by Jack Hanson
Sand opened his eyes, and saw Paris looking through him, seeing him as an obstacle to get to his opponent. More amazingly, Sand’s legs were braced, his body fighting against Paris, and it seemed like he was holding the Rillik off.
“Run! Grab your friends and run!” he shouted, turning to brace himself against Paris, not questioning where this sudden strength was coming from.
He felt the ground skid under his shoes, hearing the other two members of Zeta team grab their friends and begin to flee.
“Paris… Listen to me, the threat is gone, you’ve got to…” he began, only to have one fist pull out of his grip and come whipping around at his head.
Ducking, Sand turned into the punch instinctively, rolling along the arm, and striking out at pressure points as he went, sidestepping Paris’s head-butt and swinging his heel around to knock Paris’s feet from under him. With a dramatic flair, the Rillik’s feet went flying into the air, and he landed on the ground with a crash.
The smaller boy felt the rush of adrenaline flee, leaving his limbs shaky and weak, his stomach roaring with the demands of hunger. He knew if Paris was still raging, he wouldn’t be able to stop him this time. Thankfully, Paris sat up, gripping the back of his head and wincing as he moved his arm.
“Sand? What the hell happened?” he asked, as onlookers gathered after watching the carnage.
“That doesn’t matter,” Sand said, trying to help the larger boy up. “We’ve got to get out of here,” he said, leading him down an alley between the two buildings after picking up his dirty book.
Paris seemed dazed, gasping every time he moved his shoulder.
“I just remember coming out and seeing you being beaten again, and everything went silver,” he told Sand after they had moved several blocks down and went into a shop that sold hot drinks and sandwiches. Tucked away from the windows, Sand hunkered his head in his jacket and bought coffee and meat pies for the both of them.
“Here,” Sand said, placing them in front of Paris. “I don’t know how your metabolism will handle this but it’s all they got.”
“I’ll be fine, just as long as I don’t do it regularly,” Paris said. “Thank you,” he added, and then the only sound was of two hungry boys devouring their food.
When there was only trash left, Paris asked Sand. “What happened though? After I blanked out and then woke up. I got them off of you?” he asked.
Sand, thinking about what he had saw, chose only to answer with a friendly smile and a pat on the hand. “Yeah, you got them off of me; we’ll talk about the rest later though. I’m exhausted, let’s get back to the barracks,” he said.
Chapter Twelve—Last Dance
According to sources who have talked to the Inner Command of the Rogue Fleet, it was the death of an Illurian female during a Peace Federation raid on Deep Haven that led to twenty worlds being cindered and the poisoning of the Naith capital world in retribution…Never underestimate the power of grief.
—Excerpt from “The Rogue Fleet—Causes and Casualties,” secret report prepared for the League of Silence
After eating their meal, Sand had sent Black a message, letting him know what had happened. Fights between cadets were not unheard of – Sand was proof enough of that – but a beating on the level Paris had administered could cause serious issues for them. The nonchalant reply, with Black saying he would take care of things, relaxed them both to a large degree.
Two members of Zeta Squad appeared a week later, bandaged and bruised. They wouldn’t look at Sand or Paris when they saw them in the galleries. Rumor had it that the boys had started a fight with janissaries on leave, and gotten a quick introduction to what life under the Command was like. However, the final two weeks passed with no indication that there would be any fallout from their actions that Sunday.
Instead, that Friday saw them helping each other into their dress uniforms for the Going Away Formal, the traditional get together before they headed out on their first patrol. Dress grays were the only outfits allowed, and it was closed to outsiders. To get in without an invitation, you needed to be part of the Senior Class staff or a member of the Senior Class. Even the staff of the junior classes were denied entry if they didn’t have an invitation.
Everyone was sitting around in lounge clothes, putting the last touches on boots and brass, trying to make it gleam and sparkle. They would have to start getting dressed soon, and as they slid into freshly-pressed slacks, shirts, and Eisenhower-style dress jackets, they would be walking on eggshells to not scuff a single boot.
The uniforms were scaled down versions of what janissaries wore, sans the epaulets, silver buttons, and the silver stripe up each pant leg. Brass buttons replaced the silver, and the stripe ran to white. Still, the uniform looked very sharp when it was put together, the Ike jacket pinching waists and flaring out chests. Males and females wore the same uniform, as a matter of course.
The cadets all had several medals and ribbons on their chest. Each possessed one for competition ability, with Jane being awarded a medal for being in the top five of her class. Salem had one for having the best uniform in her color guard during her first year. Paris had one for bravery, saving the life of a classmate who’d been caught in a river’s current, while Sand had won the Ranger Open, named after elite warriors of Terra’s past. This was during his first year, before the size difference with his peers had resulted in him being outclassed when he went head to head with the larger cadets.
Dressed and polished, the quartet made its way outside of Orpheus Barracks, all of them bracing their teeth against the cold. The night was clear and crisp though, and Ganymede III’s red and yellow moons lit up the sky. The Hallowed Hall was in the center of their barracks complex, so it was a short walk to double doors that were guarded by janissaries in full combat armor. Identification checked, they walked past the guards into a fairy tale.
The Hallowed Hall was named for the statues of heroes that lined its galleries, and the sconces near each were filled with light that shifted slowly through the spectrums. This added to the otherworldly effect of the small firefly sized lights that flitted around the ceiling, giving everything a soft surreal glow. A holographic banner spread across one end of the hall reading: GOOD LUCK AND GLORY. The high ceiling arched overhead, with glass panels at the top that let the moons and a few brilliant stars shine through. Occasionally a squadron of Imperial Raider star fighters would fly through the air, projected holographs that weaved and flowed through the attending guests. Soft instrumental music played live, thanks to a band that had taken up one corner of the room. Other members of their class had arrived before them, and were taking refreshments from passing caterers, and Sand followed their lead.
“This is pretty keen,” said Sand, accepting a glass of sparkling juice, and blinking at the sharp sweetness.
“It is festive, all things considered,” admitted Paris, who accepted a slice of raw fruit on a cracker of some sort, enjoying the crunch between his teeth.
“There’s Black, with Commander Archer,” said Jane. She nodded, over at a statue of an armored scytheclaw that the two were standing next to. They seemed to be discussing something casually.
“Let’s go say hi,” said the always social Salem, and not seeing a reason to say no, the other three followed. However, as they approached, Black broke away from Archer, who turned to see the cadets at the same time.
“Cadets,” Archer said with a nod.
“Sir,” they replied, snapping to attention.
“At ease, you four, at ease. What do you think of tonight?” he asked casually.
“It’s about what I thought a military ball would be like, sir,” admitted Sand, still sipping at his drink.
“Ah, a military ball has its own charm, so you have something to look forward to still, but this is plenty nice,” admitted the old man, waving over a caterer and taking a glass of beer. He took a sip and then add
ressed the rest of the cadets. “And the rest of you?” he asked.
“I just remember what’s coming up, and think that this might be the last good time any of us have, sir,” Paris admitted, looking over at the throngs of cadets who were beginning to dance and laugh, enjoying the life that was filling the room.
“Carpe diem, eh?” said Archer. “It is how we go on doing what we do, I think. Enjoying life while we have it and trying to make it all worthwhile. It’s a good lesson to learn, young as you are. It took me quite a while to be able to figure out what was necessary in life,” he said, swirling his beer before looking to Salem and Jane. “And you ladies? What do you think?”
“It kind of puts it all into perspective, I have to say, sir,” Jane murmured. She stopped, but went on at Archer’s raised eyebrow. “Well, sir, it’s like you said, we have to figure out what’s important. Being able to do this, to celebrate with our friends and instructors, that’s part of what’s important. What we’re doing by going on patrol, that’s important as well. Everything in balance, sir.”
He nodded, a faint smile playing on his thin lips. “Very thoughtful, lass. And you, Cadet Winchester? What do you think about all this?”
Salem was quiet for a moment. When she spoke she surprised everyone by the longing tone in her voice.
“It makes me sad, sir, thinking that when we come back, not everyone is going to be here,” Salem admitted. “That for some of us, this will be the last glorious night we have.”
Archer nodded, and all four of them were stunned to see him put his hand on her shoulder, and give her a comforting squeeze.
“So they will, but they will have had a good night, full of joy, hopefully with a romance in their arms for at least a little bit, and they will have lived, even if only for a moment,” he told her, and then released his grip. “The bitter with the sweet.”
The group absorbed that in silence for a moment until Jane spoke up, nodding at the statue behind them.
“I’ve never seen that one before,” she said.
On holidays and anniversaries of certain battles, the statues of those that had fought and found valor and glory were displayed on the campus as an inspiration and remembrance of their sacrifice.
The statue behind them was of a Scytheclaw, one of the Utahraptors, from the size of it. Whoever had done the carving in pale grey marble had taken their time chiseling out the feathers that armored plate didn’t cover. The armor it wore seemed battered, but sturdy, indicating an old campaigner. The plates covered the head, under the jaw, around the torso and along the legs and tail, and formed a sort of saddle for someone to ride. The Old Blood had been posed with its tail lashing out behind it, turning its head to observe whoever was looking at it. Curiously, there were seven rai’liths behind the scytheclaw in a half circle.
“She’s new,” admitted Archer, moving aside so the plaque could be visible to the group.
Ale’mah
Beloved Friend
Battle of Scylla
“She is gone, and I can never, ever follow.”
Ale’mah seemed poised as if she was about to question why they were daring to look at her. There was something tragic about the statue, between the elegant Old Blood and the longing that was inscribed in the plaque.
Paris was the first to ask a question. “Sir, why are there seven rai’liths behind her? Did she kill seven Khajali?”
Archer shook his head. “No, her companion did that after she was killed,” he admitted.
“Her… companion, sir?” Sand asked.
“Bonded companion?” asked Jane.
Archer cocked his head, eyes focusing on her.
“And how do you know that word?” he asked, a little edge in his tone.
“Sir, ah, I read it in a file my parents owned. Fletcher’s Histories,” she admitted.
Archer’s eyes relaxed and he nodded.
“Well then, what was a bonded companion?” he asked her.
“Well, sir, Fletcher only mentioned it once, and it was in regard to the FOSsils,” she admitted.
“I’ve heard they rode Scytheclaws into battle, but I thought that was just a story. I was always told they were too proud to be mounted,” Paris murmured, shaking his head.
“Yes, they did, and yes they are proud. That’s why they were companions and friends, never mounts. This was the companion of the Last Reaver,” said Archer, raising his glass to the statue. “When she was slain, he went mad with grief and carved a path through the enemy Khajali who had surrounded him, seeking the peace of death, which he found at the hand of a friend.”
There was a moment of silence as everyone reacted to the mention of the Last Reaver, who had taught the Khajali fear and was thought of as a legend and a terror, depending on the story being told.
“I thought the FOSsils were broken after they went mad, sir. Everything I read said they were a spent force,” Jane said.
“No, they were there at Scylla, and the seven that were left were more than enough to turn the tide in our favor. They smashed the Khajalian front that day,” said Archer, shaking his head. “I was there, I remember. They gave everything and more, because they had more to give.”
“What was so special about them, sir?” asked Salem. She had been unable to follow the conversation, with its arcane terms, but the little she could figure out piqued her curiosity.
“What wasn’t?” mused Archer. “They were physical and mental psychic adepts. They were able to move faster and strike harder, and they were all empathic to one degree or another.”
“So they weren’t all mad, sir?” asked Sand. “I heard they were all locked away after the war.”
“No, not at all. They were retired and left alone last I heard. It was a power, the Empire decided, that was better let be and never brought back. After that, I don’t know,” admitted the commander.
“You sound like you feel bad for them,” Paris pointed out.
Archer swirled his beer thoughtfully before responding.
“The Empire used them hard, and tossed them aside when the war was over. Thankfully we don’t treat our regular troops like that, but it sets poor precedent. They deserved better from us,” he told them. “Remember that when you all lead your own troops.”
He glanced over Paris’s shoulder, and nodded. “If you’ll excuse me, cadets, I see that my aide is trying to catch my eye.” he said.
The four snapped to attention and Archer returned the favor before heading over briskly to a frantic young man. Their gaze went, one by one, back to the statue that had occupied their conversation.
“Paris?” asked Salem.
“Yes?” he responded.
“I’ve seen vids of the Khajali in action, but have you seen them fight before? In person?” she asked.
“Many, many times. They were welcome at our house, and Rhulo was considered honored enough that any wandering through the system felt it necessary to say hello. Part of their culture is battle, and so I witnessed friendly sparring matches more than once,” he said. “It is still terrifying to me to imagine seeing a Khajali across the field of battle as my enemy.”
“Killing seven,” she said, getting around to her question. “That’s a feat?”
“Brokehorn killed seven, but he’s a living tank. I can’t imagine what kind of grief drives someone to kill seven in melee combat,” murmured Paris, “… to say nothing of the skill involved.”
“It’s probably better for us all they went away. Someone that can kill seven Khajali, that’s not someone I want to meet. Even if they are on our side, it is probably better that he’s dead,” Jane said, turning away from the statue.
“She’s right, it’s a party. No sense getting wrapped up about history,” Sand said, taking another glass. The others followed suit.
Jane saw Hailey waving at her discreetly across the dance floor.
&
nbsp; “I’ll see you guys in a little bit,” she said, trying not to break into a run. When she reached him, they had a subdued hug that went on for quite a while, and turned into nuzzling for a second before they remembered were they were, and discipline even stronger than hormones took over.
“Hey, you,” she said, pulling away and holding his hand.
“Hey yourself, adorable. What were you and the Old Man talking about over there?”
“Ah, that statue,” she said.
“What about it?” he asked, leading her out on the dance floor and finding her hips. His hands rested comfortably there as they swayed to the music.
“Just that emotion makes you do some crazy things apparently,” she said with a soft laugh.
“Ah yeah?” he responded with a small smile.
“Yeah. I don’t know what I’d do without you,” she said, leaning forwards to kiss him softly and breaking away just as quickly.
“Mmm, I’m sure you’d go on,” he teased.
Sand glanced through the crowd, and did a double take.
“Hey, did I just have a stroke, or is that your half Illurian friend?” he asked of Salem.
Salem looked to where he pointed, and goggled openly.
“She’s dancing with Black of all people?” she said, stunned. The song ended, and Sergeant Black gave her a little bow, making her giggle before she returned it. Black was wearing his formal grays as well, but he had stripped them of decoration, wearing only the silver bands around the sleeves. It was not uncommon for older, veteran troops to do this, especially for a smaller event such as tonight. However, younger soldiers were viewed as being disrespectful if they did the same, for assuming an informality that they had not earned.
Salem caught the girl’s eye, and she made her way over to the trio.
“Hey, you guys. He’s not as bad as you made him out to be,” Petra told them, slightly flushed and more bubbly than Salem had seen her in a while. Petra was generally subdued, at least compared to the almost wild extremes of an Illurian female’s emotional ranges. Her mother had died shortly after her birth, and she had been raised by her mother’s war buddy, a sapper colonel in Janissary Command.