Captain (P) Tut'el stood outside the maintenance area gate, standing next to the street, on the grassy part just to the right of the pavement that led through the gate and into the maintenance area. His uniform was perfectly pressed, boots shined, hat at just the right angle.

The day was just right. Not too warm, not too cold. The breeze pleasing. Not too bright not too dim.

Tut'el closed his eyes for a moment, skrinching his toes inside his boots.

"Captain?" he heard from behind him.

He sighed, turning around.

A private stood just inside the gate. She was a Welkret, small and fuzzy, and held a datapad in her hand, looking nervous. When she saw she had the Captain's attention she snapped off a salute.

"Yes, Private?" Tut'el asked.

"The Chief needs you to sign off on a holo-emitter request," the Private said. She held out the datapad.

Tut'el looked it over.

A Warbound from the Davrek-Cygnus War roughly six thousand years prior. It needed heavy overhaul and was badly damaged. He hummed to himself as he went over the damage, flaws, and possible repairs.

The Private glanced at the Captain. To be honest, he scared her. It wasn't anything he said or did. He was known to be efficient and fair. It wasn't his appearance. Beyond the four thin stripes of white down the side of his head and neck from a phasic shade graze, his uniform and personal grooming were immaculate down to the gloss on his boots.

It was that he had gone on what the other Telkan called a "death ride" with the Telkan officer known as "The Warfather" to shut down the FTL commo links.

Rumor had it that the Captain's uniform hadn't even been mussed at the end of it.

Captain Tut'el wasn't unaware of the Private's covert examination, looking over the datapad.

He found the problem quickly. The Warbound insisted on only one type of holo-emitter decorations and they were borderline pornographic. The Chief Warrant Officer in charge of the maintenance shed was worried about violating the "no publicly displayed pornography" statute put down by Corps.

He tabbed an authorization for the images and handed the datapad back.

"There you go, Private. Tell the Chief to make sure this one is either slumbering or in a fugue state before dismounting that 30mm twin barrel to repair the loading assembly," Tut'el said.

The Welkret nodded, snapped off a salute, and hurried away.

Tut'el went back to staring at the sky.

After a few minutes a groundcar pulled up, the black vehicle almost vibrating with eagerness. A slightly disheveled looking Bit.nek got out, opened the door for Tut'el, then closed it after the Captain got inside.

It didn't bother Tut'el that Bit.nek didn't salute.

Inside Major Vuxten and 471 were sitting up in the front seat.

"Where are we going, sir?" Tut'el asked.

"Off post," the Major said. "There's a shop I want to take a look at."

Tut'el frowned. "Any problems, sir?"

Vuxten shook his head. "No. I just want to check something."

Tut'el nodded, looking around. He spotted a beat-up and battered magac SMG tucked in between the front seats.

"They're doing full accountability in the arms rooms today, Private," Tut'el said. "That's not going to get some unexpecting armorer in trouble is it?"

Bit.nek patted the weapon as he turned at the intersection and merged with traffic. "No, sir. Ran it off a cracked nanoforge a few months ago, cloned the dataplate and RFID to my weapon card. Mine's sitting in the arms room with a jimmied accountability chip, but a surface check will have this one come back as mine."

Tut'el just nodded. "Good man," he said, leaning back.

Vuxten suppressed a smile as he tapped his fingers on his knee.

He remembered Vat Grown Luke AKA Dhruv AKA Legion talking to Daxin and the others about what he had done in the long centuries before they'd reassembled to take on Heaven.

Dhruv had mentioned more than once he had founded and staffed the Clone My Shit Up genetic clinics himself. Sure, he'd hired a lot of people to work for him, but every single owner/manager had been a version of himself.

Retail Army of One, Vuxten thought to himself, remembering the Detainee's joke. It still made him smile, the mental image of thousands of Legions all saying "May I help you, sir or ma'am, both or neither?" why wearing identical nametags all saying "Hello, my name is LEGION" in crayon.

"Any major problems at the wrench shed?" Vuxten asked.

Tut'el shook his head. "Had two more Warbound and a big nasty warborg come in this morning. The Warbound is from something called the Shattered Systems Conglomerate, some kind of pre-Confederacy government from about five thousand years ago."

"That sounds fun," Vuxten said.

"Yeah, great fun. No specs, no wireframes, no docs, nothing. His chassis is obviously a knockoff, but apparently he was holding the line for five thousand years against someone he states is "the Enemy" and that's all he knows about them," Tut'el said. He snorted. "Had to pressure wash him four times to remove the avian droppings."

"Just throw my body in a ditch and pour some whiskey on me, OK, sirs?" Bit.nek said. He shivered. "No thanks on being one of those guys."

"I'll have you buried under the Conex brothel," Vuxten promised with a grin. "Have your name etched on the prophylactic dispenser in the E-Club with a set of keys by a Rigellian dommy-mommy in a thong."

"Thanks, sir," Bit.nek said.

--name a phillips driver after you-- 471 offered.

"Heh," Bit.nek smiled at the unspoken joke. "I'll take it."

Tut'el smiled.

The rest of ride was quiet until it got to one of the modest little strip malls that had sprung up around the base. Tut'el noted the liquor store was open, as was the smoke shop.

Vuxten stared at the largest shop.

The sign was simple. Unlit, no flashy holograms, just a basic extruded plastic sigh.

CLONE MY SHIT UP

471 climbed on his shoulder and Vuxten got out, Bit.nek and Tut'el following him. He moved into the shop and surprised to see that there were nearly a dozen customers all sitting at the terminals, looking over various options. There were even a few in uniform despite the fact it was Training Day.

The ones in uniform looked nervous, obviously worried that Vuxten or Tut'el was going to want to know what unit they were from in order to call their CO's.

A slim, androgynous brown skinned Terran, his bald head shining in the light, came walking up to the trio.

"Greetings. I am Victor-1953-02-28, franchise owner/operator and lead geneticist" the Terran said. "How may I help any of you?"

"I have an appointment for a private consultation," Vuxten said, unsurprised that there was apparent recognition.

"Of course, Major," Victor smiled. "Just you or will there be others?"

"My battle buddy. The Private and the Captain will wait," Vuxten said.

Bit.nek acted like he didn't hear, trading eye glances with a comely Telkan female. Tut'el just nodded.

"Come this way, Major," Victor said.

Vuxten nodded and followed the slim Terran into a back office.

As soon as the door closed, the veneer seemed to strip off of the slender Terran as he moved around the desk and sat down, waving at comfortable chair and a small green mantid sized recliner sitting on the table next to the chair.

"Sit down, kid," Victor, no, Legion said, his voice much different.

Vuxten sat down and 471 jumped to the chair, sitting down and letting it arrange itself.

"How are you?" Vuxten asked.

Legion sighed. "I'm all right. Back to what I love."

"How's everyone else?" Vuxten asked.

Legion shrugged. "Not sure. We left Atlantis and all went our separate ways," he looked up. "Not sure where Dax went, though. He was supposed to meet me here with the Death of All Hope or whatever ship he wanted to take, but I haven't heard from him or FIDO in almost six months."

Vuxten just nodded. "Yeah."

Legion leaned forward. "How are you, kid?"

"Better, some days," Vuxten admitted.

"How about you, Inertia?" Legion asked.

--good good no big birds-- 471 said.

Legion smiled.

"I was just letting you know I was in the neighborhood. Well, one of me, anyway," Legion said.

"Any particular reason?" Vuxten asked.

Legion nodded. "I've got sources in places you wouldn't believe. I found out about three months ago that their turning this place in the Temporal Warfare Separation and Accommodation Site for this section of the Confederacy," he said.

"I hadn't heard that," Vuxten admitted.

"It's not official yet, but it's why you've got 21st Replacement bringing in newbies and guys with sixty years in service over the last two years," Legion said.

"Makes sense," Vuxten said. He sighed. "Lots of guys are having a hard time. They probably won't go home. The longevity treatments are shit."

Legion grinned.

"That's why I'm here, kid," Legion said. He nodded out to the showroom. "Those cute little Terran women with the blonde page-cuts? Confederate Intelligence Agents. Keeping track of me while I run a Gray Box project."

"Longevity," Vuxten guessed.

Legion leaned back in the chair.

"More than that, kid. You've got guys with serious genetic malformation, advanced aging, all that good stuff. They need me to go through all of it. Sure, the post hospital can devote the computing power to sequencing everyone's genescans and running sims on them. Hell, you can do that with a good set of medic power armor with a biowarfare eVI package," Legion said. He waved at the showroom. "What they can't do, is what I can."

"Be sixty or six hundred researchers with perfect information sharing," Vuxten said.

He smiled widely. "Right. Telkan, Hesstlan, Tukna'rn coding first, see what's glitchy about the longevity treatments. That was the initial Gray Box mission."

"Are you sure it's OK to read me in?" Vuxten asked suddenly.

Legion's smile grew wider. "I'll read in who I damn well please, especially my little brothers, and if the Confederacy doesn't like it, they can find another genetics specialist."

Vuxten nodded.

"Anyway, I cracked that sitting across the street at the smoothie stand while the ants built this place," Legion smiled. "I was pretty sure what it was before I even started looking at the data."

"What is it?" Vuxten asked.

"Guess," Legion said. "Guess why gene therapies and longevity procedures weren't working very well when used on the military personnel who needed them."

Vuxten thought for a second.

--civvy version work-- 471 asked.

"Not always. Some species, not at all," Legion offered.

471 threw up a complex equation involving time, genetic sampling, and outside contaminates from rare sources.

"The gentling combined with anti-rad treatments and nanite gene-guards," Vuxten guessed.

"Together, you both are right," Legion said. He waved at Vuxten. "Come here, kid," he said.

Vuxten stood up as Legion pushed a small sample collector across the desk.

"You too, Inertia," Legion said.

471 jumped to the desk, his wings buzzing.

Vuxten touched the pad, felt the needle lance into his fingerpad, taking blood, tissue, fur sample. 471 touched in and flinched slightly as it grabbed a chitin, muscle fiber, and ichor sample.

Legion put the sampler away as he watched the Telkan and the green mantid sit down.

"Oof, there's my Father's touch," Legion said. "There's the Gen-Zero-Alpha smear."

"Gen-Zero-Alpha?" Vuxten asked.

"SUDS used generation zero mat trans, but the Detainee modded it. Unfortunately, when she died, she locked the whole system out, so we're not sure what she did," Legion said. "Radiation cascade genetic repair. Huh, you got atom smashed."

"You can read that all off of those samples?" Vuxten asked.

"I can," Legion said. "There's more data than just the DNA strands of the helix," Legion closed his eyes for a second. "Yeah, there it is."

"There what is?" Vuxten was feeling nervous.

"Exposure to the Anomaly when you were at Atlantis. Left you with some self-correcting mutating code," Legion said. "Must have been when we went to the beach for beers and it hiccuped."

Vuxten said quietly for a few more minutes. Finally, Legion opened his eyes.

"All right. No promises. I'm pretty sure I can help," Legion said. He shook his head. "I can't and won't remove some stuff, like the Immortals coding," he stared at Vuxten. "Hearing prayers?"

Vuxten shook his head. "Not in my head. Once in a while when I'm walking by I can hear someone use my name to swear."

Legion tapped his fingers on the desk, smiling. "You get used to that," he looked at 471. "Your extended lifespan is due to exposure to my Father as well as the fact you had a mantle laid down on you."

--how old-- 471 asked.

Legion shrugged. "Not sure," he sighed and pushed back in his chair slightly. "Dax was broken up pretty bad when we found out that Gravity died. He'd managed to avoid the Imperium. Died in the jungles of the Congaline Basin, by himself, living in the wreckage of a Republic dropship," Legion sighed and shook his head. "He died free, and that's what mattered to him."

Vuxten just nodded. "I get it."

Legion nodded back. "I knew you would, kid," he looked at 471. "And I know you do."

471 just flashed a nodding emoji.

Legion closed his eyes again. "You've got a lot of stuff in your genecode, Vux. I can parse it, annotate it, send it over to the post hospital."

"Can they do anything with it?" Vuxten asked. "They're pretty overworked right now."

Legion smiled. "Trust me, kid."

Vuxten just nodded.

"Want blue tips to your ears? I can do that right in the shop," Legion offered.

Vuxten laughed. "No. Thanks anyway."

-----

Vuxten went out into the parking lot, 471 riding on his shoulder. Bit.nek was sitting on the hood of the groundcar, drinking a fizzystim. Tut'el was leaning on the wheel well next to him, smoking a Treana'ad smokestick.

"Ready, sir?" Bit.nek asked.

"Yeah. Let's head back to wrench shed," Vuxten said.

Bit.nek nodded, holding open the door for Vuxten, then Tut'el, then moving around the car and getting in.

The ride was quiet till they went through the gate. The gate guards checking everyone's ID and under the car in a standard spot inspection, then waving the car through.

"You all right, Major?" Captain Tut'el asked.

Vuxten nodded. "Just making sure that the troops can use that gene clinic."

Tut'el exhaled smoke out of the crack between the window and the door frame. "Soon as we walked in, I knew they'd be able to."

"Really?" Vuxten asked.

Tut'el shrugged. "Vat Grown Luke running a cloning shop? Who's going to say no?"

Vuxten frowned.

Tut'el shrugged again. "He came right out. Plain as day."

"How did you know it was him, sir?" Bit.nek asked.

"Saw him during the Trial of General Trucker. Say another just like him working at the post hospital's gene therapy clinic. Not too many identical clone lines running around any more. Kind of clued me in. Well, that and the biggest one," Tut'el said.

"What?" Vuxten asked.

"He's Terran. The Confederate Agents are Terran even if their hair is dyed whatever color. Not many Terrans around, so he sticks out like a sore thumb," Tut'el said. "His disguise needs work."

Vuxten just shook his head and smiled.

Bit.nek parked the car and preceded the two officers and the green mantid into the motorpool. The trio separated, Bit.nek heading over to lurk near the POL shed, Tut'el and 471 heading in to the big maintenance building to check on any new arrivals, Vuxten heading down the row of vehicles.

Troops were doing Training Day afternoon PMCS (Preventive Maintenance, Checks, & Services) on the vehicles, trying to fix deficiencies, replace worn or broken parts, or just getting the vehicle out of deadline status and back to working.

"Do you know why the window cracked when you tightened down the fixator strip?" Vuxten heard a familiar voice say.

"No, Lance Corporal," a Telkan voice answered. Vuxten recognized it as one of the privates from the Class-V section of Alpha Company, 17th Battalion, 5th Brigade.

He swerved toward the voices.

"You're supposed to tighten one on each side, then in the middle, then back to each side, then to either side of the middle one. Otherwise, it puts too much sheer tension on the macroplas and it cracks," the voice said. "All right, pull it out and we'll start over."

"I knew that," the Telkan said. "I just forgot."

"Happens to us all," the familiar voice said. "All right, I'll hold the plas, you tighten the fixator strip."

Vuxten came around the corner of one of the APC's and stopped, his mouth hanging open.

A Terran was holding a sheet of macroplas in place by one of the light cargo utility vehicles while a Telkan ran the screwdriver and a half dozen other privates watched. The Terran's face was scarred, they had no SUDS implant at the base of their skull, and they wore an eye patch.

"Casey?" Vuxten said.