by C. C. Ekeke
Marguliese stood before him, golden and statuesque as always, studying him with those emotionless cerulean eyes. The Cybernarr said nothing, nor did she have to.
What the hazik is wrong with me? Pull yourself together! Habraum straightened up with as much dignity as he could muster and shook his arm, sore from the sudden exertion.
“No one saw you,” the Cybernarr said flatly, answering the question he had dreaded to ask. Habraum dared a glance up at the walls behind him, the indistinct location of the holovid cameras that broadcast HLHG sessions to the HLHG ObDeck nearby.
Thank the Twins. How could Habraum’s subordinates respect him again if they had seen that unripe outburst?
He took fleeting comfort in her unemotional demeanor…and remembered that she would be leaving as well. After how effective Marguliese had been, Habraum didn’t want that. However, the Cerc had promised Khrome that she would be gone once this Maelstrom business was finished. Plus, her presence placed the entire Star Brigade at risk should she be exposed.
“I should…get some sleep,” Habraum decided. Marguliese made no move to follow him, but he could feel her eyes on his back even after the HLHG Suite doors closed behind him.
Enough of this pity party rubbish. Habraum shook his head to clear it out. Jeremy needed his father, not some bloke bludgeoning himself over what can’t be changed. With Honaa gone and Marguliese departing soon, Star Brigade needs me more than ever.
So did Sam, his second-in-command…his best friend.
Habraum voiced his frustration with a loud groan and limped into an open translifter booth, hands on his head. What he wouldn’t do right now to see Sam’s irresistible smile. But that smile had been as absent from Habraum’s life as she had been.
On the surface, Sam D’Urso’s resolve appeared ironclad. She had helped with Jeremy and keeping Star Brigade steady while Habraum had been convalescing. Sam had even been spending time on Terra Sollus with that Korvenite lass who helped stop Maelstrom. She seemed fine…on the surface.
Habraum saw through the visage, recognizing the emptiness in her eyes. But Sam had no interest in his comfort. Since Honaa’s demise, Sam had been keeping herself buried in work, shutting everyone out.
According to Solrao, a few nights since Star Brigade had returned from Honaa’s funeral, Sam had been leaving Pilot Pub tanked-up. And usually not alone.
If that’s how she was coping, then Habraum wouldn’t judge. All he wanted was to be there for his friend when the grief became too much. And it will…
Just this morning, they had started having breakfast briefings in his office to go over Star Brigade’s status. She and Honaa had been doing this for the past year, so Habraum figured it would do well to continue the tradition. He had worn his black and grey Brigade captain’s uniform while Sam went casual in a baby blue variant of the kurthon hooded tracksuits she favored. That was as far as Commander D’Urso took her casual air. She barely touched her peach oatmeal, and outside of one question about Jeremy’s wellbeing, made no effort to engage him beyond the meeting agenda—very unlike her.
At the meeting’s end she rose to leave, her farewell cold, curt and perfunctory.
“Sammie…” Habraum had called out, more from desperation than anything.
Sam gave him an uncomprehending look. “What?” she had snapped after the silence between them stretched on too long.
Thankfully, Habraum had found his voice quickly. “I’m telling you again. I’m not going anywhere.” Sam’s expression had frosted over into a bloodless mask, giving away nothing. “Whether that’s today, tomorrow, next week,” he continued. “I’m here when you’re ready to talk.”
When Habraum finished, a thin, disdainful half-smirk pulled at Sam’s lips. She gave a slow shake of the head as if the entreaty amused her before turning and leaving without a word.
Habraum would’ve been more frustrated if he hadn’t been surprised. Sam dealt with personal loss by not dealing with it…until she had no choice. And despite their differences, she did care deeply for Honaa. However, experience had taught Habraum that pushing Sam too much would backfire.
She’ll come to me when she’s ready, he told himself again as he arrived at his quarters.
The Cerc stepped into his foyer. His plan for the night was to tackle some intelligence report reading and then sleep, until he tasted it. The gloom of his quarters carried a faint fragrance. Vanilla firespice.
Habraum smiled his first genuine smile since seeing Jeremy after the Battle of Terra Sollus. A quick glance confirmed she wasn’t in the living room. Upstairs. He climbed the stairs, feeling close to a hundred years old when moving as fast as his aching body would allow. The closer he got to his bedroom, the more anxiety poured acid over his excitement. What was she going to say? Would she be angry or sad or just more of what he got this morning? Too many questions. Best to barrel head-on and not go skittery over it, he told himself.
Walking slowly down the darkened upstairs hallway, the Cerc stopped instinctively in front of Jeremy’s room. He then quickly reminded himself that the boy had been at his grandparents’ on Terra Sollus since Habraum returned from Rothor IV. Given how close he had been to the KIF danger, Jennica’s parents had wanted to see Jeremy to confirm that he was truly alright (since Habraum’s word was clearly not good enough).
He had actually been glad Jeremy spent the past four days with his grandparents. It gave the Cerc time to get his head sorted before resuming his fatherly duties.
He found her on his bed with legs crossed, hands limply on her lap. The dim lighting left her half-shrouded in gloom, but Habraum could make out her black short-shorts and green t-shirt with the university name ‘Wellington’ inscribed in white lettering across her chest. Her blond mane was pulled back in a high ponytail. She sat perfectly still, gazing blankly at the wall across from the bed.
She didn’t react to his arrival or his easing into a seat next to her on the bed. Habraum waited patiently for a response, waiting so long that when she finally spoke, her voice startled him.
“Haven’t slept well since Honaa…you know.” Sam sounded tired, her voice throatier than normal, lacking any vitality. “Then, tonight I had this dream that I didn’t catch you in time when you fell from the Amalgam.” She shook her head slowly, as if disbelieving the words she uttered. “Felt so real, and you had this calm look on your face…like when you were actually falling…as if you were all too ready to die.”
Shame crawled like cold fingers up Habraum’s spine. He had willfully forgotten that dishonorable moment, but now it barreled into the forefront of his thoughts.
“So I came over,” Sam continued in that low, dead rasp. “But…you were gone, and for a moment…for a moment I thought the dream actually had happened.”
The Cerc couldn’t forget how she’d rescued him yet again or that fleeting displeasure afterward, knowing he wouldn’t be reunited with Jennica. That wish, so selfish in hindsight, had been the only thing keeping the terror at bay when death seemed imminent.
Had Habraum died, Sam would have been the only veteran Brigadier left. Instead, it was just her and him from Star Brigade’s previous incarnation. “We’re the last of the old guard,” he offered quietly.
“I know,” she nodded. By the strain on that lovely face, the notion didn’t agree with Sam. Habraum’s past combat team came to mind unbidden. He cringed away from those thoughts. Maelstrom’s manipulation of his guilt over their murders and his wife’s demise still hurt too much to think about.
Sam looked up and turned to regard his face. Her russet eyes looked dead, blacker than pitch in the low-lit room. Sam reached out, stroked the side of his face with delicate fingers as if to confirm that he really sat beside her. Her touch sent warm tingles through Habraum from head to heel.
She slapped him.
“Oww. Okay,” the Cerc groused, more surprised than stung. So she was angry. Anger, I can sort. He turned his head back to her.
She slapped him.
Stars da
nced before Habraum’s eyes, one side of his face burning. Sam moved fast, rolling over and straddling him in one fluid motion. She pinned him down with her hands on his chest and a stare that could’ve soured fresh water. “If you ever give up like that again…I will skin you alive.”
“I’ll…right, then,” the Cerc blurted out, knowing his second-in-command was in no joking mood.
Sam moved to roll off, to flee from him and her anguish.
Habraum grabbed her forearms, holding her in place. Sam fought and writhed and yanked to break free, but Habraum refused to let go. Sam had always been deceptively strong. Had this been right after he’d left the Medcenter a week ago, she might’ve succeeded. If I let go, she’ll hide behind her walls again.
“Stop,” Habraum’s voice dominated the room. Sam ceased her struggle, squeezing her eyes shut.
A single tear rolled down her left cheek. She looked barely able to hold the agony at bay. Seeing Sam in pain stabbed through the Cerc’s heart. Only alone with Habraum would Sam ever display her wounds. He reached out on instinct, thumbing away her tears gently.
Sam swayed at his touch, and slowly inclined her head toward his. For a searing instant Habraum thought she might kiss him. His body tensed. Should I stop this or not?
Instead, she rested her forehead against his and lingered there.
Habraum sighed in quiet relief. They remained like this a long while, eyes closed. He heard the raggedness in her breaths settling now. Sam’s nearness, the unnatural warmth of her body soothed away his sorrows. Habraum’s heart pounded, his hands slipped unbidden along her sumptuous waist and hips. The blissful scent of her vanilla firespice fragrance flooded his nostrils in disquieting ways. It would be so easy to pull her in and—
No, Habraum turned his head, cursing his own weakness. Not when we’re so raw. The thought of Jennica and the ugly mockery Maelstrom made of her memory intensified his guilt even more.
Sam didn’t seem to notice. She melted atop him and slid both arms around his waist, nuzzling her face against his neck. Habraum gathered Sam up in his arms, and she gave a little moan.
“You disappeared on me last week,” he whispered.
“I know. Sorry.”
“I’m sorry too,” Habraum whispered again.
“I know.” Sam brushed her lips by his ear, sending another jolt through him. “You feel like home,” her murmur was thick with longing. She kissed his throat softly and the strength seemed to go out of her. Soon Habraum heard gentle snoring.
Habraum let his cheek rest against hers, feeling the world fade away…and woke up abruptly.
He didn’t know whether it was Sam’s balmy warmth on top of him or her increasingly loud snores. They’d both been out for a few orvs, just enough to restore his clarity.
And now that she was here, Habraum recalled what they both needed to do still. For Honaa.
“Sammie,” he murmured in her ear, squeezing her arm for extra emphasis.
Sam stirred at the sound of his voice. “Mmmmm…” Then she went still.
Habraum shook her again by the shoulders. “Samantha,” he said right in her ear.
“Whaaat?” She jerked her head up, leveling a drowsy-eyed glare at him.
“We need to go pay our respects.”
That woke Sam up. “I’m not ready.” Her abrupt tone permitted no further discussion.
“Nor am I,” sighed Habraum, expecting this reaction. “We have to.”
Sam jerked back into a straddled position. “Habraum—” she warned.
“Samantha,” Habraum overrode her tantrum, barely raising his voice. “We still have to.”
Five macroms and a brief squabble later, Habraum and Sam stood side by side inside a translifter briskly weaving its way down and right and diagonally toward their destination.
Neither said a word during the entire ride. The Cerc’s stomach was in a tight, uncomfortable knot, just like the last time he’d come down to give tribute to the other teammates and friends he had lost over a year ago. Habraum sure as hazik didn’t want to go there, but it had to be done. This was the tradition for any Star Brigadier killed in combat.
He stole a glance at Sam. She glared straight ahead, lost in her own separate pain.
Before Habraum knew it, the translifter stopped, its doors hissing open. They had arrived.
He clutched for Sam’s hand tightly, not so much to keep her from bolting but to fortify his own resolve. Ripping open a still fresh wound was not on Habraum’s list of enjoyables. Sam gave his hand a squeeze. Suddenly Habraum felt a rush of courage that forced his legs forward.
The Memorial Hall loomed imperiously before them. Habraum wasted no time standing in front of it, hesitating and contemplating. He steeled himself against the expected waves of pain and led Sam forward. The doors slid open, and halolights switched on.
They were all there: close to a hundred or more Star Brigadiers dating back to Leonardo Osawa of the first Star Brigade combat team twenty-seven years ago. More recent additions, the eleven murdered last year on Beridaas stood in the forefront. The tenures of every Star Brigadier was recorded in Star Brigade archives. Only those active Brigadiers killed in combat were immortalized via 3D holograms in the Memorial Hall, as well as the Remembrance Wall outside Star Brigade’s Command Center.
The knots in Habraum’s stomach tightened to the point of nausea. Visiting the Memorial Hall before to honor the teammates he’d lost over a year ago, that had been a slow-roasting hell. Having to do the same with Honaa Ishliba felt worse.
A single silvery empty platform was situated in a clearing amidst these life-sized holos.
Habraum released Sam’s hand and limped forward through the holos, fiddling for the datacard in his pocket. He focused on that platform. Something in Habraum would break if he stopped to behold Jovian or Ariel or Dr. Pel or any of his old team.
All the holograms of dead Brigadiers were silent specters as he slid a small, razor-thin datacard into a slot at the base of the circular platform.
“Activate,” the Cerc whispered and backpedaled to Sam’s side, wincing at his own haste to distance himself from these ghosts.
An instant later, Honaa Ishliba’s life-sized holo blossomed into being. The height, the sinewy build and maroon scales, the tail length and thickness, even the cutting amber eyes were immaculate.
Habraum’s breath caught, convinced in a moment of deluded grief it was actually the Rothorid.
He knew better. On command, the holo could speak or produce a data scroll of Honaa’s career with Star Brigade, his whole life in fact, as well as how he died.
But it would never be Honaa.
“Let’s do this,” the Cerc muttered. Together with Sam, he began the words recited for any Brigadier entered into Memorial Hall: “Captain Honaa Ishliba, you fought with courage. You fought with merit. You gave your all in the name of Star Brigade and the Galactic Union. Your sacrifice will never be forgotten, Star Brigadier.” The epitaph I should’ve given my old teammates.
They finished and the room answered with tomb-like silence. The knots inside loosened just enough, and Habraum could breathe again. He watched Honaa’s holo, foolishly hoping against hope it could speak Honaa’s words, give Honaa’s guidance.
Nothing. All Habraum had now besides this life-sized holo were his own memories and years of the Rothorid’s holorecords. Not enough, he thought bitterly. That would never be enough.
A sharp intake of breath pulled Habraum from his inner perdition. He turned to see Sam squeezing her eyes shut, quivering like a leaf, fighting with all her strength to hold it together.
Habraum’s heart ached for her. He placed a hand on the small of her back, stroking up and down. “It’s alright, Sammie,” he said softly. “It’s alright. Let it out.”
After a long moment she finally did, turning and collapsing into Habraum’s waiting arms. In the privacy of the Memorial Hall, Sam D’Urso began sobbing. She buried her face in Habraum’s chest, streams of tears saturating his shirt. T
he desperate way she’d held onto his waist felt as if Sam was terrified to let Habraum go. He tenderly kissed the crown of her head to reassure her otherwise.
Habraum recalled Honaa’s last words, as if the hologram was speaking to him. “Lead them well.”
I will, Honaa. Fresh tears began to blur Habraum’s vision. Another sob shuddered through Sam’s body. The Cerc held her closer. I promise.
Gifted
Kasiaph had never stayed in a Medcenter recovery room before.
Then again, he’d never purposely plunged a spreader knife through his lower left arm before either.
By now, the nine-year old Nnaxan and his family should have arrived at Hyperion Interplanetary Spaceport on Terra Sollus.
Instead Kasiaph was still on Terra Gima, in East Poston city-state to be exact. The Nnaxan sat glumly on the bed of a recovery room in a fourth-rate medcenter, the closest his family could find. His lemony complexion was pale from blood loss, his still-growing craniowhisks limp. The sight of where he’d stabbed his lower right forearm was now just a dark, fading bruise. Three small square holoscreens floated like disembodied ghosts around his bed: one monitoring cardiac rhythm and blood pressure, another observing respiratory function, the third neurological function.
Kasiaph bristled at the latter holoscreen. He was not crazy. At least…he didn’t think so.
Rhyne’s morning light, partially shrouded by clouds, streaked through the viewport and gave the room a lukewarm glow. “I’m in big trouble such,” the Nnaxan boy muttered under his breath.
The boy knew this by how his paternal’s long and thick craniowhisks had gone rigid with anger. The way his maternal just glared at him from across the room, eyes full of such disappointment. Her own craniowhisks hung limp with sorrow, all four arms wrapped fretfully around her slender, cobalt blue-skinned frame.
Kasiaph stared out the window at the crisscrosses of hovercar traffic passing near downtown East Poston’s anemic skyline. He thought of his older sisters Kaccia and Kecienne. They would have murdered him damn near if his paternals hadn’t kept them at home. Kasiaph couldn’t fault them for that. As it was, the air in the recovery room was thick with fury and resentment.
