"Make it dangerous or morally questionable for them to fire on you," Yamina said from the other side of the campfire.  The ruddy flames reflected off her pale hair, almost making it seem as if she were wearing a crown of living flames from time to time.  "You're the turret, the fire is your target, I'm a barracks full of soldiers.  If you miss, you send 8 centimeters of coherent light ravaging through a soft building filled with friendlies and flammables.  The same with the mech bay, or the power station.  Force the enemy to make choices while you've already made decisions," she finished.<br/><br/>Yamina's voice was light, conversational and not commanding.  It was far less formal than one might expect from her relative position within the unit, but it was not disrespectful.  Yamina never was.  She was socially friendly without being gregarious, a patient listener without being a sympathizer, a confessor and never one to confess.  She also kept confidences; it was one of her few points of fanaticism.<br/><br/>"And keep moving.  Our accuracy will be poor because of it, but so will theirs.  They will grow frustrated, then panicked and make mistakes.  So long as we sow confusion and death, we will triumph."  If Allah wills she added silently to herself.<br/><br/>