The Autumn War Vol. 02: Remnants

"Thank you," Ruza added, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve as he turned to the rest of the team. "I thought that I would surely be swept away into the sewers."

"It was all Xipa," Bluejay replied, coming to rest on a nearby windowsill. "If she hadn't found that hose, I don't know what we would have done."

"I guess Valbarans aren't useless in a crisis after all," Fletcher said, trying to rise to a sitting position. One of his prosthetic arms buckled, and he loosed a yell of pain. Ruza rushed to support him, his usual aloofness now absent.

"You are injured," he said, Fletcher pulling his shaking arm away from the feline's grasp.

"You need a PhD to figure that one out, doc?"

"Come," Ruza said, helping him to his feet. "We must find a place to make camp."

***

They made their way to the second floor of a nearby building that seemed intact enough to support Gustave's weight. Falling through the floor was preferable to falling into a sinkhole. This had been an office building at some point, the faded schematics on the walls suggesting that they must have been working on some mechanical project. The rows of tables were lined with long-dormant hologram projectors, the padding on the chairs now playing host to mushroom colonies. Everything was stained with water damage, a hole in the floor above them letting in more of it. A cool wind blew in through the broken windows, not exactly creating a welcoming environment, but it was marginally better than being up to their knees in water.

Gustave tested the floor gingerly, then pushed some of the tables aside, clearing an area where he could lie down. He squashed a few patches of mushrooms that were growing on the damp carpet, seemingly indifferent to their presence.

Xipa found a chair that was relatively intact, taking a load off, while Bluejay walked over to a nearby window. He lay his rifle on the sill, keeping watch. Ruza stuck close to Fletcher's side, even as the surly Earth'nay tried to ward him off. It seemed as though he had a new admirer. She watched curiously as they sat, Fletcher beginning to detach his armor plating. He lay his shoulder pads, chest piece, and vambraces in a stack on the carpet before starting to peel off his damp pressure suit. His pale skin was covered in old burns and scars, but it was otherwise smooth, with little hair to speak of and no scales. It looked shiny when it was wet, like it had been waxed. She understood a little more why they were so often compared to Valbara'nay males now.

As he pulled down his sleeves, Xipa saw where his prosthetics connected to his body, ugly surgical scars denoting where the technology had been implanted. Through the knitted flesh protruded what looked like a ball socket, and the artificial limb was anchored to it, tiny wires the width of a hair trailing into the closed wound.

"Are you even rated to work on these?" he grumbled, wincing as Ruza lifted his arm experimentally.

"I have some experience," the feline replied. "There were many injured during the rebellion. I have implanted my share of nerve shunts."

"Maybe if you'd eat a salad every once in a while, I wouldn't have had my arms almost torn out of their sockets," Fletcher grumbled. Ruza retrieved a medical scanner from one of the pouches on his rig, waving it across the Earth'nay's shoulder.

"I am detecting hairline fractures on your clavicle and scapula where the prosthetics are anchored to your skeleton," Ruza began, rummaging in one of his pouches again. "The strain of holding my weight is no doubt the cause. Your organics were the weakest link in the chain, and they sustained the brunt of the damage."

"So, what?" Fletcher asked as Ruza brandished a tubular device. He pulled off a cap, revealing it to be a needle. "Can you fix it?"

"The only way to fix a fractured bone in the field is to rest and let it heal," he explained, bringing the needle to Fletcher's neck. Whatever substance he had injected, Fletcher quickly relaxed. Perhaps he had been administered some kind of painkiller. "I can do no more than this."

"Just keep me hopped up on happy drugs, then," Fletcher replied as he flexed a shaking hand. "I'll fight through it until we can get out of here."

"You will not," Ruza replied sternly. "You still have the use of your arms, but that will no longer be the case if the injuries worsen. Firing an XMR, even your sidearm, would run the risk of shattering the weakened bones. If that happens, you will have to go through surgery all over again, and have an entirely new set of prosthetics fitted."

"I'm not gonna have much use for my arms if I'm fucking dead," Fletcher protested, but Ruza shook his shaggy head.

"If your prosthetics were to fail in a firefight, or while one of us was depending on you, the outcome would be worse than not fighting at all."

"But-"

"You risked your life for mine today," Ruza added, his gravelly tone full of uncharacteristic sincerity. "Please, let me care for you as I would care for an injured Alpha. No harm will befall you while I draw breath."

"Where's this coming from?" Fletcher muttered, just as confused as Xipa was by Ruza's change of tone.

"I will say only that if there were more packs that behaved as you do, the Rask territory might be a very different place today," he replied as he glanced at each of his companions in turn. "I have been ordered to my death to satisfy the whims of a superior more than once. I have been left behind. No Rask crewmaster would ever risk injury to save a subordinate. No Rask unit would come together as you did today."

He returned his attention to Fletcher's prosthetics, doing a little fiddling with the wires that connected to his shoulders, holding up his wrist computer in a way that made it look like he was interfacing with the devices.

"There," he said, seeming satisfied with his work. "I have reduced the frequency of the nerve impulses for stability, and I have undervolted the servos to help prevent accidents. You will feel a slight sluggishness in their response times, but you will adapt to it quickly. It should stop the shaking until a surgeon can reseat the connections."

"Weaker and slower, got it," Fletcher sighed. "Thanks," he added, Ruza nodding.

"I have anti-inflammatories and medication that will dull your pain until we can return to the carrier. It should not be too uncomfortable as long as you refrain from exerting yourself. No shooting, no heavy lifting, no punching. Confine your activities to mundane tasks."

"Shouldn't be too much longer," Fletcher said, raising his arm gingerly. "We're not more than a day from the beacon. Once we find it, we can get out of here."

Xipa wanted to interject, to tell him that their mission here was to search for survivors, but she knew that he had little faith in their task. Let him be proven wrong, then.

"You did good today."

She turned her head to see that Bluejay was addressing her from his vantage point, his eyes still focused on the scope of his rifle.

"I can't very well accomplish my goal if half of my team is dead," she replied dismissively, but she could see that Bluejay wasn't buying it.

"Fletcher and Ruza would probably both be dead if it wasn't for you. No way we'd find them again once they fell into the sewers. You thought fast, and you acted faster. I can see why they made you an Ensi."

"I made myself an Ensi," she replied, but her tone wasn't stern anymore.

"Of course," he added with a smile. "How did you know that hose was there?"

"I remembered it from my time in the City Guard," she explained, her chair creaking as she leaned against the backrest. Her tail was slotted through the gap at its base, trailing onto the floor. "We used them to put out fires. There was one on every street."

"There's that Valbaran memory doing its work again," he chuckled. "Hey, can I ask you something?" he added, gesturing for her to approach.

"Alright," she said, a flutter of curious yellow passing through her suit panels as she slid out of her seat.

"Do you know why Fletcher...doesn't like me?" he asked, pausing to check that nobody else was in earshot.

"Oh," she mumbled, having not expected such a personal question. "Why do you ask?"

"I felt like we were getting on alright at first, but especially over the last couple of days, he's been taking every opportunity to take shots at me. He doesn't even give me an order if he can't get a jibe in at the same time," he added with a scowl. "I was wondering if he'd said anything about it to you?"

She considered for a moment, wondering whether she should share what Fletcher had told her in confidence. Truth be told, she no longer felt the burning hatred that she once had for the insect. Not after the incident with the doll had proven that he was more than he appeared. He deserved to know some of the truth, even if she couldn't reveal all of it.

"He has mentioned that he does not trust you," she finally replied, Bluejay cocking his head.

"Why?" he demanded, seeming more confused than hurt. "I've followed every order he's given, and I haven't had a bad word to say about anyone. I don't see how I could be any more cooperative."

"When we talked in the abandoned laboratory off the deserted road, you told me that you felt that your purpose was to put your best foot forward," Xipa began. "To earn the respect of the other species."

"That's right," he replied, turning his eyes back to his scope. "Our whole species is judged based on the behavior of the individual. We have to be friendly, cooperative, useful. One lapse, and it reflects badly on all of us."

"Being friendly and cooperative doesn't always earn you respect, though," Xipa added. "Perhaps the next time Fletcher insults you, you should confront him. Pride and dignity are traits that Bugs do not possess, after all."

"I'm not here to be confrontational," he sighed. "If I let him get under my skin, the minute I snap, that's going to be how he sees all of us. That might even be his report to Vos. Thanks, though," he added.

"For what?" she asked.

"I think that's the first time you've ever differentiated me from a Bug."

She didn't reply, but nor did she correct him.

"How's your leg?" Fletcher asked, watching as Ruza rolled up his pants. The bandage that he had applied was soaked now, and he began to remove it, applying a dry replacement.

"It is healing," he replied. "There will probably be infection, but I can manage it."

***

Mealtime was a communal affair these days. Everyone sat together on the carpet, forming a rough circle, exchanging food as they made small talk. Xipa had been skeptical of the Earth'nay's MREs, but she had to admit that the wide variety of dishes made them something to look forward to rather than a chore. Today, she was sharing in something called pasta that was served with a red sauce, enjoying the texture of the morsels. Gustave was sleeping, as he had no need to eat as regularly as the rest of the team. Bluejay joined in more as a formality, as he couldn't eat solid food, using his proboscis to suck his ration of honey from its little packet.

As she fished out a spiral of pasta from her packet, Xipa noticed that Ruza had withdrawn another syringe from one of his pouches, pulling off the cap to expose the needle. He jabbed it into his forearm, injecting its contents.

"What's that for?" Fletcher inquired, still chewing on a piece of flatbread.

"It is an immunostimulant," Ruza replied, tossing the empty syringe over his shoulder. "It will help prevent my wound from becoming infected."

Xipa spoke up, getting their attention.

"Is that true?" she chirped, narrowing her one eye at the feline. "I saw you use the same syringe back at the abandoned lab, days before you were injured."

"You are mistaken," he added, polite but firm. "The injectors are all similar in their appearance."

"I am not mistaken," she continued, her feathers flashing an indignant red. "Each of your syringes has had different colored markings, and I have a photographic memory. That was the same one that you used when you walked off into the forest alone. You lied about having to relieve yourself. I saw you."

"Ruza?" Fletcher asked, cocking a curious eyebrow at him. "I don't see why the Ensi would lie. Do you have something to tell us?"

"If you are hiding a medical condition, it may negatively impact the mission," Xipa added sternly. "We need to know."

"I won't order you to reveal your medical history," Fletcher added, gesturing for Xipa to back off. "I don't think that's even legal. But, if there's anything you think I need to know about..."

Ruza considered for a moment, seeming conflicted, then he let out a long sigh.

"You have all proven yourselves trustworthy packmates. Keeping the truth from you any longer would be disrespectful." He shifted his weight on the carpet, perhaps considering where to begin. "During the rebellion, I was assigned to the Crawler Tornado, a superheavy cargo vehicle that the Matriarchy had repurposed for use as a mobile base. I was a combat medic - my job being to heal the wounded during battle."

"You fought on the frontline, then?" Fletcher asked.

"Yes," Ruza replied with a solemn nod. "The Matriarch believed that the UNN would not be able to track bases that were constantly moving through the desert, but she was wrong. One day, I left the Tornado as part of a raiding party that had been sent to harass the human forces. It was a massacre," he growled.

"What happened?" Xipa asked. "I know little of this rebellion you two speak of."

"It was a failure of leadership," Ruza explained, making no attempt to conceal his disgust. "The hierarchy was rotten from top to bottom. The Matriarch gave her crewmasters unrealistic orders, and they relayed those orders to our Alphas in turn, who seemed to believe that courage and fervor were a substitute for anti-tank weaponry. They were afraid of their leaders, and so they forsook those that they had sworn to protect. The Matriarch was willing to spend the lives of her troops just to delay the UNN advance, to buy herself more time to shore her own defenses before they reached the city."

"The Rask tried to fight the Coalition," Fletcher added. "It went about as well as you'd expect."

"My raiding party was all but wiped out that day," Ruza continued, shaking his head. "We went up against Kodiak tanks with only a handful of anti-materiel weapons. So much death, all to buy what must have been only a few hours. I did what I could for the survivors, but we turned tail with less than half of our initial strength. Even our commander was killed - turned to dust by a thirty-millimeter gun. One of her subordinates, Datzi, had to assume her responsibilities. We made our way back to the Crawler, but when we arrived at the rendezvous point, we found that the Tornado was not there."

"It had been destroyed?" Xipa suggested.

"Yes," he replied. "We drove back to its last known position, and we found only wreckage. UNN vehicles scouting ahead of the main formation had discovered it and had called in an artillery strike on its position. Datzi led the rescue effort, which is commendable, I suppose. We sifted through the ruins for hours, but the humans had left none alive. Concerned for those that still drew breath, we headed for the nearest intact Crawler - the command vessel. It wasn't until after we arrived and began to unload the injured that we realized what had happened to us."

He reached into a pouch on his rig, brandishing one of the syringes.

"When the Tornado had been destroyed, the nuclear reactor that powered it had been exposed to the air and had begun to melt down. We were warriors - we knew nothing of atomic fission or radiation. Everyone who participated in the rescue had been exposed to a lethal dose - an invisible killer that had contaminated our very cells. Our deaths would be drawn-out and excruciating, as nobody in the territory had the skills or the equipment to treat us. Only the humans had that power."

"That's rough," Fletcher sighed, sucking in a breath through his teeth. "Even with immediate rescue, the prognosis isn't good if you've been dosed by an exposed reactor. I've heard of entire frigate crews having their DNA barbecued by a core breach."

"The solution was obvious," Ruza continued. "If we were to surrender and allow ourselves to be taken as prisoners, the humans would treat us. The Matriarch refused. She condemned us to a painful, unnecessary death purely to preserve some abstract idea of honor. It was only after a mutiny by the admiral that the war was ended, and we were finally given treatment."

"So, that's why you go it alone," Fletcher mused. "Your command structure failed you at every level. The Matriarch started a war she couldn't win, the crewmasters sent you on suicide missions, and your Alphas never stood up for their packs."

"Indeed," he growled. "I vowed that I would never again follow an order from a superior who had not proven their worth to me. I lied only by omission," he continued, raising the syringe that he was holding. "My immune system was all but destroyed, and even after a series of painful bone marrow transplants, it remains weak. This immunostimulant cocktail keeps my white blood cell count at acceptable levels and helps my body fight off the cancerous cells that my damaged DNA creates. I will depend on it for what time remains to me."

Xipa didn't know what to say, but Fletcher spoke up.

"I know what it's like to live with life-changing injuries," he began, flexing his polymer fingers. "You know what they say - shit rolls downhill. When those at the top fuck up, it's usually the people down the line that pay for it. generals and admirals don't suffer the consequences of their bad decisions. Not directly, anyway."

"It is over now," Ruza sighed, returning the syringe to its pouch. "The Matriarch was deposed, most of her crewmasters are dead, and the former admiral assumed her throne. Things are better there, but I could not stay. I could not bring myself to live in a society that demands such subservience after what I had seen. You are different, though," he added as he glanced up at Fletcher. "My crewmaster would never have injured herself to save my life as you did. You behave as a pack should," he said as he turned to his companions. "Even if Vos was to deny me my pay, I would still fight for you."

"I guess you really can't buy loyalty," Fletcher mused. "For what it's worth, I'm glad you told us."

"Perhaps my people could help," Bluejay added, Ruza cocking his head at the insect. "Jarilan genetic engineering technology is the most advanced in the Coalition. I'm not an expert, but I know that our doctors recently created the first hybrid children - Borealan kittens with elements of human genes. If they can do that, maybe they can fix your damaged DNA or splice it with someone else's to patch up the holes."

"I...did not know of this," he replied, his yellow eyes wide.

"It can be a little hard to get a visa," Bluejay continued. "But, I bet if you have Vos put in a good word for you, they'll let you visit. After that, it's just a matter of booking passage. I don't imagine private contractors are too hard up for credits."

"Perhaps I will look into it," Ruza said, nodding to the Jarilan. "Thank you."

Xipa watched Ruza curiously as he finished off his meal, seeing him in a fresh light. While it was natural to be concerned with the fate of her own people primarily, and to occupy herself with the most pressing problems, much had happened beyond the borders of Valbara'nay space that she knew little about. Wars had been fought, colonies had been founded and destroyed, groundbreaking technologies had been developed. She had always been too preoccupied to show much interest in foreign affairs. Was it too much to hope that she might one day have time to catch up?