Name: Salamus Fricker

Origin: Fudonia City, Burguth Empire, Planet Oriza, BMA District #55

Species: Orizian, male

Height: 205 cm

Weight: 92 kg

Body type: Bipedal humanoid

Relative age: Young adult

Actual age: 41 Terran Years

Atypical appearance traits: Exceptionally thin, pale pigmentation, facial scar resembling question mark

Well, fuck me sideways. Seems like I really was lumped with some starry-eyed kid fresh out of school. Bit weird to think that about someone who’s technically older than me, but ‘young adult’ typically means just that. At least the ‘Qualifications’ section of the dossier seems promising. It has a long list of academic achievements and awards, but the fact that he’s completed basic navigator training is better than nothing. Only managed to complete two out of the three assignments he’s been sent out on, but that’s still a 66.666% mission success rate. Pretty good compared to our rookies here on Earth. It also means he isn’t quite the helpless civilian type that Jameson told me he was.

I swear, that old coot doesn’t even read his own briefings.

Still, it’s weird that he’d be transferred to my district. Fifty-five is one of the most magic-heavy ones out there. There’s not a single one of its twelve worlds that actually rely on high tech. Our tools are just too unreliable in that district, so the BMA has to rely on the locals to deal with the breaches. This happens in at least thirty of the ninety-six districts within our jurisdiction, so it’s hardly all that surprising.

What’s surprising is that this guy has the balls to claim he’s found a way to make magic and tech coexist. There’ve been a bunch of nutjobs that said the same thing in the one hundred and thirty years since the breach appeared, so he’ll have to excuse me if I feel sceptical about that. To begin with, the whole reason that ‘magic’ exists in those worlds is because their universe or dimension or whatever has natural laws that, while mostly similar, are also slightly different from our own.

The only reason our navigator tech doesn’t just malfunction straight up when breaching into such a place is because of the causality field projected by our wrist-mounted PDAs. I’m not going to pretend to understand the science behind it, I just know that its an invisible bubble that makes sure the circuits and microchips and whatnot continue to operate as normal. I also know it can pop surprisingly easily if directly confronted by something that violates our laws of physics.

And yet this guy! This fucking guy! Has the gall to claim he knows how to make different realities work hand-in-hand?! I know I’m just a faceless grunt and he’s supposed to be some super-genius, but that’s just ridiculous! It’s like taking the transmission out of a Model T Hovercruiser™, hooking it up to my Kitch-Corp Blendomatic™ and then expecting the appliance to fucking fly! The BMA clearly knows this guy is full of shit, too! Otherwise they wouldn’t have dumped his scrawny ass on me in the first place!

Okay, let’s calm down. I shouldn’t judge the guy before we’ve even spoken.

…

Ah, shit. I don’t think my helmet’s computer has the orizian language pack installed. I tap on the buttons near my ear, prompting the holographic user interface to pop up in my visor. Yup, I’ll need to install that, but my helmet’s short-wave transmitter is still busted so I can’t connect to the wifi. Going to have to go get that fixed. Which sucks, because that part is at the back of my head, just under my hat.

My non-regulation hat that I glued to my helmet because I think it looks cool.

Well, might as well get this shit over with. I swing by my quartermaster’s office. He yells at me for ten minutes straight before he finally gets to work replacing the transmitter. The whole thing takes less than thirty seconds and he doesn’t even need to remove the helmet from my head, so I really don’t get why he has to get on my case every fucking time I come here. It’s not like the hat is obscuring anything important or impeding any of my sensors.

Anyway, with that settled I start downloading and installing the orizian language pack for my auto-translator. It’s already on by the time I make it to equipment bay twelve where Salami Flicker-

Wait.

I check the dossier one more time. Salamus Fricker, not Salami Flicker. Gotta get that right. Not really sure if orizians are prone to ‘salami flicking,’ but wouldn’t wanna embarrass myself or the uniform either way. I stride into the common area of the equipment bay, it’s sort of a staging ground for large teams of BMA operatives. It’s pretty empty unless shit is going down, which means it’s pretty much perpetually crowded.

I spot my new ‘partner’ sitting awkwardly in a corner. He has a navigator’s uniform that looks almost exactly like mine, but with three minor differences. Number one is the thing strapped to his left wrist isn’t a standard issue PDA, but a lump of metal with a whole bunch of colorful gems stuck into it. The second is that his helmet has to conform to the shape of his head, which means it’s shaped like a short and fat T. Last and most importantly, he doesn’t have a stylish yet authoritative hat.

He spots me as I approach and stands up to greet me. The dossier wasn’t kidding, guy’s really fucking skinny for his height. I’d almost confuse him for a synthoid in a uniform if I didn’t know any better. Also I now realize his arms are really long, almost as long as his legs. It’s messing with my head a bit.

“Greetings,” he waves a six-fingered hand at me. “You are agent who will be helping me out, yes?”

“Hey,” I respond with a wave of my own. “Yeah, I guess that’s me. You’re Salamus, right?”

“Actually, it’s pronounced Sa-lah-moose.”

“Doesn’t matter,” I say as I recall up his BMA serial number. “You’re now Twenty-Five, and you can call me Seventeen.”

“I beg your pardon?” he pulls back.

“No need to getoffended. We go by serial numbers rather than names around here, and yours ends in two-five. I suggest you deal with it.”

“… Oh. Oh, I apologize! There seems to be a glitch with your translator machine. I thought you were calling me, uh, something quite rude.”

“It happens.”

The thing with these wizard-type navigators is they can’t use our technology, so they have to emulate our tools by using whatever their home dimension’s science can cook up. They even have their own causality fields, which prevents my lifeform scanner from picking them up as living beings. It’s how I knew this was the guy I was looking for the instant I came in here.

“So will Two-Five work if Twenty-Five is somehow offensive?” I suggest.

“That is agreeable, yes,” his head sways in some weird alternative to nodding. “If I may ask, though, why numbers?”

“Like I said, it’s just easier than names.”

“But does that not strip you of your identity?”

“Yes. That’s the point. While we’re in uniform and on duty, we’re navigators of the BMA first and foremost.”

“Ah. This must be the BMA headquarters’ corporate culture I’ve heard about.”

“Sort of, but it goes deeper than that. We represent the multiverse’s foremost authority on interdimensional travel and breach-related law enforcement. It’s something far greater than ourselves, and we need to put that first. I mean, who do you think some scared swamp-farmer that landed on a desert planet is going to trust more? John Abbott, or BMA navigator number five, five, three, six, eight, zero, five, one, seven?”

“Oh! I see! It’s about using authority to reassure frightened civilians!”

“Yup. That’s a good way of putting it, actually.”

Certainly better than the grim reality that this ‘corporate culture’ only exists because it’s easier to deal with the deaths of colleagues and coworkers if they’re just a number. Hasn’t really helped me much personally, but I can see why others might find it easier.

“So, Two-Five, have you been told how this partnership will work?”

“Yes, Seventeen. I am to serve as your gunner first and foremost, and will only focus on research and field-testing at times that you see fit.”

“Do you understand what it is you actually have to do? The gunner position is a bit, uh, misleadingly labeled.”

Granted, I am not sure how this translates across the language barrier, but it’s better to ask now than in the field.

“It is?” Two-Five nervously rubbed his palms together. “Am I not there to cover you and provide fire support?”

I hate it when I’m right.

“Historically, a navigator’s gunner was indeed there to act as a bodyguard,” I explain. “However, that was a long time ago. These days our equipment, training and knowledge of the breaches are all far more advanced. Not to mention data that shows that having two people work the same case doesn’t seem to affect the outcome in any significant way. It’s far more efficient to simply have navigators working solo.”

Ugh, I should probably record this speech or something. Repeating myself every time I’m given a partner is… infuriating.

“Simply put,” I continue, “the traditional gunner position has become quite obsolete. In the rare occasions where navigators have to move in teams, the gunner is there to act as a mix of scout, medic, technician and diplomat. Fire support really doesn’t factor into it, but the agency refuses to change that name. Probably in keeping with the vague nautical theme we have going on here.”

“I… I see… I apologize, Seventeen. I was unaware.”

“It’s okay, it’s one of those things that you only learn about when you have to do it. It is really not that important since it’s super rare to have a navigator and a gunner work together. Our partnership is the exception, not the norm.”

“Understood. Though I must say, I am rather relieved.”

“You are?”

“Yes. I abhor violence. I realize there are times when it becomes necessary and I try not to hesitate, but peaceful resolutions are for the best.”

“You know what, Two-Five? I think you and I are going to get along juuuust fine.”

“I pray that we do, Seventeen. Shall we get busy, then?”

“Yeah… There is one minor issue with that.”

“Which is?”

“I’m so tired I could sleep for a week. I’ve just come off a really exhausting shift and I need rest before I hit another breach. At least eight hours’ worth. I only came down here to introduce myself because I didn’t want to keep you waiting.”

“Un.. understood,” I could practically hear his enthusiasm dissipating. “But… what am I supposed to do in the meantime?”

“I don’t know. Maybe go change your loadout to something more, uh, suitable?”

I point discreetly at the rifle-looking thing slung over his shoulder.

“… Good point. Then, meet back here in eight hours?”

“Sounds good.”

I just hope my helmet accurately translated ‘eight hours’ into orizian, because I swear to god, if that guy raises a fuss because I’m late I am going to break his fucking kneecaps.

… Assuming he has those.