The Wild Ba’Neesh Chapter Twenty-Two ©2019 Fay Thompson All Rights Reserved

The submarine’s mess hall was ship wide with corridors on both ends making it a large space and it was noisy and active. When Mick arrived, with his guards and Jeffrey, the entire room quieted and they were met with uneasy stares. Mick, still a bit unsteady on his feet, stared back. What were all of these people doing here? He automatically scanned the room for familiar faces and he found some. Brad the Pirate was pulled up to one of the few accessible tables, hosting all three of the younger students Mick had seen the day before.

Mick headed toward them trailed by not only the openly armed Rojer who seemed to keep his weapon out at all times, and Elias who looked tired with dark rings under his eyes. Behind them were four uniformed OrderSec operatives.

Mick found them all a bit ridiculous and no way was Brad’s table large enough to host the mess of them. He ignored that. Somehow this walk was important, a measuring of him. He tried not to trip or fall on his face, and he tried really hard not to itch. He could guess his red, splotchy skin was ugly as hell. Too bad. He was peeled all over.

He came to a halt at Brad’s table, unaware how ferocious his battered face appeared, or the way his long hair had spiked out from the silver and red stuff. He had no eyebrows, no eyelashes, no short hair anywhere. Somehow it made the intensity of his eyes larger and stronger.

“Mind if I join you?” Mick asked, gesturing at the three open chairs.

The boys made to get up and leave but Mick didn’t want that. “Stay.” He ordered. He wasn’t really aware it was an order, thinking of it more like a request. But, they heard it as an order and sat, eyes wide.

“Look like you might fall over.” Brad said astutely, he was measuring the scene with care. He noticed Mick’s indifference to much of it, awareness and dismissal. Intriguing. The kid reminded him of Mael when Mael was young, in his own world.

“Feel like it too. Don’t want to make a total ass of myself in front of these people. Are they all volunteers or what?” Mick sat down and sighed with relief. He could feel the boys staring at him, the flit of their eyes trying to fix on what to do, how to gauge the situation.

Mick gestured Elias to sit along with Jeffrey, who demurred. Jeffrey wanted to watch but he wanted Lal’s promised treat more. “I’m going to go search out that dessert.” He said, “Don’t scratch.”

Mick waved his sock-covered hands at Jeffrey. Then he focused on the older boy that he instinctively liked the look of. “I’m Mick Huxley. You are?”

“Neoptalamus Crull, everyone calls me Neo.” The boy answered.

“Neo.” Mick acknowledged. He went to the next tallest boy figuring he was probably two or three years younger than he was. “And you?” He asked.

“Raiko Eng, call me Raiko or Eng.” The second boy said, a bit defensively.

“Volker Weiner.” The youngest boy blurted out with obvious discomfort.

“Seriously, they call you Weiner?” Mick snorted with poorly held laughter.

“My friends call me Volker.” The boy said, his posture stiffening as he jutted out his chin.

“I bet.” Mick nodded. “That name is ripe for being picked on, are you picked on Volker?”

“Sometimes.” Volker said, “I have demerits for juicing.” He looked over at Rojer standing behind Mick. “Not like him though. I never gored anyone.”

Mick twisted to see who Volker was looking at. “You’ve gored someone, Rojer?” He asked, surprised. His memory was hurting again only this time it was from a Mael fragment. A scene in a bathroom, Rojer trying to kill him. It was only a moment; the true context didn’t come through.

Rojer’s nostrils flared out and he emitted a chuffing sound.

“Yes. He gored Mael.” Brad said calmly, “They are the same age. Nearly killed him too. Should have been expelled but things got messy.” Brad answered for the diffident Rojer.

“No shit.” Mick realized the sounds in the room had gone back up, making their table conversation a bit more normal. His four OrderSec guards had faded back toward the walls leaving only Rojer towering over the table.

“So, tell me Neo, why are you here?” Mick continued, looking back over at the tall, thin, dark boy who managed to project a feeling of aloof watchfulness.

Neo simply sat there for a minute or two, long after the silence became awkward.

Mick waited, surprised by the intensity of his own feelings. He was invested in this guy’s answer. Why?

“You are going to war. I will go with you.” Neo finally answered. “Who are you going to go to war against, Mick Huxley?”

Volker gasped. Raiko nodded. Brad felt his own Vrill accelerating.

“Don’t know yet.” Mick said. “Do know actually. Don’t know what I know except I know it. The game is on.” He muddled through his own answer.

Jeffrey arrived with a cake-like dessert. “Lal said you eat this now, before you scar yourself. Can’t promise it works.”

Mick looked down at where his right hand, inside the sock, was rubbing at his left arm. He could feel the heat of the rub even if he had temporarily been unaware of scratching.

“Tasty? You know I’m fucking starving.” He said and then realized there was a buffet line. “Crap, I need to load a plate.”

“Tomorrow.” Jeffrey waved him back. “I’m already up. You eat in reverse, hopefully Lal got it right. He’s a genius, you know.”

Mick noted that all three boys, Brad and Elias were all staring with open desire at his cake. The name Lal was the key. He instinctively wrapped a protective arm around the plate. “It’s mine.” He announced. Then he took his first bite and it was on. “Oh hell, this is so fucking good.” He mumbled around the next bite, now acutely aware of the jealousy of those around him. “Sorry, can’t share. What’s in this stuff? Uhmmmm.”

Jeffrey laughed. “Another victim.”

“Did he make anything else?” Brad interrupted to ask, working on controlling his own saliva glands.

“Well, actually yes. He sent over some kind of snack thing, enough for everyone. Said he didn’t want to cause a riot over here.”

Soon, the snacks were passed around and contentment filled the room.

Mick tested out the anti-itch by removing his hand socks. Jeffrey was back to standing next to Rojer, watching avidly.

He rubbed at his arm where he’d tried to scratch earlier. The itch was still there, but barely.

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“Shit works.” He announced. Then he looked over at Jeffrey, “Could you maybe get another piece for later, when this one wears off?”

Jeffrey laughed. “Yeah. It’s all about the itch.” Then he nodded. There is one already back there. Actually several, he says you eat one every nine hours until the itch is totally gone.

Mick sagged. “Oh my gods. Makes that peel almost worth it. Not quite, but almost.”

“Your face,” Neo asked. “Who beat you up?”

Mick blinked. He had forgotten about his face. “Oh, that was Elias, he’s really good at hand-to-hand fighting. He would have pulverized me worse but She pulled him off. He was like dangling in mid air. Ended the fight.”

The room had quieted again, heads turned to listen.

She.

The word hovered there. Mick struggled with the memory pain flooding him. He had an experience that the depths of his memory of Her was far bigger than the length of his life and that was stupid.

“Kiena, of the false name.” He said aloud. “I got in a few licks too, on Elias, I mean. That was before we had to deal with those Tule Soc creeps.”

“Is the war with Tule Soc?” Neo asked.

Mick looked over at him. “Do you think so, Neo?”

Neo just stared at him, noncommittal.

“Anyone want to clarify who these Tule Soc are exactly? I get this muddled history that my bone tells me is full of shit.”

“Your bone?” Volker asked. “We heard you are carrying a Beloved. Is that true?”

Mick paused, another wave of fresh memory crashing through him. He noted the pain wasn’t as intense as when it first started, but it was enough to make him catch his breath. “Elias has the Beloved. I have Her directive bone. A finger I think or part of one.”

“Directive?” Brad asked, his interest growing.

“Yes.” Mick answered “Mostly I seem to feel it like a truth teller device. I can tell when people lie.”

“Can you tell if She lies?” Brad asked.

Mick grinned. “No and yes. I mean, I know Her name is a lie. But with Her, I feel a link.”

“Like with Albert.” Brad said aloud. “Specific Vrill access. Tell me Mick, should we all be wearing bones?” He asked.

Mick was hearing that Albert was Albert Strom, Mael’s Soek father and from Mael, the image of a bone held in Mael’s hand coupled to a whole slew of fragments too many to sort out, except Rojer was there with a bloody hand, a young Rojer, crying and yelling.

Mick turned to Rojer. “Show me your hand.” He said.

Rojer wore gloves, always. He glowered at Mick then he noticed the entire table was watching, along with many at nearby tables. “Oh, for fucks sake.” He stuffed his stunner in its belt loop and then pulled off his left glove, revealing the absence of his pinky finger. “Happy now? Mael cut the damn thing off. Had to, we had to reach Serla. Coms were dorked by Tule Soc so we had to go old school, through the Vrill. He had Albert, I am Serla so my finger and Serla First of his Name are the same genetically, or enough to call out. Hurt like hell. Bastard. Mael’s like that, makes you do shit and it hurts.”

The boys at the table were gawking, even Neo. None of them had known about the finger. Who could have guessed with the prosthetic tucked into Rojer’s glove?

“I never heard that one.” Raiko said. “We learn about the Turtle in history, of course. But, he cut off your finger? Was it really bloody?”

Rojer grunted, already putting his glove back on. He hated being a reflection in Mael’s fame, only not really. A part of him knew he had been critical to the survival of Citadel, his sacrifice, just a finger. That was his fame. He had entered the floater with Mick. He knew the feeling inside of him, recognized it, service or not, his destiny sat at this table. He wasn’t Ba. He was Rojer Kirsan. It was confusing.

“It bled everywhere.” Rojer admitted. “Totally ruined my robe. Course, Citadel was a trashed mess at that point anyway. Mael insisted I use my father’s codes and be my truth.” He repeated the words Mael had yelled at him, words carved like crystal inside his mind. He couldn’t forget. “He told me I am the Voice.” The last words came out soft, contemplative. “I don’t really know what that means. I wanted to be a top designer, a caster like my father. Only, he isn’t really my father. I am neither Order-born, nor Legacy. I am other.”

Mick just listened, Rojer spilling as if all the words were trapped inside of him. He knew Rojer from Mael’s side. He hadn’t sleepshared with Rojer. It was like he wasn’t there. But, Mael knew Rojer. The echo of Mael memories inside of him showed that goring again only in slow motion, the Vrill of one boy mixing with the Vrill of another. Mael knew Rojer through the intimacy of shared Vrill.

“Vrill share.” Mick said aloud.

Brad was paying acute attention to every word Mick said. The boy was like a puzzle, pieces arranged piece meal. What did Vrill share really mean?

Mick gratefully accepted the plate of food Jeffrey slid in front of him. He was equally aware that everyone else but Elias had eaten, likely Rojer too. He wondered if he was supposed to tell Rojer to eat. It felt awkward. What was their relationship? Was he Rojer’s captive or being guarded for his own safety? Did that mean there were people in this room or on this submarine who might do him harm? He looked around and noted that Neo continued to watch him.

“You game, Neo?” He asked.

“We all do.” Neo answered immediately. “We compete on Stratego and Warrior, Thief, Scoundrel. I usually win.”

“We, meaning the three of you?” Mick asked, instantly excited.

Brad was equally interested. He had wondered why these three boys were down the hatch when so many were not.

“Yes. We are a team.” Neo nodded. “We’ve played you. The name WareHawk is one of the solos each of us has battled when we can’t time up.”

Mick swallowed. “Who are you? Wait, you aren’t CrullBoss, are you?”

“Yes. I’m the Bossman.” Neo answered.

“Shit. You beat me most of the time.” Mick took another bite wondering if the guy felt familiar through gaming action. He paused again, “Then you are the Volkano.” He gestured to Volker, “and, I don’t know your name.” He stared at Raiko. “Who are you?”

“SamauriEng.” Raiko smiled. “I kill you lots of times too. You always try to bluff me.”

Mick looked at Volker, “You risk too much. SamauriEng is sneaky and CrullBoss is just way fast. How are you so fast, do you have adjusted settings?”

“I cheat. I always modify equipment. Improvise. Modify. Win.” Neo answered, he was nursing an Evercold bottle of water. “What do we do about the crappy weapons on these vehicle platforms?” He asked.

Mick liked that. “Yeah, on that floater they sucked. Slow, crap for selection and nothing to concuss those fucking bugs.”

“Can you arrange for us to see the real footage?” Neo asked.

Mick looked at Brad. “I have zippo clue about that.” He looked around and how the grown men at nearby tables were now deliberately turned to overtly listen. Clearly, they expected more.

Mick turned to Rojer, “Can you ask the room how many have seen the raw footage of the battles?” He asked.

“You authorize Speech?” Rojer asked with a sneaky quality to his tone.

Brad flinched.

“Why would you need that right now, Rojer?” Mick asked. “You have a penetrating regular voice. You are adult. You are dressed in security garb. I look like an unhealed flesh wound. I can stand on the damn table and ask but I would rather you convey structured authority. These guys are volunteers. They should see what went down. Right? Maybe they want to un-volunteer. Better to know right off than be surrounded by unhappy backstabbers later.”

Mick’s conversation with Rojer was leaking out, captured on wrist coms and being converted to readable text. Gossip on steroids. The room was listening, reading and watching.

Brad hid a smile. He wondered how much of Mick was for real? Did the kid really not know everyone was listening closely? Or, was this social strategy?

“Do you want to see the raw footage of the tunnel and air battles?” Rojer’s voice commanded the room’s attention.

Brad realized, Mick was right, Rojer had a voice that expressed authority. A tool.

The affirmative was loud and immediate.

“Can you set that up, Brad?” Mick asked.

“I can.” Neo answered, just the hint of a smirk in his tone.

Brad noted the move. Positions. These kids were finding positions among themselves. He decided he needed to play more games. Clearly he was off his game here.

“Good to know, Neo. Let’s let Master Brad interface with the submariners, likely there are a few who aren’t very happy with me because I’m a kid with a Neeshatari looking over my shoulder. Citadel should appear to have some authority; don’t you think?”

This caused a ripple of amusement and some nods of agreement.

“True.” Neo nodded. “I don’t have Master Brad’s system. He’s tanked out, you know. But, I bet I know work-arounds he doesn’t.”

Brad chuckled. He was a tank. The holoscreens along each wall crackled and then the sound of Mick yelling obscenities took over.

Mick finished eating his food and tried not to cringe in his chair. He considered the depth of his mouth. No wonder his mom was always yelling at him to get it under control. Then, he too lost himself in the battle scenes. Some of the footage was new to him, raw. He rode waves of pain and was thankful no one expected him to speak. He watched the footage and it became harder and harder to comprehend he was seeing himself.

“Need more sleep?” Jeffrey leaned down to whisper in his ear.

Mick nodded. “Can you pause it, Brad?” He asked.

All eyes turned to stare at him. He climbed to his feet. “Serla says to analyze the crap weaponry, focus on improving it. This is slamming my head. I’ve gotta go. Those wanting to stay after seeing how close to death we got, great. We need better Vrill-based weapons. My brain hurts. I’m leaving. Tell Brad.”

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