"Pa, he did some soldierin'. Me? Always seemed like they's a blamed lotta rules in it, an' they want ya ta follow 'em, too. Yes, sir. No, sir. How high, sir? That ain't fer Al. 'Sides, who'd ya reckon I'd soldier fer? CAS if anyone, but they ain't never done nothin' fer me or mine. An' ya ain't fightin' fer love o' country, they yer jist a merc, an' killin' fer money, that ain't fer Al neither." He flicked a butt out the open window. Soon a freshly lit Lucky Strike was in his mouth, though his hands had not appeared to leave the steering wheel. "So nah, no soldierin', but trouble she seems ta find me regardless. An' then I reckon I did work fer Proteus fer a spell. They had this, um, special team. We did a lotta this an' that, but part of it were counterterror, an' a lotta them guys'd come outta special ops under this flag or another. They was all scientific about room entry an' buildin' clearance an' all that. Hand signals. Stuff ta look cool, was all I made of it. But I might o' picked up a thing or three."
The little man chatted on for a while, but finally realized the ork had fallen into a contemplative mood, so he let him clean his Uzi in peace.
As dusk gave way to twilight they cleared a crest in the Alborz Range and before them in the distance was the shimmering slate surface of the Jajrood River where it swelled to a good kilometer wide behind the Latyan Dam. And between them and the water was the sea of lights - fed by firewood, kerosene, or gasoline-generators - that was Karavan at night. Thousands and thousands of vehicles laid out in ordered chaos to form avenues and alleys. A city where none had been two days past and none would be two days hence. Two airships floated above, and patrols of horses, bikes, and ATVs roamed the perimeter.
"Hungry?"