The Last Stryker (Dark Universe Series Book 1)

by Alex Sheppard

  Fenny’s eyes turned into large brown headlamps. “Don’t tell me he lives in the Fringe?”

  “That was where he was headed when we last heard from him.”

  “But you understand that the Fringe is a very large place. And not a very welcoming place either.”

  Ramya shrugged, taking care to hold on to her doleful expression. It was indeed her plan to go looking for Uncle Brynden even though she had no idea where in the Fringe he might be.

  “I’ll find him,” she said, watching Fenny’s face soften. Ramya was not used to handling pity well, but she didn’t mind it much now.

  Fenny rose to her feet. “Well,” she said, “I better get going. Don’t you have to see the medic?”

  The medic, of course.

  “I will. The patient’s sleeping, so the Magical Medic excused me.”

  Fenny gave out a throaty chuckle before walking out of the room. “Magical is right. A word of advice, kid,” she said with a smirk, “stay away from her colorful concoctions.” Then with a wink, Fenny was gone.

  Ramya decided to spend a few more minutes in her room before heading to medical bay. She carefully pried open the cover of the climate-control module and stashed away her bagful of lieres inside it. After putting the cover back on, she checked the rest of her items. She decided to keep the baton with her but wrapped the M-gun with foil and hid it underneath the water dispenser.

  She looked out of the window once more. In five hours they would reach the AP and board the SLH. She would be far from Nikoor. Finally. Happy as she was that she was out of her father’s reach, Ramya also felt a pang, a sudden gut-wrenching emptiness.

  “Don’t be afraid, Rami,” she muttered to herself, watching the green jewel-like Nikoor grow steadily smaller. “You’ll be fine. You’ll find a way.”

  Not wanting to let her nervousness take hold, Ramya headed to the med-bay. She remembered the path from her quarters to the med-bay, across two corridors and down a ladder to the colorful door. She took a moment to compose herself and then knocked.

  The door fell open and a green smiling face peeked through it even before Ramya had rapped on it a second time.

  “My dear Rami,” said a voice that was no louder than a whisper, “you have returned.”

  “Yes, Domina Sosa. Thought you might need some help.”

  Sosa waved a slender six-digited hand. “Rami, Rami, Rami,” she whispered as she shook her head. The steeple-shaped silken headdress atop her hairless head wobbled a little. “Address me as Sosa, just Sosa.”

  “Umm . . .” Ramya was not so sure about that. The green-skinned Norgoran medic was a royal presence. Everything about her—the gentle voice, the flowing gait, and most of all the way she spoke—it all pointed to one thing: Sosa was of high-birth. Norgoran history was a major subject at the CAWStrat, but even before coming to the Institute, Ramya had been taught about their culture. As an heiress to a great house, she had to learn, not just about the Norgorans but also about all four races that made up the Confederacy. She had been taught to pick up cues and deduce social statuses of the other races at first glance and treat them appropriately.

  Now after seeing Sosa’s regal poise, Ramya could not make herself treat the medic as a commoner. Calling her “Domina” was appropriate, and even though she did not want to call her that when the rest of the crew was around, she could while they were alone.

  Besides, even though Sosa’s green skin was taut and glowing, and even though she was as nimble and deft as anyone else on the Endeavor, Ramya knew she was far older than any of the humans. Ramya guessed Sosa was near her fourth century, which was nearing the end of middle age in a Norgoran lifespan. Ramya imagined a random acquaintance calling her own sixty-five-year-old grandmother by her name and shuddered.

  Nope! Domina Sosa it has to be.

  “It’s just a show of my respect, Domina,” Ramya said, placing her palm on her heart, fingers outspread.

  Sosa stared at her for a while, her mouth parting a little as if she wanted to say something more, but in the end she simply smiled and shook her head.

  “All right, all right. Call me whatever you wish to call me. Sounds a little unfamiliar to these old ears, that is all.”

  With a final wave at Ramya, Sosa glided away toward a shelf stacked from top to bottom with beakers filled with colorful liquids. While Sosa mixed a variety of them in a long-necked pitcher, Ramya decided to look at their patient, the man she had rescued. He seemed to be sleeping peacefully in the bed farthest away from the entrance of the bay. Ramya frowned as she scanned the large vitals monitor hooked to the bed. In large glowing fonts, the machine presented a summary of the man’s physical condition. It was the CHS, or the combined health score—a snapshot of the person’s wellness—that worried Ramya.

  Two hundred and fifty? That’s too low! A healthy man of his age would be around a six hundred. He was hurt and sedated and far from healthy, but still . . . . Her frown deepened as she walked back to Sosa.

  “What are you worried about, child?” Sosa asked.

  Ramya buried an indignant snort with difficulty. From kid to little girl to child—what were they going to call her next? Baby?

  “He’s not doing too well, is he?” she said.

  Sosa didn’t seem perturbed in the least by her question. Perhaps she was used to seeing people with low CHS scores, or perhaps she knew how to mask her worry. Ramya couldn’t decide which was true. The Norgoran woman had finished making a sparkling mix of red and blue liquid in the pitcher, which she now cautiously poured into two silver goblets. Once both of the goblets had been filled to the brim, Sosa pushed one goblet toward Ramya and picked up the other.

  “Have a sip of my Pax Serengis, Rami. It will help you to put that anxious mind at ease,” Sosa said between delicate sips.

  Ramya eyed her goblet, remembering what Fenny had told her about Sosa’s concoctions.

  “Come on, child,” Sosa goaded. “Take a sip.”

  There was no polite way to avoid this. She had to try it, Fenny’s warning notwithstanding. Ramya brought the goblet to her lips, fascinated by the swirling reds and blues and the shining gold globules at the bottom. The Pax Serengis was warm on her tongue, and sweet with just a hint of bitter. Even before it had trickled down her throat Ramya felt her shoulders slacken.

  Sosa’s bright blue eyes danced. “It is good, isn’t it?”

  Indeed. The warmth inside her made Ramya think of the golden sands that bordered her home—the Kiroff castle Somenvaar—on the north, and the azure waters that rushed up to those sands. She remembered a summer, many years ago. Uncle Brynden had built a boat for her. He’d built it himself, a sturdy little thing made of planks and boards, without calling on the abundant help milling around the castle. A perfect boat it turned out to be, bright, shiny, and happy, unlike everything else about straggly-haired Brynden.

  That was the last time Uncle Bryn had come to Somenvaar, and the last time Ramya felt someone cared about her. Uncle Bryn was very young then, maybe a little older than she was now, and even if he lacked in accomplishments, he didn’t lack warmth.

  “Always keep your chin up, li’l princess,” he had said that day, ruffling her curls as he tugged the tiny boat out into the lagoon. “And don’t let anyone tell you what you can be.”

  The sun had kept pouring over them in an endless shower of gold.

  “It makes you happy.” Sosa’s soft voice broke Ramya’s gossamer web of memories. “We need that around here. By the stars, those kids at the COM need to take a bottle of this every day, especially the captain. That’d keep their grumpiness away.”

  Ramya brought the goblet up to her lips again. She needed some badly, that was for sure. Sosa ambled off toward the patient’s bed and a loose-stepped Ramya followed.

  “We were not such a grumpy bunch usually, except for Milos and his pesky history with the Confederacy. But ever since we fished out this fellow”—Sosa lifted her goblet toward the sleeping man in the cot, his CHS now flashing two
hundred and forty-four—“since we fished him out of that fleet debris, this place has been robbed of all smiles.”

  Ramya tried to focus her limp senses on Sosa’s words. What did Sosa just say? Fleet debris? She thought she remembered something but it faded quickly.

  Sosa went on. “Only survivor of such complete devastation. I have never seen ruins like it since the Locusta-Vanga war. He was doing just fine too, but then he had to run into those thugs. Now . . .”

  “He will be all right, won’t he?”

  Sosa squinted at the man, her shoulders sagging with passing time. She doesn’t think he’s going to get better. The lightness on Ramya’s heart brought on by Sosa’s concoction lifted immediately at the thought of the man dying.

  “Is he . . . is he going to die?” she asked.

  Sosa shrugged and lifted her goblet again. “Only the stars will tell.”

  “But you’re the medic. You must know.”

  “How much do I really know, child? Nothing.”

  Ramya pulled her jacket tighter around her. When had it gotten so chilly? She glanced at the man again, the CHS holding steady at two hundred and forty-four. If only she had come across that alley a few minutes earlier. If only she hadn’t hesitated to intervene. Perhaps this man would have had a chance.

  “Is it his head injury?”

  “Mostly.” Sosa walked to her table and picked up the pitcher of Pax Serengis. “Want some more?” She refilled her own goblet when Ramya declined.

  “So that’s why the crew has been upset. They should be, seeing him die after they got into the trouble of rescuing him,” Ramya said.

  “They’re upset about a lot many things, but about him dying? Nah . . . not yet.” Sosa walked away, sipping at her drink, to one of the windows of the med-bay. Nikoor was shining brightly like a green gem in the distance, much smaller than Ramya had last seen it from her own room. For a moment, Ramya was distracted by the beautiful view, but then she got back to Sosa.

  “What do you mean, Domina? You haven’t told them yet?”

  “Do you think it’s wise to pass the agony of failure to another before it’s time?”

  “But you know he’s going to die.”

  The medic’s eyes were glazed, as if she were gazing upon a faraway vision. “I told you child, what I know is not enough.”

  “But the captain—”

  “The captain needs him alive, but . . .” Sosa raised her left hand level with her eyes and turned it just as a child would twirl a colorful leaf, only there was no playfulness in her action. It was as if she were scrutinizing that hand, trying to find every flaw in it. “I failed him. I knew this man is important, child, but I couldn’t—”

  “You tried.”

  “Did I?” Sosa set her goblet down on the nearest shelf and trudged over to the window again.

  Ramya’s feet refused to move. What was wrong with this woman? From the manner Ross spoke to Sosa, Ramya had deduced her eccentrics were usual, but never had Ross come off as dismissive of the medic’s capabilities. Yet now, the woman barely seemed in control. She was like this specter of a doctor, drifting through med-bay but robbed of physical ability to help.

  The captain needed to know of the patient’s condition. That much was not hard to understand. Sosa had lost her senses and the Pax was clearly at fault. Ramya had to do something. If Sosa was not willing to report the situation to the captain, then as her assistant Ramya had to.

  “Domina Sosa,” Ramya called. “I think we should inform the captain right away. And if you . . . if you don’t want to tell him, then I can. Should I?”

  Sosa turned around, a smile that seemed to be nearly as lifeless as the man in the bed behind them stretched across her purplish lips. She walked over to Ramya, and still smiling, picked up her unfinished drink.

  “Medic,” Ramya almost yelled. “You shouldn’t be drinking any more of that.”

  Ramya thought Sosa’s bright blue eyes flashed at her, or she could have been wrong. It was so short-lived that before Ramya could blink, Sosa’s eyes had turned to their usual tranquil self. “I’m far too old for anyone telling me what I should be doing.” Her voice reminded Ramya of cold, hard metal. A sudden void came to life in the pit of her stomach. She had crossed a line. Ramya looked for a safe place to fix her gaze but found none. She wanted to turn away but her body was frozen. Only her heart pounded faster and faster and she stood there watching Sosa empty her goblet.

  “You think I’m a fool, Rami?” Sosa asked in a glacial tone. “You know the captain and I have been friends for twenty years now. Why do you think that is? That’s because we don’t keep any secrets from each other, particularly not about patients in my care,” Sosa informed, each word succinct and sharp. Thankfully her voice softened quickly. “Although, it’s mighty noble of you to rise to the occasion to correct me. It takes courage to do that.”

  Ramya wished the floor would open up and swallow her alive. Stupid, stupid, Rami! How could she think the medic was incapable? She’d not been on the Endeavor for more than a couple hours and she had dared suspect the elderly Norgoran, her boss, of incompetence?

  “I’m sorry,” Ramya said, hoping Sosa would forgive her insolence.

  “No matter,” Sosa said with a casual wave. “You’re young. You’re nervous. You overreacted. It happens.” She pointed at the now half-empty beaker of her concoction. “Some Pax?”

  “No, no, I don’t need any more of that.”

  Sosa clearly thought differently about the Pax. She refilled her goblet, and, closing her eyes, took slow sips at her drink. “You know why I’m so upset, child?” Sosa said with her eyes still closed. “I haven’t had anyone die in my care in a long time. Besides, this man needed to live. He’s the only one who knows what happened that day. He is the key to confirming our account.”

  Now that was new. Ramya leaned forward, the last traces of the Pax clearing from her senses. Sosa seemed to be sleeping, the goblet steady in her hand. As eager as Ramya was to know what Sosa meant, she didn’t want to ask her anything. It’d startle her and disrupt her thoughts. Besides, she’d wonder if I was too nosey. Ramya simply held her breath and waited. To her relief, it didn’t take Sosa too long to start again.

  “It was a terrible day right from the start, and when we were thrown out of the SLH I knew right away that something bad was going to happen.”

  Ramya squinted at the Norgoran. Thrown out of the SLH? That was impossible!

  “Sure enough, we came upon the debris.”

  “Debris?”

  “Yes, a ruin like that I’ve not seen in ages. At least a hundred crafts . . . must’ve been an entire fleet. Destroyed. Blown to pieces. Poof!”

  Suddenly, a memory of days ago zoomed out and hit Ramya. An entire GSO fleet had been destroyed in Sector 22, Isbet had said. It hadn’t made any sense then, there was no ongoing war to trigger such devastation. Besides, as far as Ramya knew, Sector 22 had nothing worth having a whole GSO fleet stationed. It had been hard to believe the news Isbet had peddled.

  Yet now, hearing Sosa’s description of the massive wreckage, Ramya wondered. Could it be . . . ?

  “Was this in Sector 22?” she blurted.

  Sosa opened her eyes and turned. Ramya thought she saw a hint of disbelief in them, perhaps just plain surprise.

  “Yes. But how do you know? Who told you?”

  Ramya searched frantically for the right words. Being a student of the CAWStrat was how she had heard about it, and to be truly honest, had it not been for Isbet and her inquisitive ways, she too would have been in the dark. For a commoner that Ramya was pretending to be, it’d be unusual, if not impossible, to come across such information. The news about the destroyed fleet was being kept quiet, very quiet.

  That was unusual in itself. Why didn’t the Confederacy create the uproar that it was always intent on making? Were they hiding something?

  Ramya realized Sosa was staring. If she couldn’t tell her about being a student at the CAWStrat, then she had
to go for the next best thing. “I worked at an eatery on Nikoor. The other day I was waiting on these two fine fellows from the CAWStrat. You know the institute down there near the spaceport? I heard them whispering about some top-secret stuff. You could say I got a little curious.” Ramya flashed a bashful smile at Sosa and took a second to study the floor and trace a line on it with her toe. “They were talking about a GSO space fleet being destroyed at Sector 22. So, when you mentioned the debris I thought—”

  “I see. Well, you’re right. It was in Sector 22.”

  “Then he”—Ramya thumbed in the man’s direction— “must be a GSO agent, right?”

  Sosa shrugged. “We don’t know. He was in a fighter craft when we found him. When the Endeavor reached him, he was not—”

  A loud beep from the CHS tracker declared an emergency. Sosa rushed to the man’s bedside with Ramya following right behind. While Sosa started fiddling with the setting of the support system hooked up to the man, Ramya’s eyes were fixed in the CHS—it was falling rapidly. Two hundred thirty, it said one second, two hundred twenty-eight the next, and then the letters formed a jumble of red lights. It was getting awfully hard to breathe.

  “Rami.” Sosa said as she adjusted the drug dispenser, her fingers frantic over the dispensing controls. “I need you to find the captain. And I need you get him here as quickly and as quietly as you can. Do you understand?”

  “Isn’t there a comm?”

  “You didn’t hear me. I want you to get him quietly. Tell him it’s time.”

  Obviously! Yelling for the captain on the comm would signal urgency. The rest of the crew could do without the panic. Ramya nodded.

  “Go. And one more thing: you can take off for an hour or two. Come back and see me after. All right?”

  At least she wouldn’t have to watch him die.

  “All right.” Ramya could hardly feel the floor under her, but she somehow managed to scramble. Once out of the med-bay, Ramya broke into an unsteady sprint across the corridor.