Star Brigade: The Supremacy (SB3) (31 page)

Tyris eyed Georn suspiciously. “What’s your connection to all this?”

“I am a Planetary Senator, and Maorridius’s younger brother,” Georn replied. “Can you help him?”

Lily scrutinized the mediglobe. “I cannot promise anything, but I can examine him thoroughly.”

“That is all we ask,” Naejjo replied weakly, her pelted face now splotchy with tears.

Lily ran a number of tests while Tyris, Naejjo, and Georn all waited in silence.

“
Dulce Madre
!” she exclaimed fifteen macroms later. “No wonder.” Lily wheeled around from a smaller holoscreen to address Tyris and the two Ttaunz, “A strain of Galdorian blood-freeze virus was in his water!” Seeing the confused looks, she explained, “Non-Galdorians catching this virus is rare, but not unheard of.”

“
Haemekk
,” snarled Naejjo. “I’ll slit his throat for this!”

“Oookay.” Tyris, stunned, turned to Liliana. “What’s the verdict?”

Lily reviewed her readings again. “His case is advanced. A day...maybe two might have been too late.”

“But it isn’t?” Georn asked as he wrung his hands.

“Thankfully, no.” Lily shook her head. The unbridled relief rippling through Georn, the tears of hope dewing up Naejjo’s tired eyes, caused Liliana’s throat to tighten.

“Let me—uh.” Liliana shook off the wave of emotion that hit her, with considerable effort. “Luckily, all the medicines I need are in this room. I’ll get to work right now.”

When Second Lt. Khal Al Abdullah joined Star Brigade over a year ago, it wasn’t to make friends. He reminded himself of this when considering the negative reactions many of his CT-1 teammates had about him replacing Sam D’Urso. Khal looked forward to shoving those “opinions” back in their faces.

“Pummel detractors with your victories and their opinions are yours to shape,” Khal’s father always said, one of the few sound counsels that greedy tub of guts had ever given when not restating his disappointment.

Khal could have been a UIB field operative, but Star Brigade had made a better fit for his talents. Sam in particular had lobbied hard for Khal, taking him under her wing from day one. How many side missions had his CT-1 teammates done during the Brigade’s yearlong dry spell?
And
God, the rewards I got for those missions
… he smirked with lustful reminiscence.

Khal recalled Sam’s words the night before departing for Faroor, as they walked arm in arm through a vacant floor of Star Brigade’s Living Quarters. “Your main duty is protecting your CT. You see an opening to do that, take it.” Khal stopped smiling, knowing exactly
which
opportunity she had meant.

While most of CT-1 slept off today’s craziness, Khal sat before several floating holoscreens in a small room at Magnasterium, next to CT-1’s temporary quarters. With UComm’s unrestricted access to Ttaunz government databanks, Khal sifted through countless news streams chronicling the Ghebrekh’s acts of terror these last few years.

Khal could only feel disgust. Faroor’s two races never had direct confrontations, just back-and-forth sneak attacks. The entire time, skyquakes and lightning storms grew more severe. How could the Ttaunz be so blind as to miss the correlation between Ghuj’aega and these disturbances?

The room entryway hissed open behind Khal. He swiveled around, expecting one of his teammates. Instead, a tall and willowy Ttaunz who was clearly non-military swept inside. She seemed to glide rather than walk, oozing the bird-like poise and patrician beauty of a Ttaunz highborn. Her cream-colored dress clung to her svelte body, fluid like the liquid dresses that Galdorian females wore. The outfit’s neckline plunged far below appropriate levels, her thin silver-laced straps barely resting on her shoulders. How she got in was a mystery.

Khal stood up slowly, pleasantly surprised. His hand quickly clacked across his work console to lock the holoscreens. The Ttaunz government insignia—a golden planet in the heart of a four-pointed star—appeared on every open screen. This Ttaunz looked rather familiar—the stylishly cropped ginger hair, the carroty pelt covering her skin, that wanting gaze…

That flock of Ttaunz girls from the hangar bay with her, their leader
, Khal recalled as she stood facing him, only an inch or two shorter. “Greetings,” her words were soft and melodic. “I am Uarya.”

“Hello Uarya.” Khal grinned, mentally undressing her—not a hard feat given how gauzy that dress of hers was. The name sounded so familiar...

He had no time to deduce why before Uarya draped her arms around his neck and kissed him. Khal was surprised…for about a nanoclic. Females of all races, creeds, and classes threw themselves at him all the time.

Uarya’s mouth was hungry, her tongue skillful. The heat of her body was a siren song, making him stiff as rocks. Khal immediately responded. His hands traveled along the slender curves of Uarya’s sublime body for a glorious while, until he abruptly pulled back.

They stared at each other, both breathless. Khal, however, was supscious. Uarya ran a hand through his hair, enthralled by its dark luster as most females were. “You’ll do,” she breezed while untangling from his grasp.

“I’ll do what?” Khal’s eyes narowed. His lips, however, burned from the memory of her kiss.

Uarya’s laughter was music. “Distract me from today’s chaos. And I saw how much you wanted me earlier.”

“How’d you even find me?” Khal should have been more alarmed, if his brain had any blood left.

Uarya smiled and slipped both dress straps off her shoulders. The flimsy gown slithered off her willowy figure like cascading water. “Does it matter?”

Khal smirked.
I just love being me.
“Not remotely.” He reached out and pulled Uarya closer.

Habraum sat alone in the
Phaeton’s
War Room, scanning a collage of data about the Ghebrekh on the holoscreens floating before him, searching for anything hinting at a weakness Star Brigade could exploit.

“Nothing,” he grumbled, swearing under his breath.

Most of CT-1 was asleep in Magnasterium’s guest wing, per his orders. Marguliese, who needed little sleep, stood guard over Mhir’ujiid in that same guest wing. The Cerc needed the Farooqua healthy if she was going to guide them through Faroor’s tribal lands.

He had gotten word from Cortes and Tyris moments ago, successfully treating the Faroor Viceroy. That lightened Habraum’s mood, at least. But weighed against the threat Ghuj’aega and his Ghebrekh, the joy was ephemeral at best. Khrome’s solution to finding Ghuj’aega was sound. But when they found the terrorist, could Star Brigade and the TerraTroopers contain him?

Habraum shook off the cynicism. For months his Star Brigade had dealt with nasty characters like Ghuj’aega.
Every menace has a weakness to exploit
, he thought.

The Cerc focused back on the holoscreens. But his mind felt fried, eyes and body beyond weary.

“Time to take a powder,” he muttered.

Habraum then realized over a day had passed since last speaking to his son. Tonight could be his last chance to connect before the mission began. He recalled Jeremy’s rekindled grief from days past and his heart ached.

Habraum popped up and strode over to a comm terminal near the wall, logging into his personal UComm account through an open holoscreen. He moved to contact Rukk and talk with Jeremy, almost missing a blinking new-message notice in his haste. It came via AeroFleet channels four orvs ago.

“Rukk,” the Cerc quickly opened the message through voice command. Rukk appeared. Habraum frowned. Something was wrong.

“Braum!” Onscreen, Rukk’s smile looked forced, his voice an octave higher than usual. “Don’t fret, but Jeremy’s grandparents have him a wee bit earlier than planned.”

Habraum blew out a relieved sigh, now confused by Rukk’s urgent tone as his friend continued, “Things went smooth the first day. But then I went to pick him up from school the second day, and a school official tells me his grandparents snatched him up already.”

The Cerc sucked on his teeth in annoyance, but kept listening.

“So I called the Hoangs,” Rukk continued. “And yes, they had picked him up because Jeremy got suspended for fighting or something. And since you’re away, Poseidon Prep called his closest of kin on Terra Sollus—even though I’m listed as an approved guardian.”

Habraum gaped.
Jeremy, in a fight?
That sounded wrong.

“Of course, they blamed the fight on you,” Rukk scowled. “Real charmers, those ones. So I told them where and how they could shove off!”

Habraum threw back his head and laughed. There was the Rukk he knew and loved.

The AeroFleet pilot seemed equally amused by his own insolence. “The Hoangs didn’t fancy my advice much, and hung up before I could talk to Jer. Again, I’m sorry. Call the sprout once you get this.”

Habraum shook his head, still chuckling. He knew Rukk had nothing to apologize for as he erased the message and contacted the Hoangs. They answered immediately.

Before him stood the life-sized holoimage of a short, skinny, older earthborn man. His face was thin, lined and fierce, with deep-set brown eyes like little almonds. His pepper-colored hair was receding, combed neatly to one side. Mao Quan Hoang, Jeremy’s grandfather on his late mother’s side, glared at Habraum. His hands quivered, telltale that he had an earful to lambaste the Cerc with.

Habraum recalled how cordial his relations with the Hoangs were when he had started dating their daughter years ago. Probably because they assumed it wouldn’t last. It was only after Habraum’s return to Union Space from the Ferronos Sector War that they took an active dislike to him.

Jennica had to threaten to cut them out of her life for the Hoangs to start behaving. But soon after Jennica’s funeral, they dropped all civility and resumed their open hatred. They only kept in contact with him because of Jeremy. Habraum had no problem with that arrangement.

“So,” Mao began with peeved, accented fury, “your son hit another kid. Three times!”

The Cerc stifled his anger. “I heard, Mao. That’s not like Jeremy at all. I’ll get to the bottom of this.”

Hoang’s eyes bulged, fists clenched. “It’s clear where his violence came from—”

“Jeremy isn’t violent,” Habraum stopped him cold. “I’ll talk to my son. Now.” He had no patience for Hoang’s accusation…even if there might be truth there.

“Grandpa,” a young boy’s voice cut into the argument. “I want to talk to daddy, please.” Mr. Hoang’s eyes flicked off-screen in the direction of the voice. He shot one last glare at Habraum promising future discussion, then stepped off his TriTran platform and disappeared. A moment later, Jeremy’s diminutive form stepped onto the platform, dressed in hideous rainbow polka-dot pajamas that Habraum would never have bought. The boy’s floppy dark-brown ’fro looked damp, definitely from a hydrobath.

Right away, Jennica’s bitter father was forgotten and Jeremy consumed his whole world.

“Hi, Daddy.” The boy looked down, shuffling his little feet in clear guilt.

“Hi, sprout.” Habraum addressed his son with stern tones, “Heard you got into a bust-up at school.”

The boy nodded, hazel-grey eyes still facing down.

“Eyes up here,” Habraum ordered gently. “What happened?”

Jeremy looked up and launched into his story. Apparently, his former friend had been badmouthing the Korvenites. Jeremy had told him to stop, which only spurred the boy onward. He called Jeremy several colorful slurs, including “a filthy limeblood lover.” Jeremy punched the kid then and proudly declared, “
I’M
A LIMEBLOOD LOVER!” The reenactment was very animated and detailed.

After Jeremy finished, Habraum had one question. “Left, right uppercut…like I taught you?”

Jeremy nodded eagerly, grinning. Habraum smiled back proudly.

A loud tutting noise sounded from off-screen. Habraum’s smile curdled. Jeremy glared at the source of the noise before the Cerc could even speak. “Grandma, I want privacy, please!”

An unseen door hissed closed, ensuring their privacy.

“Sprout.” Habraum kneeled so that he could meet his son eye to eye. “I’m glad you stood up against bullies. But I only taught you those moves for when you
have
to defend yourself. You can’t go smacking anyone who gets shirty with you.”

Jeremy’s boyish features knitted with confusion. “Isn’t that your job, though? Fight bad guys who get shirty with the Union?”

Habraum snorted out a laugh. This boy was too smart. “My job’s trickier than that, lad.”

“How?”

“I go after bad-to-the-core criminals,” the Cerc answered. “The kid you punched is some loudmouth squit not worth your trouble. You got me?”

Jeremy nodded, his fighting fervor noticeably dampened.

“Next time, tell a teacher.” Habraum softened his tone. He fought an urge to reach out and grasp the shoulder of his son’s holoimage. “Don’t be the one to throw the first punch…even when the other kid deserves it.”

“Yes, Daddy.” Jeremy nodded again.

Habraum glanced up past Jeremy at a chronometer attached to his TriTran console. Set to Terra Sollan time in the city-state Xibei, it was way past Jeremy’s bedtime.

Have to cut this short
, he realized with a pang of displeasure. “I’ll be out of contact a few days, but I’ll call as soon as I’m able. So behave for your grandparents, okay?”

Jeremy eyed his father seriously. “What if they say bad stuff about you?”

Habraum seethed at the thought. The Hoangs had tried this before. “Tell
them
to shut it!”

“Really??” Jeremy perked up far too much at this.

Habraum frowned, “No. Just tell them to stop. It’s improper. Now, off to bed.”

Jeremy nodded again. “Love you, Daddy!”

Habraum clutched at his heart, momentarily overcome. “Love you more, sprout,” he managed to say without his voice catching.

The Cerc ended the call, which was always too soon with Jeremy. The boy’s image vanished.
Phaeton’s
War Room fell silent again, except for background hum and occasional console chirps. No sooner had he slumped into a seat, a familiar three-chimed beep sounded: an inbound transmission.