by C. C. Ekeke
“End session,” Habraum ordered, wiping the dribbles of sweat from his face. Instantly the torn up football field turf and players from both teams vanished on his command. Familiar neon blue walls appeared in place of that, an empty HLHG suite bare of any details.
After a long hot hydrobath and a change into denims with a loose-fitting henley shirt in the nearby HLHG locker rooms, Habraum mulled over the Star Brigade rookies and their turgid progress in the field combat simulations. With all the other hurdles Honaa, Sam and he had to deal with, they clearly needed someone dedicated to prepping these kids for the field.
“But who?” the Cerc fumed. Any ex-Brigadier with training know-how had no desire to return. Habraum found himself the observation deck of the HLHG suites, six of them in total. Though each had its own control room, this deck was where an outside observer could view every suite at once. The ObDeck stretched at least 40 metrids long with tall, wide viewscreens along the walls to capture activities inside each suite. HL-1 and HL-6 were occupied, obvious by their viewscreens being activated. As most Brigadiers had left Hollus for their day off, Habraum curiously hopped from viewscreen to viewscreen to see who remained.
In HL-1, Ensign Cortes was darting around in a barebones simulation exposing the suite’s neon-blue walls. The doctor was covered in sweat, her cropped pixie-cut black hair lank and damp. At first Habraum thought she’d been jogging, before a saucer-like mechanoid soared into view spitting out small energy bolts, Liliana sprinted, sometimes somersaulting, all in an effort to dodge the bolts. Habraum smirked, recognizing this program. It was designed for projectile-shooting maximums, honing the user’s aim while working on evasion responses.
Liliana dropped to one knee, pointing her hands together like a gun and returning fire. She nailed the saucer mech dead-on, the air rippling in the wake of her ring-shaped sonic blast. The mech sputtered and dropped to the floor. But not before spewing out one last photon burst. Liliana took the hit in the stomach before she could dodge and went sprawling.
Habraum cringed. He hadn’t forgotten how much those bolts stung.
Liliana looked exhausted and miserable as she clambered slowly back to her feet.
“Restart program,” the doctor demanded, putting on a more determined face. The saucer mech revived up to a floating position and Liliana took up a readied stance.
“Might be hope for her yet,” Habraum murmured with an impressed smile, moving then to the HL-6 viewscreen. As the Cerc approached what he saw was a number of blurs racing across the screen. Nothing could mistake what he heard—yowling, snarling, spitting. Then Habraum took in full sight of HL-6’s viewscreen. His jaw dropped.
Kintarians. A lowland plain served as the setting of at least two dozen of the feline race, tangled together and tearing into each other with vicious, feral abandon. Blood sprayed, the air filled with noisy rips of fur being torn off flesh in large chunks. Already, countless bodies lay strewn across the plain, their wounds soaking the lush grass in pools of crimson.
Habraum wondered what mental case would run a program like this, especially with lowered safety protocols. Then he looked closer at the HL-6 info console and found himself totally unsurprised reading the name of the Brigadier reserving HL-6. Right on cue, 2nd Lt V’Korram Prydyri-Ravlek rose from the thick of the fray, roaring madly, a massive figure even among the large Kintarians he fought. He held his shiny scaphes in a reserved grip, cutting through the tangle of Kintarians wearing nothing but dark pant-shorts. Powerful muscles coiled and rippled underneath his fur coat as he slashed and kicked at his foes. A sable-furred Kintarian charged and got two scaphes jammed in his chest. V’Korram rushed by three more Kintarians. One silvery slash later they were clutching at their throats, red blood fountaining down their chests.
Several kills later, the near-seven-foot Kintarian stood alone atop a pile of his own race, drenched in blood not his own, chest heaving, teeth bared in a predatory grin. Seeing no one left to fight, the Kintarian threw his head back and let loose a victorious roar; thunderous, belligerent, echoing over the lowlands, a release after battle. By then Habraum had seen enough. “What the fekt?” he muttered as he walked away. That was what V’Korram called recreation?
An urgent beep sounded from Habraum’s comband. He raised his wrist and clicked the device’s side button to answer. “This is Nwosu.”
“Captain,” the voice of a communications controller said. “You have a direct transmission from the Terra Sollus UComm HQ. It’s Admiral Hollienurax.”
“Forward to my ready room.” Habraum felt sudden unease as he left the ObDeck. His next meeting with Hollienurax wasn’t until next week. Why would he call again unless something urgent had come up?
On the translifter ride to his Ready Room, he reflected on his last conversation with Hollienurax just two days ago. Habraum had been honest about needing more time to further develop this new Star Brigade, and the UComm Admiral had been more than flexible. Dealing directly with a higher up like Hollienurax had been a bit jarring originally for the Cerc, who before had mainly dealt with superior officers within Star Brigade. Respect the rank, but don’t deify it, Habraum told himself as their first meeting took place. Brushing his worries aside, the Cerc quickly strode out of the translifter when it stopped on the second floor and entered the Command Center doors.
The Command Center was a whirlwind of activity, discussion and information all moving at FTL speed in every direction. For as long as Habraum had been a Brigadier, this two-tier room served as the nexus for Star Brigade data transmissions and assignments. It also operated as Hollus Maddrone’s main bridge, handling day-to-day operations of the starbase. Its walls were a silvery metal alloy mix of titanium and arkanium, the same alloy they used inside the best Union Command Cruisers. Running along the walls on both tiers were various blinking consoles, small viewscreens and controller interfaces with information on UComm AeroFleet ships docking at Hollus Maddrone and TransNet datastreams, refreshing every 30 nanoclics. The tracings around these consoles and viewscreens were angular, intricate, bright red in their hue, most likely of Thulican origin. They held a striking contrast to the silvery white of the Command Center walls.
In front and center sat a vast viewscreen, slightly curved inward and towering at least 12 metrids—just shy of touching the lower edge of the Command Center’s vaulted ceilings. Currently it displayed countless diagrams and more TransNet broadcasts. Three UComm officers sat in front of the viewscreen’s operational panel, engrossed in their work and nothing else. Numerous UComm analysts worked diligently at their workstations, some racing back and forth between the first or second tiers, all chatting away and exchanging information as quickly as possible. There was nothing too frenzied about the scene Habraum witnessed. Everything and everyone flowed in an efficient and slightly hyperactive manner.
In the middle of this controlled chaos was Lethe, the director of Hollus Maddrone. He stood with poise and serenity, listening intently to reports from the second tier. He craned his long neck in Habraum’s direction and right away the Cerc felt a gentle, telepathic nudge.
Are you alright? I sensed your worry from outside. Lethe’s voice soothed through Habraum’s mind.
The Cerc grimaced. We’ll see in a moment. He strode through the transparent sliding doors of his Ready Room outside the Command Center in an adjacent corridor. The layout wasn’t anything fancy; just a spacious adobe clay-colored room. Positioned in the office’s rear was a half-circle desk littered with datacards and a holographic, oval viewscreen sitting upright in its center. The rest of the room had all these odd consoles Habraum had no idea how to use, but planned on learning eventually. A petty officer as an assistant might be in order, he thought.
The long rectangular viewscreen wall behind him had a real-time display of Zeid’s upper atmosphere near the busiest hyperspace lanes. A blinking tab on his desk signaled the incoming transmission. Habraum reached his desk in four brisk strides, clicking on the console tab to accept.
Immediat
ely his desk’s holographic viewscreen lit up, showing the antenna-like eyes and beaked mouth of Admiral Hollienurax. The Galdorian’s dark purple skin contrasted well with the sharply cut white and red colors of his admiral uniform.
“Admiral Hollienurax, this is a surprise,” Habraum managed a warm greeting.
“Captain, I know we already spoke this week about Star Brigade’s progress,” said the Admiral in a deep, reverberating Galdorian accent. “However, there will be a joint war games exercise the Defense Ministry is holding between UComm PLADECO, AeroFleet and Space Marine Corps near the Cercidalean System tomorrow afternoon. I want a combat team of your best Brigadiers there as well.”
For a long moment Habraum stared at the viewscreen, confused. The order sank in then, and his blood went cold. “Ad-Admiral, we discussed the Brigade’s status a few days back.”
“I know Habraum, but these Korvenite Independence Front attacks changed all that. UComm was ordered by the Chouncilor himself to make eliminating the KIF problem our top priority before the Union-Imperium Trade Merger date.
“After the Chouncilor’s order, the Ministry of Defense went through UComm’s various active divisions, a list that Star Brigade wasn’t on, per your recommendation.”
Habraum frowned. “But?”
“But Atom Greystone informed his superiors at the Ministry of Defense that you were being modest and Star Brigade was more than ready. Hence the Brigade is off the inactive list.”
Pure hate shivered through Habraum. That vile fekwit. “I see,” he said slowly, reclining in his seat.
“Now I know this is false,” Hollienurax assured the Cerc sincerely with a clack of his beak. “But Greystone’s lies reached far too many above my head. Refuting him now will look bad for both of you. Now there has to be a team of at least five Brigadiers ready for field combat. That should be enough for the UComm joint squadron, especially since it’s more of a strategy meeting.”
“Yes,” Habraum replied honestly. Aside from himself, Sam and Honaa, the Cerc could count any field-ready Brigadiers on one hand. “Yes, we have five, sir,” he stated, more to convince himself than Hollienurax.
“That should be fine then Habraum. No one expects full efficiency. I will send you the rendezvous coordinates and more details about this mission.”
“Understood, sir,” Habraum muttered distractedly.
The Admiral nodded and ended the transmission. As soon as the circular Star Brigade insignia appeared on the viewscreen Habraum called Greystone’s private line on Terra Sollus. While the transmission connected the Cerc closed his eyes, counting silently to ten so he would remain calm.
“Captain Nwosu,” Greystone announced with mocking respect. “I was expecting your—.”
“Cut the dreg,” Habraum snapped. Being calm was the farthest thought in his mind now that he saw Greystone’s smug mug. “You know that the Brigade isn’t ready for field action.”
Greystone feigned distress. “Don’t yell at me Habraum. This is your fault, not mine.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.” Greystone smiled cruelly. He lounged back in his chair, hands placed behind his head. “If you’d just given me control of Star Brigade, we could’ve worked together to realize its truest potential.”
A flush crept up Habraum’s neck. He itched to backhand that smirk off Greystone’s face. Unfortunately he was a world away. “I already know what you want the Brigade to be and it won’t happen,” Habraum fumed, tightly gripping under the table to control his mounting anger.
Greystone remained unruffled and arrogant. “I did ask nicely for control of the Brigade. It won’t be on me when Star Brigade falls flat on their collective faces.”
“So you’d risk lives, UComm and possibly civilian, all to swipe Star Brigade from me?”
“As long as you lose.” Greystone leaned forward, no longer smiling. “I warned you not to work against me, Cerc. And to think, you were supposed to be its savior—.”
Habraum hung up on him, unable to stomach anymore. The circular Brigade insignia reappeared on the viewscreen, spinning round and round. Habraum’s mind was a mess.
He knew blowing his top over Greystone’s deceit was pointless. That’s what the ill-made little cretin wanted. The Cerc racked his brains to come up with a fix to this potential disaster. Exposing Greystone would have to wait until after the exercise. But then, who knows who they’ll replace Greystone with?
It’s only a war games exercise, he told himself; mistakes would be made by every UComm division. But with how fragile the Brigade’s position was, Habraum was already pondering when Star Brigade started heading out on field missions after he left. What if the Defense Ministry or JSOG puts someone else in my stead that doesn’t have the Brigade’s best interests in mind? Habraum clenched his fists so tight his palms began to ache, trying not to think about after his departure. He was supposed to leave after everything was sorted.
You can’t leave them. You can’t leave her.
The words dangled off the tip of Habraum’s tongue. But the Cerc shook his head stubbornly, refusing to let them leave his lips. He had made promise to himself…and Jen to be a more present father, for the sake of Jeremy. If Habraum stayed too long…got too entrenched in Star Brigade…
Too late, lad.
The teamwork, the thrill of battle had gotten into his blood. Star Brigade was what he was made for.
Just say it.
Habraum had promised all these field operatives and support personnel that he would make things right. If not him, then who?
Say it! “I can’t leave,” Habraum blurted out. He slouched back into his seat then as if deflated, breathing hard. The Cerc had expected more regret, more bitterness than he currently felt. Instead, there was relief…and freedom. He soaked in the buoyancy of the sensation for a long moment.
Habraum could be both, a dedicated Star Brigadier and a good father. He would do both.
“Time to go to work.” The Cerc needed to be someplace else… anyplace else except his office. His anger over Greystone’s meddling still hung heavy in the air. He tapped on his comm console, sending a transmission to Sam and Honaa that said, “Pilot Pub in fifteen. Urgent.”
The Cerc arrived five macroms early, traveling into Hollus’s lower, non-Star Brigade levels at the mostly vacant section of the starbase’s commerce bazaar. As long as Habraum had been with Star Brigade, a dingy little bar run by a few ex-AeroFleet pilots, called the Pilot Pub, had existed on Hollus Maddrone starbase. Its clientele included AeroFleet officers of course, other military personnel and employees of private security contractors passing through Hollus Maddrone for training missions or a brief stopover between military bases. Aeronauts visited Pilot Pub only to down some drinks, enjoy or mock or try one-upping whatever daredevil flying story’s being told by another patron and watch some interplanetary sports on the holoscreens—and not necessarily in that order.
Since he was a—rogguts he hated this term—‘war hero’, Habraum had never once paid for a drink here. This had at times been his place to unwind a bit after a mission. He acknowledged the greetings from the handful of patrons with a smile and a nod before looking toward the main bar.
The barkeep was a tall, angular humanoid female with an ocher complexion and slightly stooped shoulders. She swiftly dished out drinks and jokes to customers from behind the half-circular main bar, her weathered face and huge high-bridged nose brightened by an ultra-watt smile. By her naturally bald head and subtle, yet close-set vertical segmentation of her skin, she clearly hailed from the memberworld Ibris. Habraum gawked, not quite believing what he saw. But once the Cerc saw the same UComm AeroFleet insignia tattoo on her sleeveless left arm that matched his own along with the black crisscrossing tattoos on both forearms, the barkeep’s identity was confirmed.
“Is this a greybrick,” Habraum called out as he advanced, “or are they actually letting you bartend?”
The barkeep looked up and brightened at once. “Hiiiii! The Fearles
s Aviator returns to Pilot Pub.”
“By the Maker, Sollie! Come here,” Habraum opened his arms wide, never expecting to see retired AeroFleet pilot Solrao Ytod on that side of Pilot Pub’s main bar serving others. Solrao reached over the bar counter and the two shared a quick but enthusiastic embrace. It had been almost a decade since they had flown in the same flight group during the Ferronos Sector War, and almost a year since they had last spoken. Habraum had been too crippled with grief to say goodbye.
“Want anything?” she asked, pointing back at the full stock of liquor and other alcoholic drinks behind her. “Remember, your currency’s no good here.”
Habraum waved away the offer. “Thank you, but no. I’m here on business. How’d this come about?” he gestured sharply at her location.
“I’m a former pilot. I likes to drink,” Solrao said with a goofy shrug. Her chalk-white lips spreading into a shameless grin. “Working at Pilot Pub seems like a perfect fit.”
Habraum hid his disapproval behind a humorless bark of a laugh. Despite how much healthier Solrao now looked, Habraum couldn’t help but worry at the sight of his former flight group mate working behind a bar. The Ferronos Sector War had taken so much from them both. But unlike him, Solrao had never really come back whole. Habraum had felt a responsibility to help in any way possible, forgiving her more times than he could count. Yet still Solrao refused to forgive herself for her part in unintentionally getting Habraum captured by the Cybernarr. That guilt, coupled with being amongst the assault group that had discovered a Cybernarr site housing grisly experiments on Beridaas, had all but shattered the fun-loving, risk-taking pilot years ago.
Solrao rubbed at her ears, rippled columns of cartilage running up along the edges of both cheeks. “How are you…really?” she asked, her drowsy lilt becoming serious.
Jennica, her loving smile like sunshine. Habraum’s former Brigade combat team, all close friends, a force to be reckoned with. Those losses tasted like searing acid in his mouth. “I’m alive, love,” Habraum answered with a forced smile. Best that he deflect any more armor-piercing questions. “And you?”