"I will go West." - Unknown

Command Sergeant Major Angela NawkRawka finished her paperwork and looked up at the clock's red numbers and letters before consulting the paper in front of her. It was a list of incoming and outgoing ships from the spaceport surrounding the recruiting office she was in charge. It had been a civilian starport, then a military Space Force Base during the last eight years (local) of the Atrekna-Confederacy War, and was now a civilian starport that Space Force transports and logistics vessels often landed at.

She got up, checked her dress uniform, and stopped by her terminal. She checked the list of incoming and outgoing Confederate Armed Services members, loaded up quick datasheets on all of them, and left her office, humming a recent bunny pop (B-Pop) tune out of Hesstla.

The terminal she was heading for was pretty busy and she made a quick detour to the latrine.

The only person in the female bathroom was a single Hesstlan soldier in dress uniform. CSM NawkRawka noted that the Hesstlan female had silver tips and streaks on her ears, around her whiskers, and on her ungloved hands. She was wearing her dress cape, hiding her uniform as she stared in the mirror.

"Saint Doss, I look every year my age," the female Hesstlan said softly, her voice rough.

CSM NawkRawka moved through, checking the stalls.

The Hesstlan trooper ignored the CSM as she walked by on the way to the exit.

"I can't believe I'm older than my mother," the Hesstlan female said right before the door shut.

CSM NawkRawka walked through the terminal, looking over the troops on the way to their next duty station or heading toward their Exit Term of Service duty station so they could be mustered out. She made corrections to uniforms here and there, wrote up two Hesstlan female troops who were traveling under orders but wearing civilian clothing, and recorded a Tukna'rn's body-bar-codes after the Tukna'rn passed her inspection, at the Tukna'rn's request.

She was heading back to the Recruiting Station when her implant popped red letters up on her retinal display.

POSSIBLE ATTENTION NEEDED shone a malevolent red.

NawkRawka gritted her teeth and turned to where her know-soft had spotted an anomalous set of awards.

The Hesstlan female with the silver tipped ears sat in one of the seats. She had a fizzybrew in one hand, a Treana'ad cigarette in her other hand, and sat staring out the window in a seat right below the sign that said "NO SMOKE, FOOD, OR DRINK, PLEASE!" in bold black letters.

The Hesstlan woman also had only six awards on her chest, as well as a single badge. The rank of Specialist-Seven sat on her sleeves, her tie was pulled loose, and she had taken her large feet out of her dress shoes and was scrinching her stocking covered toes in the carpet. CSM NawkRawka could only see her left shoulder and noted there was no unit patch on it, which meant the female had removed her unit patch to either avoid something or because she was in transit between units. Even then, if she was heading for another unit, she should have had the new unit's patch sewn onto her uniform instead of running bare sleeved.

Noting the newness of the Specialist-Seven rank compared to the rest of the dress uniform, Command Sergeant Major NawkRawka headed toward the Hesstlan female like a steam train heading down a steep slope. A small part of her felt the pleasure of correcting the lower ranked troopers. She knew that other Sergeant Major's denied that little bit, but she knew that they, just like her, privately enjoyed it. A little bit of payback for when they were lower ranking.

The Spec-Seven didn't even look up when CSM NawkRawka stopped next to her. She took a long drag off the cigarette, tapped the ashes in the drink in her hand, exhaled the smoke, and took a drink off of the can of "Cranberry & Axle Grease Countess Crey Ultra-MAX Boozeblast!!!!" She had her dress cape folded up and set on the seat next to her.

The Hesstlan female was watching red painted ships lift off and land.

"Ahem," NawkRawka tried.

The Hesstlan militantly ignored her, using one finger to shift her narrow cap, profanely referred to as a 'cunt cap' by some.

The Hessltan took another drag and exhaled the smoke slowly.

NawkRawka noted she didn't have a nametag on her uniform.

That was outside of regulations and strictly forbidden.

"Specialist," NawkRawka tried.

The Hesstlan wore a battered, dinged, and dented warsteel Combat Medic badge with three stars (the maximum) claiming that the wearer had performed combat medic duties under fire in four different theaters. Rather than the silver or the neu-silver one that was supposed to be worn with the dress uniform, the Hesstlan was wearing the black subdued version that was supposed to only be worn with adaptive camouflage.

Then she saw what the top award was on the Hesstlan female's two stacks of three award ribbons that sat beneath the badge.

The Confederate Cluster of Gallantry.

To top it off, there were two warsteel oakleaf clusters, meaning that the Hesstlan woman was trying to claim she had won it three times.

"Specialist!" NawkRawka snapped, shifting so she was standing in front of the Hesstlan female.

She was wearing a combat patch that NawkRawka didn't need her implant to recognize.

First Calvary Division, Old Blood.

The patch was slightly weird. The stripe looked like it had been rubbed with a red marker, same with the end of the horse's nose, giving the black a slight crimson sheen.

"You're blocking my view," the Hesstlan said, her voice gravely, low and menacing. "I'm watching the ships take off and land."

"You're out of uniform," CSM NawkRawka said. NawkRawka noticed the Hesstlan female's eyes were all white. Not white with a pupil, but just bone white. Not a bit of color in them except the thin tracery of capillaries.

"And you don't have a combat patch. Beat it, slick sleeve," the female growled.

"I still outrank you," NawkRawka said coldly.

"I still don't care," the Hesstlan said, tapping her ashes into the drink and taking another drag off her cigarette.

"You're two seconds from being written up, soldier," NawkRawka stated.

"OK," the Hesstlan said. She took a drink, still staring at the outside window. "Have fun. Try to spell everything right."

Command Sergeant Major NawkRawka felt her temper rise.

"You realize the penalty for wearing unauthorized awards, I assume," NawkRawka said.

"You really want to do this?" the Hesstlan female asked.

"Wearing of unauthorized rewards is a punishable offense," CSM NawkRawka stated coldly.

The Hesstlan female gave a long suffering sigh. "Why me?" she asked. She didn't look up. "Sergeant Major, I'm going home," she reached up and touched her bare left shoulder. "I'm eighty-two years old and have had a longevity therapy already. When I get home, I'm supposed to get my next one and try to figure out how to live again."

"Hesstla has been an allied species for less than six years," CSM NawkRawka stated.

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"Galactic Standard," the Hesstlan corrected. "For the people of Hesstla, on Hesstla, we've been members of the Confederacy for over a decade. I was a civilian shelter medic the second time in the same shelter I hid in the first time," she took a drink. "I was with First Cav the third invasion."

"Time dilation," NawkRawka stated, "of Hesstla doesn't matter here."

"That accounts for one," the Specialist said, without looking reaching up and tapping one finger against the Combat Medic Badge. She took a long drink. "I was there when Steamboat Willy and Admiral Thennis joined the Black Fleet."

CSM NawkRawka blinked.

She tapped the Combat Medic Badge again. "First off planet-deployment. Five years. Operation Cow Skull," she tapped it again.

"That's not what's at..."

"Operation Ten Cent Kent. Six years local, eight in combat. Recursion," she tapped it again.

"it doesn't matter right..."

"Operation Ruby Viper, two years local, five in combat. Recursion," she shook her head.

"You are outside of regulation 670 dash..."

"I watched the CNSFV Nick In Time burn up on reentry before hitting the ocean with Dwellerspawn holding onto the hull," she took long drag off her cigarette and held her breath, tapping her ashes into her drink. When she exhaled, she took a long swig off her drink.

"You are out of..."

"The tsunami was seven hundred meters high and washed inland so far that the water and debris of skyrakers and cities hit the battlescreens of the Battalion Aid Station I was working at a thousand miles from the coast."

"Stop interrupting..."

She took another drink. "It did as much damage as a Lanky planet cracker would have."

CSM NawkRawka was getting that bad feeling. The one that had let her avoid combat deployments for her hundred year long career.

The one that told her she was in danger.

"The tankers tried to break the wave with atomics. Ever see a fifteen foot tsunami wave break on tank battlescreens, Sergeant Major?" the Hesstlan asked.

NawkRawka expected her to say "I have", and wondered how she stepped into a Tri-Vee.

"It looks stupid," the Hesstlan snorted. She took another drink, a drag, and exhaled while tapping her ashes into her drink. "Steam everywhere."

"Then I got this stupid thing," the Hesstlan said, tapping the Confederate Cluster of Gallantry. "I was thirty-five. The newness had worn off of me by then."

"That still doesn't..."

She sighed and dug in her pocket. "I didn't want to wear this..." she said, starting to pin her nametag on.

When she saw the simple nametag and her cyberoptic read the invisible barcode, NawkRawka's datalink opened a window and details started to stream by. Awards, certifications, letters of appreciation, duty stations, assignments, and more. She blinked, scrolling back up to look at the top.

"I'm sure you can see why I wanted to avoid anyone with a cybereye and a datalink seeing..."

The Hesstlan's eyes opened wide.

Before NawkRawka could move, the Specialist was up, moving, sweeping NawkRawka's leg out from under her, dumping her face first on the floor, and dropping on top of her.

White light filled everything.

She felt like she was being pulled inside out and upside down and every direction at once. She could hear the singing of ducklings, the gwarking of ducks, the choir and choruses of her youth. Images of her own life flashed in her mind.

And other images.

Worse images.

Images of Hell.

...she was wiping her mouth as the burning starship slid out of the sky, vast creatures attached to the hull even as the CO yelled her name...

...she was staggering through the mud, her visor cracked, the screams of MEDIC around her all she could hear was the sound of her own breathing and the beeping of her armor telling her that she was basically fucked although she knew that knew everyone was...

...beating an Atrekna to death with an aid kit, the other hand keeping pressure on the chest of the Hakanian tanker with a sucking chest wound. the jammed smg laying where she'd thrown it at the Atrekna and hit it right in the third eye. she let go of the aid pack, put two fingers in the empty third eye socket and yanked part of its gelatinous skull away...

...laying flat on the ground as her visor flashed ATOMIC ATOMIC ATOMIC and the world went white as a giant jumped onto her back. staring her patient in the eyes as the white was reflected on their visor and it felt like the world was ending but her hands still dug into her aid bag as her brain went over the trooper's injuries and how she could save his life...

...the entire side of the striker exploding inward, red-hot metal ripping apart patients, hearing the pilot yell out profanity as the striker tilted and dropped from the sky, the belly graviton engine howling. reflexes snapped and she snatched a greenie in a hardsuit before he flew out the missing side of the striker...

...laying in a bed in a cheap hotel, staring at the ceiling, counting the tiles, as a male Hesstlan labored between her legs but all she felt was meat moving and a deep disconnect between her body and mind, not looking at him so she wouldn't see blood or gore or a half-shot away face on the tanker doing his best but unable to reach where she needed him too inside of her soul...

...rolling in the mud with the Atrekna, getting him underneath her despite the fact she only had one arm ignoring the agony and pain stabbing with the Terran bayonet she'd gotten from a black mantid ranger, the blade going in and the saw teeth yanking out things he needed when she pulled it out FWOOP not caring as she kept stabbing and stabbing and stabbing...

...the beep of the medical equipment as she stared at the ceiling the nurse babbling about how the regen went well and she was recovering nicely from surgery and other shit she didn't care about any more only seeing the faces of the patients that had slipped through her fingers...

...lowering her head to take a bite out of the Atrekna's face even as her hand reached into the gash in its belly to rip out things it needed to live the white flash of an atomic ignored as she slammed her face against the Atrekan's screaming face again and again and again...

...staring out the window of a different hotel at the rain smoking cigarettes and drinking hard alcohol not looking at the two Hesstlan infantry guys passed out on the bed and wondering why she can't feel anything anymore...

...a sick feeling of relief as the med-board comes back with 'recommend separation from service' but also like she had been stabbed in the chest and her soul ripped out...

...who will love you when I'm gone? was I a good boy? the shade injured dogboy asked, breathing heavily, laying on the tarmac of the 21st Replacement parking lot after howling to drive the shades off...

The white light faded and NawkRawka was aware she was rolled on her side, her legs pushed up so they were bent at the knee and in front of her, her arms at her side, a semi-egg position.

"...I'm gonna flick your antenna a couple times, that'll help," the Specialist's voice was saying. "There you go. Can you give me the wave form function equation for gravity over distance? Good. OK, you stay right here. Don't move, that was a phasic shockwave. Someone must have popped a puke. I'll be right back, there's other people I need to tend to."

NawkRawka wanted to get up, but the images surged up again and she curled up slightly, tighter, like she was still in the egg. She knew the side of her face was in her own vomit but didn't care.

She was dimly aware there was a dress uniform jacket covering her.

"Can you give me your name? Good. Name of the planet we're on? Good. OK, stay in the psychic recovery position till you can move, then go get a Countess Crey Berry XTreme Blast and a choco bar, that'll help. Caffeine and sugar are the field treatment for Treana'ad for psychic assault."

"I know, the podlings are scared. Here, use my cloak, nest up. Are the podlings OK? All right. I'll be back after a bit with some nibbles for you. Let them nurse, that'll help them recover."

NawkRawka tried to get up and all she managed to do was roll over.

The Specialist knelt down next to her.

"Name, rank?" the Specialist asked.

"NawkRawka. Command Sergeant Major. In charge of the recruitment station," she said, her head pounding.

"Someone puked on us. That was a psychic shockwave," the white eyed Hesstlan said. She looked up. "Odd, I don't see a debris cloud, and for it to be that bad and that intense, it should have been megaton range," she looked back down. "You had seizures and I've got blood and pink fluid from one of your ears. I want you to stay here till medical evac, understood?"

NawkRawka nodded and almost threw up. "How are you?" she started.

"I can tank an Atrekna phasic attack to my face at point blank range now," the Specialist said, her voice sounding sad and wistful. "Warsteel skull implant."

She gave a harsh, bitter laugh as she arranged NawkRawka's limbs. "Of course, this isn't the first time I've gotten puke on me. That first phasic nuke was a shock to everyone," she looked up at the window. "In a way, it's almost funny. My unit was the first to get puked on, now someone pukes on me before I can leave."

She stood up. "You'll be OK, Sergeant Major. There's others I need to see to. Emergency services is finally responding."

She moved away.

NawkRawka heard the Specialist start talking again.

"Hi. Is this your mommy? It is? What's her name?"

-----

The evening was cool as the taxi pulled up the modest house. The occupant got out, ducking slightly, then standing up and looking around. She shivered slightly and wrapped her cloak around her as the taxi driver got out and got the two dufflebags out of the trunk. She carried them up with the passenger as she moved up the walk, setting them down on the porch.

"Thank you," the large female Hesstlan said. She made a motion. "A tip for your trouble, buy your male something pretty."

"Thank you," the driver said, heading back to the car.

The tall Hesttlan stood on the porch, watching the taxi drive away. She turned her attention back to the door, staring at it.

"Get in the car!" her father yelled, trying to be heard over the howl of the graviton engines of the combat lifter that was bobbling in the middle of the street.

"I'm sorry!"

She mouthed the last two words, staring at the door.

She reached out and pressed the button.

The chime sounded deep in the house and she felt anxiety spike. The wristband on her left wrist beeped and she felt the cool needle of medication.

After a moment the door opened.

Her mother stood there.

Her mother's face was unmarred by silver, her whiskers still straight and proud, the tips of her ears still a luxurious brown. Her mother frowned.

"May I help..." she started to say.

She stopped, staring.

"ARNETT!" she yelled for her husband. "ARNETT! ERYLVE!" she yelled for her brother. "COME QUICK!" she shouted. She reached out and grabbed the tall woman on the porch.

"I'm home," the soldier said, hugging back. "My part is done."

Her mother began crying as she hugged the other woman tight.

Melinvae hugged back and found herself crying as something inside of her cracked and relief and guilt washed over her.

"I'm home, mommy," she cried.