by Brian Fisher
Chapter 57
Narja lay on his bunk, trying to sleep. He had told the Captain that he would try to rest, but that task was proving to be even more difficult than he had thought. The Battle for Olcai played constantly in his thoughts. The faces of his Marines came and went in an endless stream, each of them telling him something different.
Finally, Narja resigned himself to getting up and getting on with his life. It was strange for him being alive. He had thought that when he was blown out of that airlock, that he was dead. He had consoled himself in the fact that he had done his duty to the best of his ability, and decided that he could indeed die with honor.
The problem with living is that you always have to deal with the consequences of any action that affects you. Major Narja had to deal with losing all of his Marines. They had fought well and he was proud of everyone one of them. Each had known the odds before they had even boarded the shuttles, and yet they had all gone anyway.
A verse from an ancient poem came to Narja's mind. The Charge of the Light Brigade had always been one of his favorites. 'Mine is not to question why. Mine is but to do and die.' The verse had never seemed as appropriate as it did now.
A small holocube sat idly on the top shelf of his wall locker. It had been a long enough time since Narja had viewed the contents of the cube that a thin layer of dust had settled on its polished surface.
Taking the cube in his hand, Narja gently pushed the tiny button on its side. It hummed for a moment, and then burst into a display of rainbow colored lights, before the image coalesced into his mother. The lava flows of Caldon boiled in the background, casting a gentle glow across her loving face.
Narja found comfort and resolve in his mother's image. She had always been there to care for him, and help him with whatever he needed. To his shame, he had been light-years away, and unable to return home and help her when the Ta'Reeth had come.
He had found her body, broken and shamed some time later. Right then, before he buried his mother, Narja vowed that he would fight and do everything that he could to see that no one ever had to lose a loved one to the Ta'Reeth again.
Narja pressed the button again, and watched the image change from his mother, to Prinelle. Aside from his mother, she was the only woman that he had ever loved, and she too was gone. The Ta'Reeth had a lot to answer for in Narja's life, and he vowed that they would be held responsible.
He couldn't help but stare longingly at the picture of Prinelle. It had been taken the night that he had escorted her to the Academy's formal Ball. She, like him, had spent numerous hours preparing her silver, black, and gold uniform, until everything shone with perfect clarity. There were no smudges, or defects of any kind to be found, and she looked perfect. He remembered that night for all that it was, and all of the promises that it held. He missed her so much, that he couldn't help but still feel the pain.
Reluctantly, Narja pressed the button on the side of the holocube, and gently placed it back on the shelf. He knew what he had to do. There were no more Marines under his command, but that didn't change the fact that he was one, and it was his duty to make certain that all preparations were made to engage the enemy.
With the memories of his mother and his marines, but most of all Prinelle in mind, Narja left his quarters and headed for the armory. As he expected, the corridors were sparsely populated. Most of the crew were either getting some much needed rest and relaxation, or were on duty.
The armory was a tomb. The armors and weapons were all gone, except for Narja's personal equipment. His armor stood alone at the far end of the armory, like a sentry keeping silent watch over its fallen comrades. Dented and torn, this mechanical extension of himself had saved his life a hundred times over.
Setting his sentiments aside, Narja began to disassemble his armor. He meticulously inspected every piece. Replacing what he needed to, he began to rebuild the armor. Narja focused intensely on what he was doing; shutting out any thought other than the task he was performing.
When he finished repairing his armor, Major Narja turned his attention to the others. All of his marines were gone, but he still needed armors for their replacements. He programmed the computer for what he wanted, and then pulled out his bayonet.
Finding a seat on the floor, Narja waited for each of the new armors to be completed. As he waited, he slowly drew his bayonet across his sharpening stone. There were other ways to sharpen knives, but he liked the edge that his old sharpening stone put on the polished steel. Sometimes newer wasn't better, it was just newer.
By the time that the last armor was ready, Narja's bayonet was sharper than a razor, and ready for use. He carefully placed his bayonet back in its scabbard, and cleaned his stone before inspecting the new armors. Only when each new piece was fully inspected, did Narja return to his quarters and finally fall asleep.