve a military objective, would we do it?" "Hum, err. You may be onto something." "Even the priests, who are sure of a serpent's embrace in the afterlife aren't risking their mortal coils..." "Eh. That's a good one, good for a smile, at least." "But that does propose a solution..." "What, I'm listening." "If we have no predicitive support near Kondor, why not just withdraw there?" "Because the priests..." "Exactly. They want us to avenge their defeat, who just absolved them of the ability to support our troops... We are running mad risks on three fronts... We should consolidate." "And what about the Ruk's Wawa?" "Were we stopping them, or feeding them with our enmity?" "More likely the latter, the Ruk are about as subtle as a box of nails, and hardly any more malleable. Tell me, if you were Ancient, what would you do, besides stay out of your underlings' faces?" "Pick a battle, any battle. We are outnumbered in all theatres, this cannot continue. We keep losing true believers, not just soldiers, but whole cadres of trainers and specialists, as well as heavies. The heavies need to be replenished, and we can't keep fighting attrition wars against multiple species who out-breed us." "They all out-breed us?" "Only the Fillifer do not, and that's a close thing. The Ruk rut like rabbits, and the Terrans do not rut, they're cloning replacements for their loss, according to formula. That formula's inputs is based on amino acids that are forty-to-one in their favour, in their home systems!" "Even the Fillifer are replenishing?" "It's a wash between their replenishments and ours. But for every three Tlalor I send, the Terrans send two cloned platoons! As incompetent the vermin may be, those numbers have a quality of their own." "I thought they were down to sending gene-mixes now?" "Whoever I'm fighting didn't get that memo. Maybe there's gene-mixes deeper in Meritocracy space, but I'm seeing pure-bred clones, by the vat." "Any of them have different dress, clothes, logos?" "Six logos, six colours, six uniforms, mostly different ranks." "Six colours?" "Gold, Green, Blue, Silver, Bronze, Grey." "How do you tell the silver and the grey apart?" "They do not mix, as units, and the silvers are the main colour we've been facing. Going by the officers, this is a silver area." "You've sent this up through intelligence?" "I would have, but you reminded me of discretion, when I started this assignment. Your staff operations officer is the only one I reported to." "Oh, and Srinty didn't say anything, how interesting." "Trouble in the ranks?" "Maybe he got suborned by the priests. Hold tight, I'll have to vet him before this goes any further." "I'm thrilled, really. You got more surprises like that?" "I hope not, this is high-stakes gambling enough already. Maybe he just wanted to say it in person, these sensitive details are pretty hush-hush." "That's above my pay grade." "You're diamond-level!" "That doesn't mean I'm a politician, just replaceable when the next politician gets a bee up their bonnet." "I don't agree about those limits you set on yourself, but I do see where you're coming from about them though." "I'd need a sponsor to get any higher..." "..." "What?" "Sphere of Klinti is open..." "Frag me!" "I don't swing that way, but I'll just assume you were venting surprise..." "I was venting surprise, and we both have families, I've met yours..." "My eldest grand-daughter thinks one of your sons is 'pretty cool' for what it's worth." "Oh, which one?" "Rynnick? I think that's the one she likes." "My son wants to have children with your grand-daughter? And I hear of it because the sphere of Klinti is open?" "You hear of how close our families are, because the sphere of Klinti is open... I'd like to count on one more ally, at the council..." "And I'd have to give up this bucket of warm suet, for it?" "You can't serve as a diamond-level and be on the council, that is the rule."
"Ancient." "Diamond Leader." Sanglor's danger sense tingled. "Such a lofty title you chose to gave me, all these years ago, old friend." "No one else would make better use of it, Sanglor." "Rynalor, you've been the boss for so long..." "I have many responsibilities, Sanglor, I am imputable for your actions, please tell me you've been careful..." "I've been considerate, but I've been dropped into a theatre of war that forgives no mistakes, nor allows any leeway." "Understood, I knew you were the right choice for a difficult assignment, and I always said just how hard it would be for anyone, when I made my suggestion." "I don't know if I hate you more or less, for dumping me in this soup! The Terrans are..." "They're not really terrans, you know." "What?" "Well, that is to say, those that call themselves Solians are the real terrans, the Terrans from Thallax are migrants, and not 'true terrans'." "Well, we are True Tlalor, and we will overcome, but I don't see how that helps us!" "It does not, it's just a quirk of the language. They call themselves terrans to add a veneer they do not deserve." "Could we use this for morale?" "I don't see the usefulness, they're still numerous like rats, and we treat them as such, saying they're not vermin from terra doesn't help us..." "I see your point, old friend, but I hope you have some good news. This slog is killing our true believers like nothing I've seen..." "Do we have many of those left, Diamond?" "Agate-level or above were one in five at the beginning of the campaign, they've gone down though. How many can you reinforce me with?" "That's going to be difficult... The Ruk have launched a Wagga-Wagga, as their language goes, while the Fillifer have stood up a Great Tree at Kondor and used its mystical power to become invisible to prediction, according to the priests. Those scrawny-necked pencil-pushers are making excuses!" "Well, considering how much effort the Fillifer put into the growing of a tree, they were expecting results. A whole brigade of their best shortened their life by ten years to make it grow!" "But they live hundreds of years, only slightly less than us True Tlalor." "And if I called for hundreds of Tlalor to sacrifice a decade just to achieve a military objective, would we do it?" "Hum, err. You may be onto something." "Even the priests, who are sure of a serpent's embrace in the afterlife aren't risking their mortal coils..." "Eh. That's a good one, good for a smile, at least." "But that does propose a solution..." "What, I'm listening." "If we have no predicitive support near Kondor, why not just withdraw there?" "Because the priests..." "Exactly. They want us to avenge their defeat, who just absolved them of the ability to support our troops... We are running mad risks on three fronts... We should consolidate." "And what about the Ruk's Wawa?" "Were we stopping them, or feeding them with our enmity?" "More likely the latter, the Ruk are about as subtle as a box of nails, and hardly any more malleable. Tell me, if you were Ancient, what would you do, besides stay out of your underlings' faces?" "Pick a battle, any battle. We are outnumbered in all theatres, this cannot continue. We keep losing true believers, not just soldiers, but whole cadres of trainers and specialists, as well as heavies. The heavies need to be replenished, and we can't keep fighting attrition wars against multiple species who out-breed us." "They all out-breed us?" "Only the Fillifer do not, and that's a close thing. The Ruk rut like rabbits, and the Terrans do not rut, they're cloning replacements for their loss, according to formula. That formula's inputs is based on amino acids that are forty-to-one in their favour, in their home systems!" "Even the Fillifer are replenishing?" "It's a wash between their replenishments and ours. But for every three Tlalor I send, the Terrans send two cloned platoons! As incompetent the vermin may be, those numbers have a quality of their own." "I thought they were down to sending gene-mixes now?" "Whoever I'm fighting didn't get that memo. Maybe there's gene-mixes deeper in Meritocracy space, but I'm seeing pure-bred clones, by the vat." "Any of them have different dress, clothes, logos?" "Six logos, six colours, six uniforms, mostly different ranks." "Six colours?" "Gold, Green, Blue, Silver, Bronze, Grey." "How do you tell the silver and the grey apart?" "They do not mix, as units, and the silvers are the main colour we've been facing. Going by the officers, this is a silver area." "You've sent this up through intelligence?" "I would have, but you reminded me of discretion, when I started this assignment. Your staff operations officer is the only one I reported to." "Oh, and Srinty didn't say anything, how interesting." "Trouble in the ranks?" "Maybe he got suborned by the priests. Hold tight, I'll have to vet him before this goes any further." "I'm thrilled, really. You got more surprises like that?" "I hope not, this is high-stakes gambling enough already. Maybe he just wanted to say it in person, these sensitive details are pretty hush-hush." "That's above my pay grade." "You're diamond-level!" "That doesn't mean I'm a politician, just replaceable when the next politician gets a bee up their bonnet." "I don't agree about those limits you set on yourself, but I do see where you're coming from about them though." "I'd need a sponsor to get any higher..." "..." "What?" "Sphere of Klinti is open..." "Frag me!" "I don't swing that way, but I'll just assume you were venting surprise..." "I was venting surprise, and we both have families, I've met yours..." "My eldest grand-daughter thinks one of your sons is 'pretty cool' for what it's worth." "Oh, which one?" "Rynnick? I think that's the one she likes." "My son wants to have children with your grand-daughter? And I hear of it because the sphere of Klinti is open?" "You hear of how close our families are, because the sphere of Klinti is open... I'd like to count on one more ally, at the council..." "And I'd have to give up this bucket of warm suet, for it?" "You can't serve as a diamond-level and be on the council, that is the rule."
Responsabilities
Commands a Grong.
Type
Civic, Military, Commissioned
Comments