Countdown to stormfront
P’taal is stationed at the main entrance to the lab. One of his legs is propped up on a metal footlocker left behind by a deceased colonial marine. He dutifully watches the video feed above the door. For now, the corridor leading to the science wing is empty. P'taal is pretty sure that will not be the case later.
Glotis has returned to the quarters she and P’taal have shared since Glandis’ departure. Teresa glances at the door to the room where Glotis is resting and then strolls over to P’taal. She offers him a cup of black coffee.
Surprisingly enough, the yautja warrior has taken a liking to the bitter stuff. After gulping down a fresh cup, the first night the yautja set up HQ in the ooman labs, P'taal has been hooked. For her part, Teresa can’t stand coffee without at least a couple teaspoons of sugar in it.
Once again, Teresa finds herself studying the somewhat gentle giant. His passive demeanor is completely contrary to the fierce warrior he has proven himself to be. Many of the scientific samples in the lab, including an oothecae taken straight from the nest of a now dispatched queen, were obtained by P'taal. The other yautja were mostly concerned with hunting and gathering trophies.
P'taal is an interesting yautja. His motivations hard to flesh out. There is only one thing, Teresa knows for sure. She is glad he is on her side.
“Here you go,” Dr. Boyd says with a smile. “It’s fresh.”
P’taal takes the mug of coffee from Teresa’s hand, and raises it to where she assumes a nose would be—if yautja had noses. She watches as his mandibles draw open and apart. The bulky yautja’s mouthparts grip the cup and pull it closer to his mouth. Even after watching P’taal perform this ritual many times, Teresa is still quite fascinated by it. She waits for P'taal to take a sip of coffee, and lower the mug, before offering him another warm smile.
“There’s more where that came from. I made a whole pot,” Teresa says. “Don’t think I’ll be sleeping much once the storm moves in. It’s good that Glotis and N-Vorl are resting. We’ll need everyone at peak performance in case the power goes out. When’s the last time you slept, P’taal?”
A memory floats to the front of Teresa’s mind and she nearly sobs. Harold Bashir, his hazel eyes dancing as he drove Chief Engineer Theodore McAvoy’s head into the metal table. Harold Bashir gently taking her hand and encouraging her to believe in herself. Harold Bashir, telling her to slow down and take a step back—to ask herself where her research was going and why. Imploring her to rest. Harold Bashir, the engineer, and the best lab technician she had ever been privileged to know. Harold Bashir, the man she had only begun to love. Harold Bashir. Dead now.
Dr. Boyd shifts her weight uncomfortably and meets P’taal’s gaze. She crosses both arms over her chest. P'taal watches Teresa with soft, intelligent eyes.
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“Why did you stay, P’taal? You must have known that Glotis would elect to stay as well. She doesn’t need to be here. She should have returned with the others. This situation has the potential to go really bad. You don’t owe me anything,” Teresa says.
“Some things are about more than desire. They are about duty,” P’taal says. A stern expression transforms his usually placid countenance.
“What duty? To the project? A mission? Do you not have a duty to Glotis? She's your lover. I'm nothing to you,” Teresa inquires. “And besides...She's Elder Glandis' sister. Do you really think he will look kindly upon the hunter who allowed his sister to be torn apart by ferocious monsters? All to protect an ooman female? I seriously doubt that this is the way to get into Glandis’ good graces. Assuming any of us survive this.”
P’taal turns his face away, holding the mug of coffee in a clawed hand. There is an uncomfortable lull in conversation as P'taal stares toward the opposite wall.
“P’taal?” Teresa calls to him.
When P’taal turns back to Dr. Boyd; there is a weary expression on his face.
“I did not believe that Glotis would choose to stay behind. However, she has always been dedicated to her work,” P’taal says. “She and I…Can never be more than what we are. She is promised to another.”
Teresa’s eyes widen and her mouth falls open slightly.
“Promised to another? But…You mean—,” Teresa says.
“Yes. If Elder Glandis knows of our affair…He has not been forthcoming about it,” P’taal says. “Were me and Glotis to be found out, she might be stripped of her title. She would lose her place as Elder Wife.”
“Wait. So, Glotis is to marry Glandis?” Teresa says, unable to keep her mouth from forming a disbelieving grimace.
“No,” P’taal says patiently. “She will marry the Elder-Apparent of a neighboring clan. Once he has completed his final blooding and ascends to his father’s throne.”
“That…Sounds a lot better,” Teresa says with a soft chuckle. “Still a little screwed up. From a female point of view. But less screwed up than marrying her older brother. Does that happen all the time? The whole…Arranged marriage thing? Seems real backwards for a culture that prides itself on an elaborate honor system.”
“Not often,” P’taal says, souring on the subject. “But often enough.”
“So where does that leave you, P’taal?” Teresa says. She gently takes the large yautja warrior’s hand and squeezes it. “What happens to you when this is all said and done? Don’t tell me this is some suicidal backup plan if you can’t have Glotis. I won’t allow it.”
P’taal manages a wide yautja smile and takes another deep drink of his coffee. Warm now.
“No. I don’t think you will,” P’taal admits. “And as far as what becomes of me...I will be no better off and no worse than when I first heard the news of Glotis’ betrothal. I will continue on. Without her.”
Teresa smiles wistfully and squeezes the big yautja’s hand a second time. A fading memory of Harold’s bright smile and gentle voice invades her heart and her mind.
“I am so sorry, P’taal,” she says. And she means it.
-
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The edge of the geothermic disturbance arrives on schedule. Small fluctuations in the ship’s systems begin to occur. A flicker of a light here, a glitchy computer screen there, a lift briefly losing power. However, there are no humans present to witness these tiny fluctuations. Judas hybrids, are a different story.
In the communications and habitat wings; two hives are gearing up for battle. Like obedient subjects; the larvae, juveniles, and smaller adult Judases swarm around their respective queens in anticipation. Wings vibrate and the air becomes almost alive with movement. Some of the Judases wink in and out, confusing even their insectile brethren, bumping clumsily into each other. The largest specimens stand guard around the perimeter, massive mandibles and forelegs gnashing or waving.
The colossal queen Judas, housed in the habitat wing, lowers her head to consume a proffered meal. The retractable armored crest, which protects her head, bearing a striking resemblance to Elder Glandis.