Chapter 6: Callsign

“The prosperity of the pride depends on a successful hunt,” the narrator said as a lioness stalked through the brush, her straw-colored coat shining in the hot African sun. Her round ears pricked up, and the camera panned over to a warthog, the tusked animal raising its head from the ground to sniff at the air intently as clouds of flies swarmed around it. “She approaches, silent, waiting for the perfect moment to strike...”

There was a surge of drums as the lioness leapt from her hiding spot, the footage playing back in slow motion as she powered through the undergrowth towards her quarry. The warthog skidded as it took off, kicking up a cloud of dust as it fled from the charging predator. It was too late, however. The beast sank its claws into the warthog, dragging it to the dusty ground and biting at the back of the animal’s vulnerable neck. Her companions joined her, the warthog struggling ardently as sounds of snarling and growling came through the speakers.

“It has been a while since their last kill,” the narrator continued, “the hungry pride piles in to claim their share of the spoils.”

One of the lionesses rose from the carcass as the camera zoomed in on her, her furry mouth stained red with blood. The Valbarans were transfixed, perhaps not understanding the subtleties of the narration, but reveling in the scenes of this alien planet and its magnificent species all the same. Jaeger was sat behind them, watching their reactions as much as the documentary, and he couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride as they stared at the wall-mounted monitor. Would the Rorke soon be orbiting their home planet? Would he be able to see Valbaran documentaries about their native life, if indeed they made such things?

He heard the whoosh of the automatic door opening behind him, turning to look over his shoulder. Scratcher was standing in the doorway, one arm in a sling.

“Thought I was gonna have to search the whole carrier for you,” he laughed.

Jaeger rose to his feet and hurried over to his friend, trapping him in a bear hug, Scratcher wincing as he bumped into his arm.

“Sorry,” Jaeger said, taking a step back and patting Scratcher on the shoulder. “I kept asking after you, but they wouldn’t tell me shit. Glad to see you’re still in one piece.”

“More or less,” Scratcher replied, gesturing to his bandaged arm. “Caught it on the edge of the cockpit on my way out, turned the bones to powder. Luckily, it didn’t breach the suit, or I’d have to get one of those prosthetic limbs that the station chief is so proud of. Looks like I’m gonna be grounded for a few weeks.”

“You’re in better shape than your Beewolf, let’s put it that way.”

“Did Boomer and Scorch make it out alright?”

Jaeger’s face fell, and he slowly shook his head.

“Baker is fine, but ... they never found Boomer. The rocks blocked his beacon, and that’s if he survived his Beewolf breaking up.”

“Fuck...”

“I wanted to go help look for him, but they wouldn’t let me.”

“Yeah, I heard that you’ve become the resident alien-sitter.”

“Wasn’t my idea, they just seem to like me, they won’t leave me alone.”

“So these guys were what you saw in the belt?” Scratcher asked, watching as the aliens left their seats and trotted over to him. “Curious little things...”

The Valbarans peered up at him, then Maza noticed his arm, pointing to it with her two-fingered hand.

“You injured?”

“They talk?” Scratcher asked, and Jaeger nodded. “Yeah, my arm was broken during the battle. Fucking Bugs totaled my Beewolf.”

“You are Beewolf pilot?” Coza asked, her companions exchanging glances.

“Yeah, unfortunately, I checked out before you guys showed up.”

To both their surprise, Maza and her friends extended the tentacle-like sheaths on their heads, the feathers puffing up into a display and turning a shade of blood red. They clasped their hands in front of them, the LCD panels on their forearms flooding the same shade of crimson. It was like some sort of salute or ritual. Scratcher shot Jaeger a questioning look, but he just shrugged. Realizing that they didn’t understand, Coza elaborated as best she could.

“You shed blood in battle,” she explained, “We give respect.”

“Oh,” Scratcher said, “okay then. Thanks.”

The aliens collapsed their feathers back into their protective sheaths, watching the pair of humans as they interacted.

“So what are you doing with these guys?” Scratcher asked. “I’m surprised that the Captain is giving them the run of the ship.”

“I’m supposed to be teaching them English, they’re learning really quickly. A couple of days ago they couldn’t speak a word, and now they’re almost fluent.”

“Is there going to be a service for Boomer? I know he’s technically MIA, but he couldn’t realistically survive for this length of time, assuming he lived through his ejection. His life support would have run out after about a day.”

“I think they’re still searching for him. Better wait a little longer and see if they can recover anything. I never liked the empty casket deal, it feels ... weird, y’know?”

“Yeah. Fuck man, I feel like I was only talking to him yesterday. How about we go find Scorch and hit the bar? You’re on alien duty, and I’m grounded, so we can blow some creds on booze and make fun of him for not being able to drink because he’s on call. It’s what Boomer would have wanted.”

“Yeah, alright. I’ll have to bring these guys along, but they were fighting with us, it feels appropriate. If they hadn’t turned up when they did, you’d probably be drinking alone today.”

“Any friends of Bullseye are friends of mine,” Scratcher said, grinning at the aliens.

The bar was suitably dingy, it was a fairly small room in comparison to the galley or the mess hall, not much more than a dozen stools lined up in front of a crescent-shaped countertop. The Rorke had four bars spaced throughout the ship, and recreational drinking was tolerated under certain conditions, as the morale boost for crew members who might be stationed on the vessel for months at a time was significant. You had to be off call, meaning that you weren’t on standby waiting to rush to your post if the shooting suddenly started, and you were limited to two alcoholic beverages per twenty-four hour period. If you got caught wandering the halls while over the limit, you’d get thrown into the brig until you sobered up, and you’d also get a dock to your pay for the rest of the voyage.

This one was vacant, probably because much of the crew was on duty due to the recent encounter with the Bugs in the belt. Rather than having a human bartender sitting behind the counter, these were staffed by robots. You entered your credit account number, selected the beverage that you wanted from a touch screen, and then a disembodied mechanical arm would mix it for you. It couldn’t listen to your problems, but it was programmed to prevent you from getting wasted.

The three pilots sat at the bar while the aliens milled about nearby, observing as the humans started their strange ritual, tapping in their orders and then watching as the silver arm whirred to life. The bottles were inserted into recesses in the wall behind it, and it pulled them out with mechanical precision, mixing and shaking the drinks before placing them on the faux wood bar in front of the patrons.

Jaeger and Scratcher sipped at their mixed drinks, trying to make their small allowance of alcohol last, while Baker could only drink soda. They reminisced about Boomer, and about their time at the flight academy, sharing humorous stories about his exploits.

“Did he really smash all the windows?” Baker asked.

“He did,” Scratcher laughed. “He flew over the town at about two thousand feet, but he was going hypersonic, Mach five in atmosphere. The sonic boom smashed a bunch of windows and set off car alarms for miles. It’s a miracle he didn’t get kicked out of the Navy. He was cleaning toilets after that stunt for months.”

“Might’a been better for him if he had,” Baker mumbled, taking a swig from his glass of soda.

“Nah,” Jaeger said, “he loved it out here. He loved flying. If you built a time machine and went back to the day that he joined up, and then told him his fate, I think he’d still sign his name on that form regardless. The same could happen to any one of us, but we’re not going to quit, are we?”

“Here here,” his friends chorused, taking a drink. The Valbarans had been sitting patiently, but now Maza sidled up to Jaeger, tugging at his clothes to get his attention.

“What is this ritual?” she asked, her voice low. She was being respectful, she knew that something of significance was happening, but not exactly what.

“We’re mourning a friend,” he explained as he looked down at her from atop his bar stool, “he was lost in the battle.”