Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
Is it so much to ask that I be left in peace while the world burns to ash?
Honestly. I abandoned my home. My resources. My very successful practice. All to molder in this glorified tent, half melting with every gust of sandy Southern wind.
And now they have the nerve to knock on my door?
“What?!” I roar, stalking over to the room’s single portal.
The patient sprawled on my worktable twitches, his dwindling subconscious roused by my shout. I indulge in a guilty wince before schooling my features into the impassive expression I’m known for.
It’s the safest option, around here.
There’s a cadet waiting on the other side of my makeshift threshold. He salutes me, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
Sap-skull. I’m not an officer. Praise be the gods.
This must be one of the youngest males in the Roktusian ranks. There hasn’t been a babe born in over two decades, yet this pale purple cadet barely looks bigger than a buck. Or perhaps he just finds the food in the capital as detestable as I do.
For the millionth time, I wonder why I am here. I know why I was summoned, of course. The piles of research and hours of notes sprawled over my desk are a constant reminder of our impending problem. Or problems.
But why did I agree, for Morfu’s sake?
I could have continued tracking our population decline from the North, I think to myself, interrupted by another muffled whimper from my exam table.
But I could not have studied that, I admit sullenly.
The cadet in front of me opens his mouth to deliver his message, setting his shoulders with pure determination… before his gaze slips over my arm. Past my twin blue tails, each flicking with irritation.
To the felled soldier.
The cadet’s color drains, leaving him periwinkle rather than lavender. His unremarkable gray irises—much like mine—widen.
Fucking hells. Here it comes.
For a race of fierce warriors, most Roktusians have a deep aversion to all things medicinal. Blood, pain, and scars don’t bother most. But stitches? Resetting bones? A shot?
Gods forbid.
I suppose I’m the unnatural one. Other healers never dreamed of integrating such modern technology with our old ways. Most still won’t even hear of it.
Perhaps there is something in our DNA that recoils from the advancements the Galactic Council has given us over the last six centuries. We were once a clan-based warrior race—and the advancement of our civilization has only made it harder for Roktusians to thrive, biologically speaking…
Yet another theory for me to dig into, eventually.
Once I’m done solving all the Zortaire’s problems. And, you know, the mysteries of our galaxy. Like what in all seven hells happened to the half-dead male on my table?
The useless, well-meaning cadet continues to gawk at his brother-in-arms, stammering, “I-is he—”
Dead? I think. Most likely.
More and more of the men returning from our scouting missions are beyond my help.
And if someone is beyond my help?
Yes. They are dead.
My nose tingles and I pinch it, rubbing at the ache between my eyes until my claws press into their inner corners. I can’t very well tell this terrified buck that one of his lieutenants won’t make it through the next day.
I should, though. I ought to be screaming from every rooftop in Rholoko, urging our citizens to rebuke this suicidal war. The one we’ve agreed to fight for the sake of galactic status and wealth, against a force none of us truly understand.
Sure, we have superior numbers. But this is no ordinary enemy. Quite frankly, I’ve never seen internal damage like the diminished male behind me. Which is alarming on its own—but even more so when one considers the non-existent birthrate on Khanos.
To put it bluntly: we are now, in my estimation, an endangered species. And we’re marching our people into battles they cannot win.
I drop my hand to my side, agitated tails whipping in unison as I stare at the cadet before me. Absorbing his shaky posture and terrified eyes.
“No,” I sigh, hoping Stelaris will have mercy on me for speaking falsehoods about the nearly-dead. “He is not dead. He merely had an accident. Fell from his scouting post and forgot he had wings.”
The young soldier blinks in disbelief, but his shoulders relax a bit. “Truly?”
“Yes,” I lie again, quashing the twinge in my chest before it can blossom into actual pity. “What do you need?”
The adolescent remembers himself, snapping back to the formal stance of a proper soldier. Gods. So young.
Will he be next? When I come to my tent in a span, or a lapse… will I pull back one of the sheets to find his earnest, lifeless face staring back at me?
My insides roil, then fall utterly still as he speaks.
“It is the General, sir. He requests you come at once. The Zortaire has—”
A missing limb? An axe in his head? Lost the will to live?
He looks around to make sure no one else will hear us. I resist the sudden, violent urge to shake him. “The Zortaire has what?”
The cadet leans closer, barely breathing. “An omega.”