MY NAME IS SCOUT
Context: The cult known as the Children of Sydelle have kidnapped the mother of Youssou Hadebe. To effect her rescue, Magistrate Jomoro al-Amain has called in an elite fighting force, the Rangers. Youssou meanwhile has persuaded Jomoro to release Jamai Dlamini from an unjust prison sentence for the duration of the operation. She has come to a point where she has won the Rangers’ respect, enough to have earned a nickname…
Narrated by Youssou:
The Rangers seemed to have a penchant for enclosed spaces. We congregated in the command tent, what Cobalt’s men referred to as the Eagle’s Den, no doubt because of the eagle-head on the flagpole hoisted behind us. Cobalt stood at the head of a map table which took up most of the available space of a rather sizeable tent. As before the participants in this particular briefing we all wedged ourselves around the table.
“Now that we have our guide we can get started,” Cobalt began. With his swivel stick he tapped at different grid sections that divided the relief map. “We’re going to divide into four squads of 24 men each. You will each be assigned a grid with sniffer drones.
“These drones will be enabled to spit additional mini-drones--gnats, essentially--which will explore each abandoned facility. No doubt the enemy will mistake these minis for fleas or some other pest. These will be exploratory missions. Do not attack unless you have a reasonable chance of success. Our objective is to locate the enemy, assess and report back.
“Bear in mind this is a process of elimination. There are 1,500 monasteries and churches spread over a thousand kilometers in Gondar and the Simien Mountains. Some of these churches are still active, some have been abandoned, and one of them might be the one where our enemy is squatting. We’re going to sort the good ones from the bad, starting with what we assume are abandoned sites.
“It is probable we may encounter bands of shiftas on our patrols. Should you do so, douse them with anesthetic gas. We’ll see whether Intel Section can squeeze any actionable intelligence out of them. Corpsman will distribute filter masks and remote-control leash pods for each sniffer.
“One more thing. There was an innocent woman taken by these devils. Our primary objective is her safe recovery. Now then, any questions?”
Beside me at the far end of the table, Jamai’s hand hesitantly went up. “Why do they call him ‘Corpsman’? Doesn’t he have a name?”
“Umm, that is my name,” he replied in a soft almost effeminate voice.
“That’s what they call you?” Jamai asked.
The man offered a thin shrug. “Exactly. They always call ‘hai, Corpsman’. It suits me, so it’s kind of stuck.”
“Huh. It’s a lucky thing I won’t be here long enough for you gentleman to slap a designation on me!” As she was saying this, Cobalt paused in his habitual rapping of his swivel stick on his thigh. He tried to shuffle to one side as his eyes rolled.
I unfortunately was not as quick. She suddenly found herself in a sea of abashed faces. “Don’t tell me it’s the same thing Sydelle’s idiots call me,” she groaned.
“There was a vote,” Cobalt responded. “It was precisely because the enemy gave you that label that it was a non-starter. Given the choice between ‘Pythoness’ and ‘Scout’, the majority voted for the latter.”
It was a quick briefing. Cobalt suggested we all get a good night’s rest; tomorrow would be a good day for hunting. Once in our tent, Jamai commented, “It’s a good thing they hadn’t decided to give you a name, rafiki…oh no. What is it?”
“’Angry Scowl’,” I said and rolled over.
