by C. C. Ekeke
“Ah yesss,” Honaa did remember Cortes after a few moments; timid and soft-spoken with short cropped hair. Sonic manipulation was her maximal ability. She had doctorate degrees in xenobiology, xenoimmunology and interspecies medicine earned from one of Galdor’s top medical universities, followed by a residency at the Galdorian Interstellar Research Center—all by the tender age of twenty-four. Honaa had seen her a few times in Hollus’s Medcenter during her two-year fellowship. “That’sss the point. Other than mandatory sssessionsss on fitnessss and controlling her abilitiesss, Cortesss had almossst no field training at all. Not even clossse to being a field candidate.”
“All our active field medics who were full doctors are gone, Honaa,” Sam reminded him.
“Then we can look to PLADECO’s A.N.T division or the Ssspace Marine TROJANs for doctorsss,” Honaa replied, refusing to bend. He had bent too much, making Sam forget who the commanding officer was in their relationship.
“You know what message that sends?” Sam retorted sharply. “Star Brigade can’t cultivate its own talent anymore. Cortes is one of ours. We should bring her in.”
Honaa opened his mouth to respond, until he realized how right she was again. Why was he fighting this silly little decision so vehemently? Honaa straightened up and sighed in concession. “Do what you feel is necessssary. It’sss not like you actually follow ordersss anymore.” Honaa immediately regretted the last part, but bitterness had loosened his tongue before he could stop himself.
“I’d follow the orders,” Sam fired back, cool as ice, “if the officer giving them still gave a shit.”
The charge might as well have been a slap across Honaa’s face. He strode forward until he was a mere inch or two away from Sam, towering over her. “You forget your place, Commander,” he warned through gritted teeth, his rasping voice razor-sharp. “I sstrongly advissse you to remember it.”
Sam’s response was a barbed smile that could cut through iron, never reaching her eyes. Loathing twisted in the Rothorid’s belly, but not for her. She shook her head in disdain, snatching up her commander’s jacket to walk past him and out of the room.
Does she have even a shred of respect for me anymore? The question hung unanswered in Honaa’s thoughts long after Sam’s departure. He was afraid what that answer might be. Honaa had turned a blind eye for too long to her underhanded stunts, because of how the Brigade benefited and it allowed him not to dirty his own talons—and paid for it now with Sam’s open scorn. That should have concerned Honaa more…as well as his eroding value in Star Brigade. All of this made him feel his years and fleetingly regret declining the regular biomodification therapy many undergo to fight the relentless foe called age.
And my other health problem doesn’t help, he brooded. For weeks now the magnetic pull of his homeworld had grown. Honaa yearned to see his companion, their offspring and Rothor IV’s humid swamps. He had been away too long, since Beridaas.
But Honaa couldn’t go back yet. Not with Star Brigade in its current state. Honor your duty, honor your family, the creed ingrained into every Rothorid who took positions of public service like Honaa had. Leaving the Brigade as it was, no matter how much he yearned to, would bring shame on his offspring back on Rothor IV. Only after things were secure could he entertain such personal wants. Honaa exited his office, planning on retiring to his quarters. Yet to be surrounded by reminders of family in his current state of mind? A walk would be good; clear his thoughts of that unpleasant meeting.
A walk around the sleek and warm-hued corridors of Hollus Maddrone’s Star Brigade sections brought little relief. Neither did dinner in the Holosphere commissary with two younger recruits. Bevrolor vo Azelten, a big and beefy Nubrideen female with a wild mop of curly pale green hair who stood just taller than Honaa, and the near-seven-foot Kintarian V’Korram Prydyri-Ravlek who towered over them both. It always mystified Honaa what these two friends even had in common, given V’Korram’s overall surliness and Bevrolor’s abrasively low opinion of everything male. Honaa had little hunger for his small bowl of plump, segmented fireworms. The tawny-furred Kintarian, brusque and growly as usual, preferred tearing into a bloody haunch of yosk meat with his teeth than talking. Bevrolor, however, barely touched her kurokoos pot pie. The thickset Nubrideen glowered at Honaa with three blood-red eyes set deep in her coarse grey-skinned face, impatiently pressing for details on tomorrow’s all-hands. “Is Star Brigade being decommissioned…sir?” In her blunt, unfeminine tenor the question sounded like a demand. The Nubree native still wasn’t fully inured to male authority.
Honaa wanted to say more. Bevrolor’s wait for combat team placement went back three years since transferring from Nubree’s branch of the Union Interplanetary Police Agency aka UniPol. And Honaa knew V’Korram couldn’t return to his homeworld Kintare if Star Brigade shutdown. But Habraum had forbid any disclosure until tomorrow, so the Rothorid only offered, “All will be explained sssoon.”
That evening, sleep came quickly to wash away the day’s failings under a dreamless black tide.
It wasn’t until the next morning that Honaa, while still groggy from sleep, , recalled his reasons for staying with the Brigade beyond the Rothorid creed. Feeling as if he’d been walloped upside the snout, the Rothorid threw on some clothes and stalked out of his quarters as if on a hunt.
Honor your duty, honor your family. That was the Rothorid way, he reminded himself on the translifter ride to his destination. The high-speed transport through Hollus zoomed down, to the right, then straight up for several macroms. Facing his dead comrades and the burden of his duty, Honaa’s own petty wants always melted away. The translifter door slid open in front of the Memorial Hall, its rounded golden entranced against ivory-white walls, resembling a place of worship almost.
This hall was dedicated to the Star Brigadiers whom had fallen in active combat during the organization’s three decade existence, residing in one of the top levels of Hollus Maddrone since the Brigade moved onto the starbase fifteen years ago. A part of Honaa hated subjecting himself to the life-like sight of those Brigadiers who had perished in battle. But whenever he had wavered over the past year, standing inside the Memorial Hall always fortified his resolve. He needed that reminder today.
Honor your duty by honoring their memory. Honaa’s burden took on more significance with vengeance and blood involved. Not only would Rothorid society or his family not forgive him for leaving Star Brigade, but he himself wouldn’t either. Honaa pressed a clawed hand on the handprint scanner next to the door. The golden egress slid open, revealing a room vast in size but spare in trappings, filled with platforms that immortalized departed Brigadiers by way of life-sized holograms.
There must have been over fifty holos, every one of them partitioned by the mission that brought about their demise and dappled by auric halolights overhead. The holos, on request would display a detailed profile on each Brigadier; field position, ranking, missions. Every Brigadier appeared dressed for battle in custom and at times colorful field outfits distinct from their UComm military uniforms and different from each other’s. After visiting the Memorial Hall countless times Honaa was familiar with all the departed, but the number of whom that he had personally known having grown far too numerous for his liking. Honaa scanned about, spotted his reasons for not leaving…and froze in surprise.
The first reason he saw was a life-sized holo of Captain Jovian Ivers, codenamed Blitzkrieg.
The human male from Gavron Colony was well-built, about the same height as Habraum Nwosu, with a curly mop of dark hair and a grim line for a mouth. The slant in his dark eyes spoke of partial Asiatic descent, though most humans of Earth descent were usually of mixed ethnicities. Ivers had been a hard and flawed individual. But to this day, Honaa could name few finer, more dedicated combat operatives. At Ivers’s side were holos of his entire combat team; 1st Lt. Ariel Ramos aka Ursa Major, fierce and fun-loving; stalk-eyed Galdorian commander Hihlurkrys Nurmij aka Sever, arrogant but always educating others; 1st Lt. Iok
oi Jnos aka Shattershock, a Nnaxan female with a quiet intensity; 2nd Lt. Eris Tichulsen of Uord aka Crashdown, iceborn human with a fiery temper; the quick and brutal Pyshyymite Ensign Alng aka Blockade.
After Alng were holos of the deceased members from Habraum Nwosu’s previous combat team—1st Lt. Callisto Bailey Scott aka Minerva; Phnu Koellescha aka Bravo, a Rhomeran Ensign; the colossal Suuruali Dr. Pel Makenokom aka Thanatos; 2nd Lt. Deida Jylhur-Goljeim aka Tomcat, a Kintarian female; and finally an unjoined and nameless Kethesena male known only by his codename Rake.
All were excellent Star Brigadiers slain on Beridaas—all dead before their time.
Yet Honaa’s surprise came not from any holos, but from the Hall of Heroes’ other occupant.
Habraum Nwosu stood with his back to Honaa, staring a hole into these dead Brigadiers.
For a moment Honaa thought he was seeing another holo. The sight of Nwosu in the flesh and in the Memorial Hall was befuddling…jarring. “You’re here,” Honaa blurted out.
“Clearly,” the Cerc answered, his voice strangely thick. As much as Nwosu tried hiding it, Honaa could hear grief bleeding through. “The sprout and I got in last night. When did you add them?”
“A week after the military funeral.” A cold grasp clutched at the Rothorid’s spine as he walked up to Habraum’s left. Leaving Star Brigade now would mean that these Brigadiers all died for nothing. Honaa could not—would not leave until Star Brigade was functional again.
The Rothorid and the Cercidalean human stood silent for many moments, an unspoken benediction to those lost over a year ago. He stole occasional glances at his former protégé. The agony flickering in Habraum’s golden eyes only confirmed what the Rothorid had suspected. The Cerc must have willfully pushed this loss away in light of his wife’s death over a year ago. But seeing his former teammates now was a white-hot anguish searing through every vein until the very thought of those he’d loved like family scorched his insides. Having endured this type of suffering himself too many times to count, Honaa had anticipated some satisfaction in watching Habraum endure it as well. But no joy blossomed inside the Rothorid, just…embittered remorse.
“I’m not sorry for leaving,” Nwosu finally said, “Only for how I left things. Should’ve…” The Cerc’s voice caught as he squeezed his eyes shut, forcing down a swell of grief. He began trembling and for a moment, it looked like Habraum might burst at the seams. Honaa, bitter or not, didn’t know if he could bear such a miserable sight. However, the Cerc swallowed hard, wiping away the tears with the back of his hand before composing himself. “Should’ve been less of a coward...and gone to the funeral.”
At least we agree on that. “You talked to their familiesss?” Honaa asked.
“Only Jovian’s widow and daughter,” Habraum replied, his voice still thick with sorrow, but strengthening by the moment. “Those first few months…Mirräe and Kendra helped a lot with Jeremy when I was on Lelsoiim and Carriboth.”
Honaa laughed grimly, recalling the vitriol between Sam and Ivers’ wife. “I bet Ssssam loved that.”
Habraum gave Honaa a sidelong glare. “Sam doesn’t know,” he stated in a way that didn’t sound like a request. The Rothorid had always found the Cerc’s vibrant hazel-gold eyes rather unsettling, making one feel so exposed whenever under his penetrating attention. Habraum’s stare softened as he continued. “I know Star Brigade needed me then. But my son needed me more. Still does.”
The statement should have angered Honaa with all its crimsonborn self-importance. But he then recalled Nwosu’s offspring at his mother’s funeral, a pyre returning her to the earth and the sky in tradition of the Holy Gemini religion. Jeremy’s tears ran in rivers during the service. But like his father he never once sobbed. Cercidalean males were as unyielding as the red rocks of their homeworld, even in the face of such loss. How could anyone with at least one heart return to active duty when that wonderful boy needed them? I was wrong once again. You are far braver than I imagined, Cerc, Honaa almost said. But if he spoke that aloud, Habraum wouldn’t be the only one in tears.
“I’m here now, trying to save Star Brigade…so their deaths weren’t in vain,” The Cerc turned his body toward his former mentor, his three-inch height advantage more pronounced. “I can’t do it alone, but I need Brigadiers I can trust on my side. Are you onboard or not?”
Seeing Nwosu steeped in barely contained grief, hearing the subtle plea in what was openly an ultimatum, Honaa suddenly lost his desire to hate the Cerc. So he let it go, and the release was liberating. Habraum Nwosu, his former protégé, was back where he belonged. As was a little piece of Honaa he’d thought had vanished.
The Rothorid nodded, conveying his silent agreement…and forgiveness.
Much of the taut grief on Habraum’s features bled away. “Alright,” he gave the Rothorid a curt nod, and blew out of the room as if it were filled with toxic air.
It was after the door hissed shut behind Habraum that Honaa, staring at the life-like holograms of his fallen teammates, allowed hopeful smile to play across his leathery snout. Deep in his very marrow, the Rothorid realized that Star Brigade might finally be in safe hands.
11.
“And when did this start, Borok?” Liliana Cortes asked, squatting before her patient. The Thulican youth Borok sat on an exam room table. The cone-headed boy had ruby saucer-like eyes, a lipless mouth and a noseless face; simple features like most Thulicans.
“Three days ago,” he answered, his metallic skin covered in nasty greenish rust. Borok scratched his leg, which had an extreme amount of it.
“Uh-uh.” Liliana rested a hand on Borok’s. “You don’t want to scratch off your skin do you?” she laughed. Borok didn’t. Liliana stopped laughing. Her mother always said her bedside manner sucked.
“Stand up and let’s see what’s wrong.” Liliana ran a wallet-sized medical scancorder over Borok that emitted a thin beam of light, inspecting his internal techno-organic systems. She flipped the device over, tapping a finger on her slightly dimpled chin while studying its results. The doctor frowned. I knew it.
Cortes stood up. Even in dark blue scrubs her tall, long and lean figure was obvious. On his feet, Borok barely reached Liliana’s chest. “Corrosive Rash Syndrome. It’s an allergic reaction some technorgs get from eating high concentrations of beryllium.” Borok shifted in his seat, not meeting her gaze.
“Borok?” Liliana cocked her head curiously to the right. “Have you been eating glow puffs? I know Thulican progenies love that stuff, and it’s loaded with beryllium.”
Borok nodded ruefully, his resemblance to a mechanoid scary. “I didn’t know I was allergic. Please don’t tell my progenitors!” he pleaded. Borok’s youthful voice had the Thulican mechanical resonance.
Liliana winced. “Sorry, I have to. C’mon. I’ll write a prescription to clear this up and then we’ll tell them together.” Borok sulked. After writing a prescription and telling his progenitors in the waiting room, Liliana saw why he didn’t want to tell them. The two Thulicans loudly berated their progeny in the beeping/honking Thulican dialect. Even after leaving the office, Liliana could hear the progenitors still scolding poor Borok down the hospital corridors. She sighed and ran a hand through her short brown hair, pixie-cut with a tousled spiky styling. Just another unspectacular day at San Ysidro Medcenter. All her work days were starting to feel alike, the same maladies with different sentients attached to them.
By the time Liliana’s shift ended, a crimson-streaked sunset had bled over Alcazar’s skyline. The city-state’s panorama of towering starscrapers and veiny hovercar traffic were sandwiched between the majestic Winehorns Mountains and Navarre’s Diamante Coast. Liliana whistled in awe, even though this was her daily view for the past year. In fact, she couldn’t think of one viewport in the entire San Ysidro Medcenter lacking a great view of something. Not surprising with San Ysidro nestled so deep in Alcazar—Navarre’s capital and Terra Sollus’ fifth largest city-state. Liliana walked toward the viewport a
nd zoned out, her thoughts stuck on the monotonous life she had chosen.
It wasn’t that Liliana disliked patient care. She enjoyed curing sentients of their ailments. Still, Liliana just went through the daily motions, pressed rewind at the end of the day and repeated the next day. What she really wanted was to do xenobiology research.
Six more months, Liliana reminded herself. She needed to complete eighteen months of patient care at San Ysidro before applying for one of their research grants. Liliana might’ve gotten a research grant sooner, if she could stomach interstellar travel. So chronic was her space sickness, that she could only travel to and from med school on Galdor using slumber stasis.
She pushed away the stomach-churning memory. By the time Liliana moved from the viewport to her office, the sinking sun had leached away the violet hue from the Winehorn mountain range, leaving a jagged and imposing silhouette. Time for patient bookkeeping—easily the least exciting part of her job.
Liliana hadn’t even sat down before her desk’s comm began beeping incessantly. The helix-shaped SuSpa Communications logo imposed itself on the holographic viewscreen hovering over the doctor’s desk. “Dulce Madre, its past 1800 orvs!” she snapped. “Who—?” The screen displayed ‘Restricted Call’ in bold. “Send it through.” Liliana sighed, more wary than angry now.
The caller appeared onscreen, and Liliana immediately brightened. “Samantha D’Urso!”
“Liliana Lucia Gallegos Cortes.” Sam beamed at her. “How are ya lovey?”
“Pleasantly surprised,” Liliana smiled. “Why do you get such a kick out of saying my full name?”
Sam shrugged. “Eh, for funsies.” Immediately, the two women were chatting and catching up in Spanish—a common Old Earth dialect on Navarre and Terra Sollus’s other Latin nations.
It amused Liliana to this day recalling their first meeting three years ago. The doctor, then beginning her xenobiology/xenoimmunology fellowship on Hollus, first encountered Sam from afar. Liliana had refused to believe that any human being could possess Sam’s face and body without biosculpting work, particularly the natural ‘goldilocks’ blonde hair so rare amongst earthborns. And then she had witnessed Sam publically cursing out a pitiable Galdorian analyst over some colossal screw-up. Her fury had been frightening, only adding to the unflattering stories Liliana already heard; repeated clashes with superiors, excessive risk-taking on missions, the many contacts of the felonious variety, a parade of rumored lovers—including not one but two married Brigadiers. Even if Liliana’s xenobiology residency hadn’t been her primary focus, Samantha D’Urso hadn’t been someone she ever wanted to associate with.
