Bichard held the bow with loving grace, running his fingers along its length. He remembered all the songs he used to play in his free time. He looked up at Arion. “Thank you my friend.” He then turned to his roommate. “Do you mind?”

  The Chret shook his head, and setting aside his macomm, sat forward to listen. “No, please. We could do with some music. Where’s your instrument?”

  Bichard smiled. “I’ll show you.” They watched as he excreted five thin lines of his resin. Each of them was a different thickness. He attached them to his left elbow on one end before stretching and affixing the other ends to the fingertips of his left hand.

  He then pulled his hand back, splayed it open, and locked his fingers in place. He plucked on the strands then made tiny adjustments to his fingers to ensure that the strings were tight enough. Once satisfied, he brought the bow to the strings, screeched it across them. All four of them winced at the noise. He adjusted the strands, twisting them together at his elbow, and snapping another line around them. Then, adjusting his fingers, he took the bow to the strings again. This time the sound was better, but still off. He adjusted his fingers for over a pulse, testing them each time until he felt satisfied.

  Bichard began with his favorite song, a beautiful, if haunting, melody that filled the room. Both Alieha and his roommate seemed drawn in by the song. Even the charge nurse walking past the door stopped to listen before someone called her away. Arion smiled in recognition. Bichard always tested his lines with it, but he never told Arion or the others where it came from. As he finished, Bichard sat the bow down and looked about the room. “Any requests?”

  Arion smiled back at his friend. “My request is that you get better before next flight. Chris will need a good WSO for it.”

  Bichard nodded, winced at the pain but didn’t mind it anymore. “I will my friend.” He then turned to Alieha. “What about you, any requests?”

  “Same request, just get better Big Bug,” she replied with a smile

  “Comelies Fifth in D,” his roommate called out. Smiling, Bichard began to play again.

  Arion took Alieha’s hand and walked her out. “I’ll check on you in a while Big Bug, okay?”

  Bichard nodded then screeched to a halt. “Wait, what about Chris? I haven’t spoken to her since my surgery?”

  Arion swallowed hard then answered. “She’s okay, but she’s not quite sure how to talk to you about what happened.”

  Despite his best efforts, Bichard’s antennae dipped. “I did not mean for it to happen.”

  “She knows Bichard.”

  Bichard nodded and began to play a slower, sadder song.

  Alieha elbowed Arion and he waved at her to stop before heading back to the door. “We’ll check in on you later buddy.”

  ***

  Several hects later, Bichard and his roommate sat at the end of their beds, scratching out musical notes on their macomms as they spoke. A knock at the door halted their conversation, and Bichard turned to look. His head was free of the brace, but he still winced. His horrid smile replaced the grimace, as his visitor strode in. “Chris you came!”

  She smiled and patted him on the back as she stood beside the bed. “That doesn’t hurt does it?”

  He shook his antennae, no.

  “Good. I’m sorry I’ve been putting off visiting you.”

  “It’s understandable, considering what I did.”

  “That wasn’t you, my Bichard. That was whatever came over you.”

  “Pheromones.”

  Chris nodded and took a seat beside him. “You two seem to be getting along. What’s up?”

  His roommate showed her the macomm, but she shook her head.

  “I’ve listened to him for hects now, he’s a brilliant musician. I’ve been trying to get a band started here. But we needed a fourth member and I think I’ve found him.”

  Bichard smiled over at Chris. “Yes, I would love to join a band. It would be fun.”

  Chris chuckled. “I think that would be awesome.” Chris looked down at Bichard’s macomm and noticed that he was wearing shorts. “Are those a requirement now?”

  Bichard nodded. “Yes, at least until the carapace is fully healed. But, I don’t know if it ever will. It’s not meant to.”

  “But Bichard, you’ve had it out before.”

  “I know, but not all the way. It did some damage on the way out.”

  Chris’s eyes went wide as she remembered. “It certainly looked like it had.”

  “It’s okay, it’s just pants. I mean everyone wears pants. You wear pants. He wears pants. Even Breshig wear pants,” he said referring to the trisymmetric insectoid race, with its three arms, three legs and three eyes all spaced equidistant about their bodies.

  His roommate laughed. “Yes but all of our cultures have clothes, yours doesn’t.”

  “So what convinced you to come?”

  Chris laid a hand on his. “Arion told me that you were playing Veltran’s Eighth, the funeral song.”

  “I was only practicing.”

  “You were sad. That’s the only reason you play that song.”

  Bichard nodded, his antennae dropping. “I was. I missed my best friend.”

  Chris wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “And I missed My Bichard. I need you to get better, because I have plans for you. See I know this Breshig that I think you might be cute with.”

  Bichard recoiled in horror, and Chris laughed.

  “I’m kidding. But seriously I had Marda secure some of those queen pheromones and we’re going to start working with them.”

  Bichard’s antennae shot up in fear. “Why, why would you do that?”

  She petted him on his back, soothing his raised hairs there. “Because the cycle may come when you might encounter a queen or her pheromones again and I want to make sure that you’re ready. We don’t want you turning into some raging sex-beast again.”

  Bichard’s mandibles chattered together as he considered it. “I never thought about that.”

  “Well, we’re going to work on it.” She leaned in and gave him a quick kiss between his big eyes, the slick glassy orbs rubbing her cheeks. “I love you My Bichard and I need you back up to form. Got me?”

  Bichard nodded his antennae, touching them to Chris’s head. “I love you too Chris. Like a sister,” he added after a moment’s hesitation.

  Chris smiled back at him, but Bichard could read the sadness behind them. “And I you, like a brother. Now, let’s hear some of these songs you two have been working on, and for God’s sake, they better be upbeat.”

  UCSB DATE: 1002.300

  Bridge, Gorvian Corvette-1036, Rasuquli System (GF Territory)

  The bridge of the Gorvian Strike Corvette buzzed with life. The low thrum of the engines and the power core behind it reverberated through the deck plating as Ship Lord Kemshick looked out upon their latest victory. Like a warrior of old sitting astride the back of one of Gorvia’s great land beasts, he looked at his conquest with great pride—the rest of the crew surveying the debris for trophies and survivors. On the back wall of the bridge behind him hung other trophies they’d collected, chunks of ship’s hulls they’d destroyed since the commencemet of their mission beyond Gorvian space. To Ship Lord Kemshick this latest kill had been even more satisfying. This was no transport or tiny corvette, but a full cruiser of the hated Pharad’s fleet.

  For generations the Gorvian had lain hidden in the territories of their former masters, licking their wounds after the malignant Dondicks of the Confederation had slaughtered the last of their generals. The Gorvians had bided their time, rebuilding their fleets and watching a glorious war erupt beyond their borders. Then the miracle had occurred: the Great Lord Gondral was born, the first Gorvian General in almost two centuries. The Gorvians rallied under his leadership, growing ever stronger. Kemshick even had called to meet the great one before they were sent out to gather kills and intelligence on their two enemies.

  The clawed hand of an insectoid Gorvian at its station, drew the reptilian Ship Lord’s attention, his brain tails twitching with excitement. “Ship Lord, I have found us a trophy, and a prize.”

  Ship Lord Kemshick turned to the screen, expectantly. “Show me Sensor Officer Eschig.” A chunk of the cruiser’s hull floated into view, part of the ship’s name extruding from its surface in the Pharad’s pictographic script. “Put a grappler on that, it will take a place of honor on my wall.”

  The crew growled in appreciation. The ship was their home, sharing in the Ship Lord’s glory and the Ship Lord’s reward. The faint glow of the grappler beam lit up the screen as it grabbed hold of the chunk of hull and pulled it into the ship’s cargo bay.

  The Ship Lord turned back to his Sensor Officer. “You spoke of a prize as well.”

  The viewport changed in response and the Gorvian extended a hand towards it. “My lord, a rescue craft which escaped destruction, I detect life-signs aboard.”

  Ship Lord Kemshick’s eyes went wild with anticipation. “Bring it aboard and have the prisoners brought before me.”

  ***

  Half a hect later the handful of Pharad survivors were marched onto the bridge. The Ship Lord marveled at their tiny size. How they could walk on such spindly legs? He learned from the database they’d recovered from a Dondick ship, that these hominid Pharad stood a head taller than their Terran allies. Their upper skull rose above and to the sides of their heads like a giant elliptical headdress. One of the Pharad licked at the air, tasting it through the sticky tongue emerging from his long chin proboscis. Beside him, one of the bulbous headed females shivered, grabbing one of the other males for support. Pitiful creatures, and they pass themselves off as Gods!

  All told, three males and two females stood before Ship Lord Kemshick. He scowled down at the beings. Legends from their former masters spoke of the Pharad. They were as powerful as the Tre-Tian. For a long while they were an enemy, so too then were they an enemy of the Gorvians. Not only that, they were traitors. They’d disrupted or destroyed much of the Dondick Confederation’s Hyperspace Buoy Network before the Gorvians made their last appearance in this part of the galaxy.

  “I know what you are,” one of the Pharad called out, a male.

  Kemshick took a knee before the Pharad and still towered twice his height above him. “Yes, we are the next rulers of the galaxy. What have you to say?”

  “Only that, you should not be short. The Galactic Federation has much to offer the Gorvians. The Pharad saw your coming long before the rest of the Confederation. We laid the seeds that allowed you to reach Tre-Tian Space all but unchecked. We could have helped you conquer two centuries ago, but our forces were too weak and we were forced into a space ban.”

  Kemshick huffed. The force of his breath sent two of the Pharad staggering back. “And what have you to offer the Gorvians now that our Great Lord Gondral cannot provide?”

  “We have the might of the Galactic Federation fleet. With them, you could wipe out the Confederation.”

  “And be your pets? No! Our old masters taught us of your treachery. We will never be so fooled.”

  Ship Lord Kemshick rose back to his full height and pointed towards the Gorvians escorting them in. Heavy with child, this Gorvian carried the mark of Lord Gondral. “The mark this one carries assures us that the child within its womb will bear the soul of one of the Gorvian’s greatest warriors.”

  The Pharad looked up at the mammalian Gorvian, its six arms and slick fur a marked contrast to Kemshick’s dry scaly skin.

  “What greater honor and strength could your pitiful races offer? Races that need both male and female to reproduce? Once our child is born, Security Office Korish will impregnate me next.”

  The Pharad stared at the pair in disgust.

  “Even a single one of us could repopulate a world, something none of your kind could do. Three of my crew carry young they gave themselves. Though only this one is marked by our Great Lord, and she must feed.”

  The Pharad did their best to stand defiantly before their captors, but even this elder race quivered in fear, as they realized the fate about to befall them. “But, if you eat us, you’ll die,” one of the Pharad argued, his voice unsteady.

  The Gorvian crew roared, their laughter forcing one of the Pharad to collapse. Ship Lord Kemshick looked upon the prize, and motioned around the bridge. The skulls of over a dozen races, from both sides of the amino acid divide, hung upon the walls. Each one had survived the acidic journey through the Gorvian digestive tract, and the crew had not been poisoned in the process.

  Ship Lord Kemshick grabbed the talkative Pharad and raised him into the air. The Pharad fought against his grip, but Kemshick was five times his size. He could do nothing as Kemshick held him up to Security Officer Korish. Leaning forward Korish took the first bite, tearing away his head and neck before Ship Lord Kemshick took the second.

  Blood running down his chin, Kemshick turned to the remaining prisoners. “Run if you can.”

  The four crewmembers scattered, running for their lives as the rest of the bridge crew sprang from their stations and chased them down. The crew tore into the Pharad prisoners and feasted upon their flesh in an orgy of blood. Ship Lord Kemshick looked on proudly. The blood of the Pharad ran across the deck and had splattered consoles across the bridge. The galaxy is ours for the taking, just as the Great Lord Gondral had said.

  UCSB DATE: 1002.313

  Dropship TK-114, Dalcine 3, Dalcine System (Contested Space)

  The Dropship rocked as another barrage of cannon fire raked its hull. Gavit fought the controls and wondered how much more of this they could take and still make orbit. Mikle, operating the turret controls, did his best to keep the pursuing fighters off them.

  Blazer’s voice exploded through the loudspeaker. “What’s going on up there?”

  Gavit dove to avoid another volley from the pursuing Solaars. The blast still managed to pierce their shields and clip one of their wings. The hit would have been devastating if Gavit hadn’t dived when he did. “Oh you know, playing cards, jerking off. What do you think? I’m trying to get us out of here, but it’s thick with Geffers up here.”

  “So I noticed. Anything you can do about that?”

  “Negative. That last hit did in the number three engine, there’s no way we can hope to outrun those fighters.”

  Blazer cursed as Gavit avoided another barrage, tossing everyone in the bay into their harnesses.

  At his station, Acknit analyzed the damage display as it lit up like a fireworks show. He had his hands full managing the repair microbots swarming out across the hull and couldn’t afford distractions. He glanced down at his shattered WSO helmet skidding across the deck. Without it he was limited to the holographic level two interface. When he’d run to the cargo bay to let the others in a lucky shot had torn a chunk out of the side of his protective interface helm.

  His hands flew across the console. “We just lost the upper port gun. Upper starboard turret is going flaky. Port engine is critical. Belly shields out. Starboard outrigger landing gear actuators damaged. We can't stay in the air much longer.”

  Gavit could almost hear Blazer grimace in reply. “Can we make orbit at all?” Blazer asked.

  Gavit and Mikle exchanged a quick glance as Acknit pounded away at his console. “Negative, best we can manage will be to try and put us down some place defensible.”

  As the pursuing fighters broke off their latest assault, Mikle pointed to a spot on the map. “There are a series of plateaus ahead of us. If Gavit and I can put us down on one of the higher ones all we have to do is hold off the air defenses long enough for rescue.”

  The irony of that statement wasn’t lost on any of them. They had a hold full of refugees they’d just rescued. “Mikle’s right. It’ll still be thick, but we can manage it.”

  Blazer didn’t sound that optimistic. “Do it. Acknit call in,” Blazer paused. “A rescue.”

  “I’ve sent the message already. A corvette is on its way with fighter escorts.”

  Gavit considered that. A corvette with fighter escort was their best bet to get out of here alive, depending on how strong these planetary defenses really were. For an instant he wondered if this was real or simulated. It has been a sun baby walk up until they’d got jumped by air defenses that hadn’t been identified by intel. No, this had to be real. You just can’t plan this kind of screw up in a SIM.

  The assault on Dalcine had been all over the news and command had tapped them to help in the evacuation effort. Insertion into the system was routine and even the recovery of their passengers went without incident. They got everyone aboard as fast as they could and took off. That was when things had gone to Sheol. From nowhere, several squadrons of fighters converged on the evacuation ships. The civilian-filled transports were easy targets.

  He looked back at the bay camera feed for a moment. Are these people worth all this effort? I mean who are they? There are no high-ranking officials here with secret knowledge, just a bunch of pacifist holy people, nurses, teachers, doctors, and business people who’d been caught in the middle between the Galactic Federation and the Confederation.

  The dropship shuddered again as the Solaar interceptors pressed the attack. Gavit yelled back towards the bay, the intercom light off, fried. “Anyone stupid enough not to be strapped in by now, had better do it quick. I’ve sighted our plateau and it’s going to be a rough landing.” Gavit angled the dropship as the plateau rose up before them. “Let’s get the landing gear down.”

  Mikle continued managing the turrets, doing his best to drive away the fighters pursuing them. Another blast rocked the dropship and he threw up his hands in frustration. “Your mother’s a tick-infested whore! Bastards just took out my last good dorsal turret. Unless you want to roll over, or can convince them to come in low I’ve got nothing.”

  “Then help me get this thing down in as few bits as possible.”

  Mikle looked at the upcoming plateau and nodded as he tapped the landing gear key, but nothing happened. He stabbed at the control; nothing, then pulled the command up on another screen, still nothing. “Fuck me! Acknit?!”