CHAPTER XI: DEPUTY NARAAMI
Monte Cristo, Trilance-Class Pursuit Ship
Rift Lane, in transit out of the Platinum Accords
December 17, 2771
Nara double-checked their course, more out of anxiety than habit. They were in a Rift lane, their navigation needs were fairly minimal until they exited into normal space, but she had to do something. The whole ordeal with Zolara left her hands clammy and her heart restless. She couldn’t sit on the bridge that way — flying always brought her peace of mind, but even watching the long, blue-white star trails of the passing cosmos couldn’t assuage her nerves now. She paced around the navigation seat on the bridge as many times as she could, hoping the relaxation of Rift travel would kick in, but it never came. She had hours to kill, but she couldn’t spend them here. Suddenly the bridge of a high-speed starship in the endless expanse just felt suffocating.
She strode out of the bridge with hollow urgency — it wasn’t like she had anywhere else to be. She wiped her hands on her jacket sleeves and took a few breaths as she crossed from the central lance of the ship and into the aft. She counted the different rooms to give her mind a task: the infirmary and Chief’s bunk on one side, the training room on the other, then out into the shared common area. She counted the two sofas and their cushions, then the panels on the holo-table, then clocked the two doors on the opposite wall: Nara’s room and the armory, present and accounted for.
She drifted by her room and leaned in. Lowering her jacket in front of her two corner mirrors, she angled in a familiar pose so she could see the brand on her left shoulder blade. So much trouble for a such a little mark, no bigger than five inches by five inches. An arrow flying upward and piercing what looked like a star, or maybe a shining halo. She felt the phantom pain of it again, frustrated once more that she felt pain for something she doesn’t even remember getting — and even that, she maybe could deal with; she’d woken up with tattoos she didn’t remember having after a night on Valor’s Run or two, but that pain was almost wistful compared to this. This wasn’t attached to a memory of a good time that got fuzzy — it was just a black spot in her mind. She couldn’t help but think back to what Zolara offered her. The sweet promise of her history dangled in front of her face. The front of her mind knew it was all in bad faith, and Zolara probably didn’t know half of what she professed, but that didn’t stop her subconscious. It didn’t stop her sense of ‘what if.’
What if Zolara really knew something?
What if she knew others like her?
What if she could restore her memories?
Stop it, she blinked hard, Where you are and where you’re going. That’s what matters. Feeling her anxiety spike even more drove her to move. Maybe she just needed to blow off some steam, maybe hit the wooden dummy in the fitness room for a while. She turned toward the sliding metal door and halted with a start — the Scandar Recusant suddenly approached the same door. She stifled a curse; she hadn’t even heard him walking. The Recusant stared drolly at her.
“Uh…Something I can help you with?”
The Recusant stared at her for a beat, then pulled the training room door open.
“Hey, hey buddy! I was about to—”
Without turning back, the Recusant shut the door on her. She grumbled, hands shaking even more now as she planted her fists on the door. She was just anxious before, now she was anxious and pissed off, and had nowhere to release it.
Good day all around.
She eventually crossed onto the upper walkways over the cargo area. Chief was down below, doing inventory of their supplies as usual. Chief gave her a wink, she waved back, then wandered into the lower decks, when she heard something sizzling. A smell rocked her nose, a delicious, savory air that forced a shudder through her nerves. She nearly smiled as she made her way to the commissary.
Past a couple rough metal tables, benches and a small counter area, she saw the Trilancer bent over multiple pans on the stove, mixing his chili con carne combine in a large central pot. Well, ‘pot’ was the wrong word, it was ‘the bottom half of an oil drum,’ to be precise. Nara always found the jagged old thing disgusting, but the Captain insisted he cleaned it thoroughly, and wouldn’t budge on what he called his ‘tradition’ of serving chili in it. As much as she complained, Nara couldn’t deny the results: the Captain’s chili was the talk of the whole Trilancer Guild, and usually the highlight of her and Chief’s week when he made it.
The Captain tilted his head to spot her, then back to the chili. “Nara,” he nodded.
“Cap.”
“Our guest in his quarters?” he asked, sprinkling cilantro in the mix.
“Training room.”
“I thought I told him to stay in his bunk?”
“You did, I was there. Guy doesn’t like to listen — or share.”
“It’s not ‘sharing’ if it’s not his.”
“That’s insightful of you, Captain, I’ll bring it up to him next time he slams a door on me.”
“He what?? That crusty—” he cut himself off, sprinkling spices over the chili to calm himself. “Okay, then. A conversation’s in order.”
Nara chuckled, then fell silent, leaning on one of the tables. The Trilancer stayed on the chili, but glanced at her every now and then with concern — well, concern by his standards. His helmet tilted a couple degrees further when he looked at her. It wasn’t much, but if you’re paying attention, he was clutching his proverbial pearls.
She figured he wasn’t going to be the one to bring it up, so she finally broke the silence. “You never wondered?” she finally asked, gently rubbing the back of her left shoulder. “About the brand?”
“Not my business. Not what I value in you.”
“I appreciate the warm sentiments, Captain,” she said dryly, “But I know the weight this thing comes with.”
“It’s a patch of callouses, Nara,” he dismissed. “It’s not what you are. No one’s just a mark. You’re not some mystery scar to me and Chief. You’re Naraami.”
“Captain, you know Naraami isn’t even my real name.”
The Captain stepped back from the chili, turned to her and folded his arms. He never liked when she brought this up. “Well,” he posed like a stern teacher. “What is your real name?”
“I don’t know.”
“Wrong.”
“What?”
“What do you go by? What do you call yourself in your head? What does your brain register as ‘the sound that means me?’”
She sighed like an exasperated teen, “Naraami.”
“That’s right. Because you say. Understand?”
“But what if…” she slumped down on the bench. “What if Zolara could’ve showed me who I was?”
The Trilancer sighed and turned down the stove. “No one can show you who you are, Nara — only you can,” he approached, leaning on the counter. “No one can force it on you, and no one can give it to you. And in my experience, people who claim to have all the answers are usually fascists, cults or cons — sometimes all three.”
She gave a brief smile, then looked up off with a hint of guilt. The Captain crossed out of the kitchen and sat on the table above the bench.
“I don’t trade people out, Nara. Not for a debt, not for a clean slate, nothing. I wouldn’t leave you like that. Never.”
She grinned to herself. “You couldn’t afford me in the first place — I know for damn sure you can’t do better.”
“Hmhm,” he chuckled, pushing himself up. “That’s a week of latrine duty.”
She shot to her feet. “What??”
“You want another one? Keep sassing me.”
“Captain, that—!”
“Fine, two weeks, suit yourself.”
“I—” she swallowed her words fast. The Captain looked back at her, and she could swear she saw him grin behind his helmet.
“Chili’s ready in ten, I’ll send Chief up. Then I’ll go see about our squatter.”
Nara scoffed and rolled her eyes as he left, but couldn’t fight the smile creeping over her face. There was a tightness in her chest, but it wasn’t alarming. She wasn’t used to the feeling. It must’ve been what people mean when they said their hearts ‘swell.’
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THE TRILANCER LEFT THE COMMISSARY BEHIND AND MADE HIS WAY OUT toward the cargo hold, hoping to catch the Scandar on his ship while he was still using the training room — his training room, at that — without permission. That much, he could honestly forgive in most circumstances. He didn’t exactly lay out all the ground rules to their passenger when they departed Valor’s Run, and Scandar warriors were quicker to take initiative than ask permission. But at the moment, he was running low on good faith.
This Scandar was here as an enforcer of Zolara. The thought of him made the Trilancer think about her, which just reminded him how angry he still was. Angry at being toyed with, demeaned, taken advantage of, backed into an illegal contract by an Outerboss his entire Guild refused to do business with. But more than that, he was angry that his impulse to what he knew was right came back and bit his crew in the ass. His impulsivity nearly cost him Naraami, and it was currently pushing Chief away, too. He’d put on the warmth to talk to Naraami, and he meant every word he said, but the good feeling he got talking to her didn’t last once he left. It melted away, and his anger remained. He hooked right to head for the staircase to the upper level, but he stopped when he saw Chief emerge between some cargo with a crate in her arms. His feet wanted to move up the steps, but his hand clamped on the railing, anchoring him.
Talk to her, jackass, he told himself. You smoothed it over with Naraami. Make it right with her, too. Before you go bug hunting and piss her off again.
He sighed and stepped back, as Chief secured the crate and glanced his way. The Trilancer stuffed his hands in his pockets and sauntered toward her. She went back to work as he leaned on a stack of storage cases and looked to the floor.
“You’re upset,” he opened bluntly.
“I wake up upset.”
“Alright, then you’re angry.”
She pursed her lips and nodded. “Proper.”
“You’ve got a right to be,” he conceded moving off his perch and standing in her path. He looked at her straight and earnest. “I’m sorry. This never shoulda blown back on you two.”
Chief dusted her hands and sighed. “You had to know it would, kid,” she said, moving past him to get another crate. “When you’re a leader, nothing’s ever just on you. You catch the credit or the blame, sure, but the consequence? That hits everybody. ‘Specially the folks who depend on you.”
The Trilancer grunted through a sigh and grabbed the crate under hers, helping her move and secure them. “This is why I left the Academy.”
“You flunked out,” she corrected, strapping the crate down. “And you broke Admiral Calloway’s nose.”
“Point stands, I wasn’t cut out to be a captain,” he deflected. “I never wanted it.”
She scoffed. “It’s not about wanting, boy,” she implored. “Wanting it ain’t enough.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he waved off, “I know the old tripe — you gotta be called to it, then chase it down, no?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No,” she straightened, pacing away from the cargo. He could see her searching for the words behind her sun-aged face as she stopped by a viewport. He followed her as she waved a finger toward the distant nebulae beyond the star trails. “The call ain’t out there, kid,” she shook her head. When he joined her by the viewport, she knocked hard on his Anthium breastplate. “It’s in there.”
The Trilancer smiled at her wistful cornball sentiment, before she sucked her teeth in frustration.
“What chaps my ass is that you have the call in you,” she went on. “Else wise, you wouldn’t run around starting fights to save some spoiled rich kids — you didn’t know those kids, you ain’t owe them anything, but you went ahead and…”
She trailed off, leaning on the viewport. It was strange seeing her like this; she was exasperated and disappointed, but also…was that pride?
“Chief, I…” the Trilancer trailed off, leaning on the other side of the viewport. He wanted to come up with some incisive and witty counterargument, but he just folded his arms and looked at her. “I couldn’t just do nothing.”
She chewed on her cheek for a long beat. “I know,” she finally answered, putting a firm but reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Sometimes I just wish you could.”
He chuckled bitterly. “Yeah, me too…And look, about Nara—”
“No need,” she nodded, curt and genuine, before heading back to the cargo. “You were in a right impossible jam. Turned it into a fighting chance.”
“Wait, you…oh, you just, you understand this time?”
“I always understand, you just did something sensible for a change,” she shrugged. “I understand when you’re sick with your foolishness, and I understand when you do what you gotta. This was one time you did what you had to.”
“I—huh…I’m not accustomed to this sort of agreeable in you.”
“Because you’re often sick with your foolishness,” she said as she opened a crate to count the dried grain packets inside. The Trilancer looked off, happy but truly taken aback. He smiled behind his helmet. Disappointed as she might’ve been, it was validating to know she still knew his core values. She noticed his musing and groaned. “Oh, come on, kid, no sense introspecting over that scrap of credit,” Chief shut the foodstuffs and strapped the crate down. “I knew you wouldn’t let ‘em take her,” she said like it was obvious. “Truthful? I was waiting for her to take a fool step, like volunteer to stay, trade her life for ours or some such.”
His smile dipped and his thoughts returned to his talk with Nara in the kitchen. “She nearly did,” he said gravely. “I think Zolara wormed into her head. She was ready to make that trade.”
“Which case,” Chief threw the last of the cargo into arrangement. “I’d have to go down fighting with one arm, and keep her from bugging out in the other,” they shared a chuckle. “I ain’t keen to die one of these days, boy. But you two heroes keep bringing my blood up, I might just have a heart attack before you go off and save the damn Skyfield.”
“Why you think I’m feeding you chili every week?” the Trilancer spread his arms wide, revealing some grand plan as he backed toward the stairs. “If I stuff your arteries with salt and beef, I’ll be a free man in no time!”
She threw him an obscene gesture, he returned it and trotted up the stairs.
“Hey, kid!” Chief called after him. He stopped and looked back as she threw him a knowing grin. “…Don’t throw straight shots — their shells are weaker from the bottom.”
He grinned back behind his mouth plate and gave a two-finger salute. They may not have been family by blood, but that woman got him better than anyone.
The Trilancer finally reached the outside of the fitness room, some distance away from the cargo hold. Best if Chief and Nara didn’t hear this, however it went. He listened at the door, some shuffling and clanging metal on the other side. He raised a fist to knock, then hesitated. Knock? he thought, It’s my damn ship!
The metal door slid open and the Trilancer leaned on the jamb. Most of the room was as he left it: bench press to one wall, pull-up bar and rack of weights behind it, then to the front stood the wood dummy and punching bag, then a mat for meditation, where the Scandar Recusant now stood. The Recusant examined a 75 pound iron plate, holding it in one hand like a dinner platter. He glanced at the Trilancer and then back to the weight, dismissively signing with his other hand.
“This training castrum is insultingly small. Equipment barely fit to train children. Is this where such a hallowed class of warrior prepares for battle?” he questioned, his exaggerated hand movement implying heavy sarcasm.
The Trilancer took an authoritative step forward. “This room is a private resource on my ship,” he warned, “A room in which you are currently trespassing.”
The Recusant scoffed and dropped the weight, prowling toward the center of the room. He signed with both hands, “I was not aware your innermost sanctums were so pitifully guarded. If that piddling little girl was its only defense, you’ve no right to take umbrage. You’ve failed to adequately guard what is yours.”
The Trilancer’s fist tightened. He’d seen Nara take down Scandar before. She’d been underestimated before, but she used that as a great asset, so he thought it better to not correct the Recusant on his assumption. Instead, he thumbed a command on the door console, the bulkhead slid shut with a click. The Recusant studied his movement as he went to another wall console, activated the fitness room’s PA system and brought up his music tracks. He chose an old classic: Pink Martini’s ¿Dónde Estas, Yolanda? Not the best song to train to, but one of his favorite dance numbers. The Recusant squinted as the Trilancer turned the sound all the way up.
Best if Chief and Nara especially didn’t hear this next part.
The rhythmic, jazzy Latin tune bounced off the green steel walls as the Trilancer joined the Recusant in the center of the room and held silent for a while.
“…You really wanna hit me, don’t you?”
After a beat, the Recusant nodded.
“Hm,” the Trilancer nodded back. “Well, no sense feeding the tension.”
The Trilancer jabbed him in the face. The Scandar staggered back and chittered with rage as the human slid off his weapons belt and tossed it on the weight bench. The Recusant picked up on the rules and removed his weapons as well. The Trilancer threw off his bomber jacket, exposing his fully armored torso, and thumbed a command on his gauntlet. More armor extended from his shoulders, down his arms and to his gauntlets, ending with two sets of Anthium studs clicking into place over his knuckles.
The Scandar looked him over and signed, “You face me in armor. Does the coward hide? Will you not fight on your own merits?”
“Slip out of that hard shell and I’ll consider it.”
The Scandar growled and cracked his neck. The two slowly circled, sporadically testing each other — the Recusant with a slash of his claws to see the armor’s resilience, the Trilancer with flick-jabs to test his opponent’s reflexes now that his guard was up.
Scandar martial arts, like most Scandar things, were based in aggression; even their blocking technique was offense-based, swatting back the Trilancer’s oncoming strikes with his hands or elbows. They leaned on their enhanced strength, preferring to halt their opponent’s strike instead of dodging or redirecting their momentum. This proved an early roadblock, as with or without his armor, the Trilancer still wasn’t half as strong. But despite a hard shell and denser muscle, the Scandar’s multi-jointed bodies were also their weakness. When the Recusant went high to claw at his head, the Trilancer threw rapid-fire hooks to his body, aiming for the tissuey seams between the larger parts of his exoskeleton. The rapid joint strikes clearly frustrated the Scandar, and also offset his balance. As his legs had four joints, that meant they had four points of failure when the Trilancer stomped down on them. Though Scandar were inherently stronger, it was harder for them to generate striking power from their stance compared to a human’s stiffer plantigrade legs. Compensating for this, the Recusant used his superior speed, darting around the Trilancer’s strike, wrapping an arm around his torso and hurtling him into the wall. The Trilancer grunted and righted himself, beating his chest to invite the Scandar for another bout.
Humans were softer and slower than most other species, so they usually couldn’t compete in close quarters, but Trilancers had a unique advantage. In his Anthium plate armor, the Trilancer was actually able to tank through whatever the Recusant threw at him and hit back without restraint. He’d wait for the Recusant to flurry a series of punches and claw swipes, then rocket an upper cut against the Scandar’s side plating, driving the plates painfully out of place and forcing the wind out of him. He then laced both hands around the Recusant’s head and fired a knee right under his sternum. The Recusant in turn flicked one of his multi-jointed legs up, kicking the Trilancer in the groin — apparently he’d learned that little weakness.
Pain rocked up the Trilancer’s body as the Scandar’s tail whipped up and slammed into his visor. His head snapped back, impact lessened by the helmet, and he grabbed the tail before it could recoil. He yanked it forward, throwing the Recusant off balance. He sidestepped his teetering opponent, wrapped the tail around his forearm and rode their momentum, driving the Scandar’s face into the wall. The Recusant’s legs contorted sideways and he crawled up the wall, then plopped down behind the Trilancer and lashed the tail around his neck.
The Recusant constricted. Thinking quick as his vision darkened, the Trilancer dug both hands under one of the armor plates on the Recusant’s tail and wrenched it up, tearing the skin beneath and exposing a pulsing row of tendons. The Recusant growled in pain, but held his grip on the human’s neck. The Trilancer then thrust his hand into the open wound and began ripping out tendons like worms. The Recusant’s composure finally broke, shrieking in agony as his tail retracted. The Trilancer pressed, closing distance and throwing two more uppercuts into the Recusant’s wounded side, whipped an elbow up under his jaw, then tackled him to the ground. Sprawling atop the Scandar, the Trilancer reared back for another blow, but the Scandar could draw proper momentum from the ground, and cracked the Trilancer right across the face, wrenching his head around with a lance of pain — and most definitely some whiplash. The Trilancer hit back in turn, then the Recusant, then the Trilancer again, and so on.
He felt some real progress being made.