The Burnt Champion

Stinking white light, standard in Officer's ships and considered luxury, spilled off Raike as he bent to examine his belt. It was comical; a hulking red demon hunched as if trying desperately to find his privates. A vision of this humiliation whipped across the monster’s mind and jerked him to attention. With flawless posture, the charred aura of his uniform appeared to fulminate against the purified air. He was terrifying and marvelous and meticulously dressed…but the damn belt just wasn’t right; too tight or too loose? Risk the boot line or wrinkle the waist? One would imagine a suit that thick on a body thrice the size of a Sape couldn’t help but fit. Raike bent again, monstrous gloved hands fingering the buckle, ready for one final attempt at perfection.

“642-Raike. Come in.”

Fuck!

He surrendered and brushed his jacket once more before marching from the ridiculous waiting room and into the tube ahead. He caught a glimpse of the title on the door before it slid away and stifled a frown.

“Commander Brox.”

“Forward, Raike. You look like a bad joke squeezed in there.”

Now he did frown, unseen as he ducked into the office. Raike rose, his face again washed by the swarming false light. It hummed from every angle of the tiny Sape office over the tiny Sape furniture, illuminating the tiny Sape man at its center. Brox was thin and short, and carried himself like a sloppy mistake. His untidy suit was hastily decorated by dozens of glimmering prisms. Each medal displayed a minuscule ember of light, demanding respect yet earning none. Raike collected the image of his Commander slowly and was depressed. This was no soldier.

“Much better. I remember how it felt to get out of the standards and climb into the good stuff, but you put us all to shame. Your Great-Father would be proud.”

A sacrilege; forgiven only by this Sape’s rank. Raike waited as Commander Brox walked behind his desk. A set of papers were lifted, smacked, and held at arm’s length. Raike almost burst into laughter when his Commander removed a pair of spectacles from an unfastened chest pocket.

“Says here your squadron has the best kill/death ratio in the system. Only five losses in an entire cycle. Nineteen campaigns. Is this accurate?”

“Only three losses, sir.” said Raike. “Two Lancer’s hearts exploded when the Engineers miscalculated the gravity. Newer reports have been amended, personally.”

“Excellent. Of course, what isn’t said in this report are the rumors that you made some errors defending the Searing Fjord. Is this accurate?”

The damn light was starting to become a distraction. Raike barely heard the words of the pathetic inferior before him and had to muster immense concentration to stay focused. Brox was at his waist now, staring up; grinning.

“Rumors, sir? Errors?”

“Yes! Yes, Raike! Errors! Seems some Humans got killed out on that ash-heap you call a planet. Did you happen to witness what happened?”

“It’s in the report, sir.” Raike stumbled.

“No. No it isn’t, Raike. Tell me what you remember about those dead soldiers.”

“The Sapes were dead when we landed, sir.”

“Sapes?” puzzled Commander Brox. “So that’s what you call us. I’ve never heard one of your kind dare speak that way amongst Humans before; certainly not to a Senior Officer. Do you have so little respect for us? Have you forgotten who adopted your brutish, mindless race? Who allowed you to enlist in the fight to protect your toxic, infected system? We trained you and armored you and made you into the fine specimens of war you are today! And Raike…you repay us by murdering allies on the battlefield?”

Raike was spinning with sickness now. The light was blinding. It was curdling his brains. Forming words became impossible. His jaw went slack. What was there to say anyway? As the remaining tunnel of light began to dim, softening its blow and bringing sweet neural peace, Raike heard broken chunks of static laughter. “Formal” came through, as did “Quiet.” Finally: “Execution.”

Amid the swamp of fading brightness and distant giggling, Raike reached for his gun and aimed down the dark pit. Deep in that sliver of disgusting light was a figure, wriggling and slight. By funneling his remaining strength, years of battle-mastered meditation worked their experienced, unconscious magic and steadied this orphan of war. Raike fired a shot through the Commander’s scalp and into the wall behind. The wall vanished with the spare parts of Brox’s head when the vacuum was severed. As the atmosphere was sucked into the ever-hungry maw of space, Raike basked in the glow of the cold, bloodshot star he knew from birth.