by C. C. Ekeke
“Much, much better,” Solrao brightened. Her irises were as white as her sclera, while limbal ring around each iris sported the same blood red as the pupil, typical for Ibrisian. “My therapy sessions with Lethe helped tons. Cuttin’ back on the boozing, too.”
“Oh, brilliant,” Habraum said, genuinely pleased by the news. It painted a much better picture than what he remembered of her from four years ago. When Habraum and his late wife had found her, one of the few pilots that Habraum considered a peer had been reduced to flying illegal smuggling runs on Bimnorii and Aramnorii of all places. All profits went straight toward Solrao’s ambitions of drinking herself to death. After dragging the Ibrisian back to Union Space, the Cerc had gotten her work transporting combat teams on Star Brigade missions. It had kept her life structured and too busy for non-stop boozing.
Let’s hope this barkeep rubbish doesn’t undo all that. “If you ever want back into co-piloting on missions, let me know.”
“IF the Brigade’s still around, right?” Solrao chortled. At Habraum’s frigid look she quickly covered her loose lips with a five-fingered hand bearing an opposing thumb on either side of the palm. “Oops, sorry.” Solrao always did have a tendency to think too loudly.
The Cerc didn’t take too much offense. “Honaa or Sam arrived here yet?”
“The latter, not the former.” Solrao thrust her outer left thumb at Pilot Pub’s rear. “At your old spot.”
“Thanks Sollie,” Habraum winked. He found Sam in the furthest corner booth of the bar. Sitting with her combat booted-feet up on the table, she daintily nursed a glass full of rosy Cressonish candywine. Before his sabbatical, Sam sometimes tagged along on his trips down here, mainly because the free drinks via association with Habraum. This booth had hosted countless drinks and deep conversations between them that lasted for orvs.
Sam was wearing brown cargo pants and a snug black version of those velvety kurthon zipped hoodies she favored, completing the casual look with silver hoop earrings and her hair pulled back in a taut bun. The subtle flashes on the lenses of her horn-rimmed glasses revealed Sam was reading data via her info-lenses’ data stream.
She thrust her cup in Habraum’s face as he approached, her way of saying hello. The Cerc sighed, knowing he’d get an earful until he partook, accepted her glass and tossed back a lengthy swallow. The candywine was so unbelievably tart and sweet, making him blink several times in shock.
“What are we looking at?” the Cerc asked, handing back a half-empty glass as he down at Sam’s left.
She took the glass back with a broad grin. “Mining some UIB reports, and scoping the mid-day scene.” For a moment the last part of her answer went right over Habraum’s head, until it didn’t. He knew Sam frequented Pilot Pub without him at times, due to her weakness for the space jockey clientele, chewing them up and spitting them out like gum. By her own admission her pilot proclivities had materialized only after joining Star Brigade.
“Wow,” Habraum blinked, his brain swimming with memories of her past antics. “You still do that?”
“These pilots are horny, lonely and eager to please,” Sam exclaimed to him. “And, since this starbase is a stopover, I usually never have to see them again. It’s a perfect arrangement.”
“Did you at least look out for Sollie, during this arrangement?” Habraum asked, surprised to see Solrao shooting a number of odd glances their way while serving customers at the bar.
“Yeah, by making her my wing woman,” Sam confessed with an impish look. “Helped me weed through the flotsam and jetsam. Y’know…”
Habraum squeezed his eyes shut. “I wish I didn’t.” Imagining that duo on the prowl together made his teeth hurt. “Some of these lads have wives or partners back on their homeworlds,” he scolded gently.
“That’s their problem, not mine.” Sam shrugged indifferently and tossed back the rest of her drink.
“Rogguts, what in the Twins’ names is keeping Honaa?” Habraum grumbled, surprised by how much Sam’s misbehavior bothered him. Much to his relief, Honaa arrived at that moment. The Rothorid captain glanced about with faint but pronounced disapproval, which amused Habraum to no end. Honaa usually avoided the place, not for the drinking or decadence, but its assumed lack of hygiene in his eyes. Habraum then revealed to his fellow Brigadiers his confrontation with Greystone.
Honaa’s ginger eyes went wide. “What?” His voice sliced through the pub’s clamor like a blade.
Sam looked equally furious. “I’m gonna to kill him,” she quietly seethed, “like a LOT.”
The Cerc made a face. “Probably won’t help our situation any.” Sometimes, like now, Habraum didn’t know if Sam was kidding.
“Maybe,” she shrugged. “But who’s gonna miss that idiot?”
Honaa glared at her. Yet when Sam looked back defiantly, he turned away as if wounded.
What was that? Habraum frowned. “So what do we do?” he asked, returning to the dilemma at hand.
“Braum, it’ll be okay,” Sam removed her info-lenses and tenderly rubbed Habraum’s hand. “It’s not a live mission.” Habraum caught Honaa’s mild surprise as Sam’s hand lingered. Since returning, the Cerc also noticed how his shared touches with Sam had grown more frequent, less brief. It was just harmless affection between old friends. At least that what Habraum kept telling himself to overlook the guilt.
“She’s right,” the Rothorid nodded his scaly head. “But unlesss we’re cutting our team sssize down to three membersss, we ssshould choossse our other teammatesss.”
For the next orv, Habraum, Sam and Honaa—all that remained of Star Brigade’s senior leadership—debated on who would be best suited for these roles. Politics and administration were the least favorite parts of Habraum’s new role, but Sam and Honaa’s help eased his discomfort. Everyone unanimously agreed on Tyris Iecen for the ordnance position, which oversaw the CT’s armory. Despite his random spurts of odd phrases, Tyris brought a serious intensity to everything he did. That included the Tanoeen’s fluid employ of the quick, brutal Kedri martial art hrii jiri. From the first day of training Habraum knew the Tanoeen was a warrior to his core.
“Make sense, since he served as a non-Kedri Imperial Enforcer,” Sam said with a shrug.
These greenhorns with their diverse backgrounds, Habraum marveled. But the Tanoeen’s reason for joining the Union was a worry for another time. Then came Khrome, Tyris’s opposite personality-wise and best friend. Everything Sam and Honaa said about the Thulican had been dead-on. He rarely took anything seriously. However, the Thulican’s undue drollness never detracted from his work ethic.
“There’sss our tech,” Honaa announced, pleased. “Maybe another intelligence operative? Ensssigns Al Abdullah or Kuthree?”
“No,” Habraum countered, one sharp word that ended further debate. What surprised him was Sam saying it also.
Sam’s intelligence department had only two field operatives amidst its handful of intelligence analysts. One operative, the Voton Surjilliad’Kuuthree or ‘Surje,’ had noticeably improved in all areas. However, Habraum felt he needed more seasoning, after witnessing the lad trip over his own tongue during a few field combat scenarios. The other operative, Khaladin ‘Khal’ Al Abdullah, had confidence enough for them both ten times over. The handsome Terranborn youth was an adequate enough telekinetic, and according to his file he had excelled in the UIB training program prior to Sam poaching him. But Habraum cared little for Khal’s selfishness in team training and even less for his galaxy-sized ego. The telekinetic favored smirks over smiles, bragged to anyone with two or more ears about the nonstop excitement of being himself, always undressing Sam with his eyes whenever speaking to her.
Sam’s loud laugh broke up the awkward tension at the table. “Khal and Surge aren’t field-ready anyway. But once I’m done with them, they will be.”
In short order, the trio chose Habraum for the field commander position, Sam as “comm” or intelligence officer, Honaa as “helm” or pilot, Khrome for
“tech” position and Tyris for “ordnance.” That left the recon and medic positions open.
Habraum knew as well as Honaa and Sam who the two most qualified candidates were, based on specific skillsets. The problem was, Liliana loved her medicine more than combat training and V’Korram loved violence more than anything. They had an Ubruqite that might work as medic, but he wasn’t a full-fledged doctor. And the Ciphereen, Jan’Hax, was another case of not being field ready.
“Let me think on those spots,” Habraum decided as they wrapped up. “I’ll have an answer sometime tonight.”
“You and Jerm are still coming, right?” Sam asked expectantly as they exited Pilot Pub. She was having the Cerc and his son over for dinner, a taste of normalcy amid the Star Brigade craziness.
“Certainly,” Habraum nodded absently, but not certainly. Too much to do before tomorrow, like picking up Jeremy from Hollus’ Daycare Center. But Sam D’Urso had never been easy to refuse.
Before that, Habraum made a quick stop. He found who he was looking for in Hollus’ primary fitness center, huge, rectangular and contemporary in design with an infinite selection of conditioning machines. Each worked specific areas of the body and could be customized to the species using them. Using the room at least three days a week was mandatory, given that field active Star Brigadiers had to stay in peak physical condition.
The fitness center was mostly empty today, but Habraum spied someone in its rear using a heavy press machine meant only for Brigadiers with above average strength. The machinery in use worked either as a bench or military press, depending on the user configuration. Its structure was simple; two enormous cylinders connected to the ceiling and to each other by way of smaller beams bisecting their middles. Each cylinder had an adjustable grip on the bottom to press them and alternately twist 90 degrees sideways to lock them in place. On the small side panels on both cylinders, the total weight could be adjusted to 40 earth-tons.
Right now, its current user stood upright, pressing the cylinders up and down with perfect form, yawning rather obviously while putting up a clearly massive amount. More normal than V’Korram’s penchants, he considered.
“Greetings oh Captain, my Captain,” Khrome exclaimed when Habraum approached. The young Thulican then pushed the cylinders way up and twisted the grips to lock them in place, making a loud clacking sound.
“Hello, Lieutenant,” Habraum gestured to the machine. “How much we got on, then?”
“Just five tons,” Khrome casually waved at the machine. “It’s a light day.”
“Never would’ve guessed,” Habraum said dryly, despite his awe. “Could I have a word?”
Khrome considered the request with a gleam in his yellow eyes. “Gelatinous.”
Habraum stared at the Thulican. “Sorry?”
Khrome spread out his arms graciously. “There’s your word. Go to town with it, fearless leader!”
That made Habraum snort. “How droll. But seriously lieutenant…”
“Sure.” Khrome approached the Cerc, who stood almost a foot taller.
“How much do you know about anti-telepathy defenses against Korvenites?” Much to Habraum’s delight, the Thulican’s ear-to-ear grin was all the answer that he needed.
18.
Habraum almost cancelled dinner at Sam’s. There were more productive things to accomplish, like another training session with his chosen combat team. But tonight’s dinner was all Jeremy talked about after coming home from school. Guilt crushed Habraum’s anxieties. He couldn’t fail his son like he had with the polymaero match.
As the Nwosus entered Sam’s quarters, she jabbed Habraum playfully in the ribs before giving Jeremy a massive bear hug. The two-stories of her residence were slightly smaller than Habraum’s and decorated by an assortment of ornaments and souvenirs acquired from various alien cultures. One prominent portrait, a massive 3D holo-recreation of The Supremacy’s Ruin in her living room, gave Habraum distinct pleasure as he had purchased it for Sam during his time on the Libratta Systems. The slow motion image showcased several planets of the once star-spanning Ttaunz Supremacy being scorched of life by a vivid, all-consuming cataclysm almost 250 years ago. Only a small fraction of the Ttaunz race survived the Ruin, and now inhabited the Union memberworld Faroor.
It was said that space pirate gangs and smugglers set all types of booby traps for hapless explorers passing through the Ruin’s vast necropolis of worlds. Four months after Beridaas…and Jenn, Habraum’s grief was still fresh. Only Jeremy’s presence and the grace of the Holy Twins had kept him from going a few more light years into the interstellar graveyard. He pushed away the memory and focused on dinner, mouthwatering crispy kurokoos strips with steamed Corognan crab roots courtesy of Grayson Meals.
“I used a rehydrator,” Sam snapped, annoyed at Habraum’s tickled reaction to the rehydrated food. “That counts as cooking.” She had changed into a grey tank top and wet-coated burgundy pants, complexion looking even more sun-kissed with her blonde locks spilling down her shoulders. The trio ate the scrumptious meal at Sam’s dining table, washing it down with sweet and tart goldberry juice. The air smelled of cooked meat and spices, filled by clattering utensils and lively conversation. And Sam always made for fun company. Sassy, sarcastic, full of life. She and Jeremy’s company relaxed Habraum, which didn’t go unnoticed.
“You seem rather…comfy.” She gave him a wary, sidelong look.
I’m not counting the days till I leave anymore. “Just glad to unwind tonight. That’s all,” the Cerc lied with his best poker face. Sam’s eyes were large and brown, probing and complicated, sometimes revealing nothing or expressing more than her actual words. Right now they conveyed suspicion.
Thankfully for Habraum, Jeremy chose then to launch into what he’d learned in school about Earth history. “Did you know Earth and Galdor and Bal-Dobra and Aurealis and Rhomera were part of another government before the Union?” Jeremy gushed, adorably pleased by his newfound knowledge.
“I think so,” Sam made a confused face, playing dumb for Jeremy’s benefit. “It really failed. But I can’t remember its name or what year it formed.”
“The Alliance of Independent Planets!” Jeremy cried. “It formed in 2148 and ended in 2149!”
“Top marks!” Habraum pointed at the boy, “Now what year did the Galactic Union form?”
“2151!” Jeremy pointed back.
“That’s aces sprout,” Habraum grinned and high-fived his son. He couldn’t be any prouder of Jeremy’s love for learning. The boy had already picked the harsh and guttural Kedri Common Tongue for his Second Level language requirement, instead of going for a less challenging Earth dialect.
After dinner, Jeremy was in Sam’s home office wearing a face-covering helmet that granted him access to UNIFY, the Union’s most popular v-world network. Habraum had no love for that v-world rubbish, but the account Sam created for Jeremy could only access the immersive learning game ‘Welcome to my Homeworld’. Meanwhile, the Cerc sat with Sam on her couch to confirm using Cortes and V’Korram for tomorrow’s UComm exercise, despite his misgivings.
“There you go,” said Sam with her irresistible lopsided grin. Yet when Habraum’s doubt lingered, she added. “After the UComm exercises, I’ll start personally training with Cortes.”
Habraum nodded and stroked his goatee. “Good. Besides, you can’t get experience by sitting around twirling datapads in the air.” He envied Sam for that, befriending the rookie Brigadiers even outside of training. As Brigade Executive Officer, the Cerc no longer had that luxury. He had to lead these Brigadiers into battle, possibly to their death. Can’t get attached like before. Beridaas taught him the harsh folly in that. “V’Korram’s an amazing recon and tracker,” Habraum frowned as he leaned forward. “We’ll see how he does in this UComm exercise.” This answer won a beaming look out of Sam.
“But,” he held up a finger to emphasize his caveat. “He’s rather skittery in the head, that one. Today, I caught him in the HLHG running th
is simulation where—.”
Sam cringed before Habraum even finished. “—he was killing other Kintarians?”
The Cerc gaped at her. “You know about that?”
“Afraid so. That’s how he unwinds from time to time.”
Habraum slumped back onto the sofa, unable to speak.
Sam shrugged. “We all got hang-ups, flyboy. Don’t worry, he’s not crazy. Just damaged…and with asshole tendencies,” she admitted. “I can show you his psychological profile if you—.”
“I’ve seen more than enough of V’Korram’s psyche.” Habraum snapped out sourly, remembering his glimpse at the Kintarian’s Brigade profile days ago. What details were available, particularly his past as a pit fighter, made for ghastly reading. The Cerc stood up. “If Prydyri-Ravlek screws up tomorrow…” He didn’t finish, and by Sam’s thoughtful nod he didn’t have to. “Jeremy!”
“Coming, Daddy!” shouted Jeremy from Sam’s office.
“I’ll message the team with mission details and departure time,” Sam said, also on her feet and straightening her shirt.
“Brilliant,” Habraum said. But despite those words he rubbed his bald head uneasily. “One thing. Why do you keep on defending V’Korram so righteously? Have you two …?”
“God no!” Sam waved both hands to underline her denial. “We’re only friends, Braum.”
That answer didn’t satisfy Habraum in the least. “And all the times you two have gone off-base together at the dead of night with shuttlecrafts full of supplies.” As covert as they had been, Habraum had gotten a heads up from some friends working Hollus’ shuttle bays.
Sam gave him a quizzical look. “Keeping tabs on me, are ya? V’Korram and I were doing…charity work,” her tone didn’t invite further explanation. She sighed and shook her head. “Remember how I was when we first joined Star Brigade?”
“Crisply,” Habraum said. The memory brought a mirthless smile to his lips. “We hated each other, Sammie.” In the beginning of their Star Brigade training; Habraum wrote Sam off as a rude, crude and socially unattractive lush. Sam had seen Habraum in the midst of his post-war popularity as, in her words, ‘a gas giant-sized ball of worthless hype’. The beginning of a wonderful relationship, of course.