Chapter Five
Rok was feeling stronger, not quite himself but much better.
Not so Capt. Xenyth. The commander had rallied the morning of the funerals two days ago but then took a turn for the worse and hadn’t left his sick bed since.
Gray skin was sloughing off, and his eyes gleamed with fever.
Sometimes he seemed to be delirious, tossing, turning, mumbling, and crying out.
When he was awake and coherent, Rok brought him water and tried to get him to eat.
The captain drank some but refused food.
Rok had never felt so helpless; he had no idea what to do for him.
Progg showed no fear. They felt no fear, so it shamed him to admit even to himself he was scared. If his commanding officer died, he’d be alone on an alien planet, cut off from other units, unable to contact anyone.
He knew better than to pray to Zok for deliverance. One gave glory to Zok; one did not beg for favors. Zok blessed the brave and powerful, not the weak. Asking for help proved you didn’t deserve it.
A Progg never gives up. Buck up, soldier!
Failure to get promoted was the least of his problems right now, but he would continue to strive to distinguish himself. What else could he do? Giving up would be tantamount to admitting he wasn’t officer material.
It would be humiliating to become the parental disappointment.
His parents had considered his older brother weak, subpar, unlikely to amount to much, and had put their pride in their younger son.
Yet Grav had achieved the enviable position of aide to Commander Drek.
He would have been right in the thick of the battle—while Rok had been sidelined in the second wave.
I need one good opportunity, one act of valor to prove myself. Even if it didn’t lead to promotion, if no one else knew what he’d done, he would know, and the voices inside calling him a failure would quiet.
He’d been thinking about his brother a lot and had checked the outdated campaign schedule.
The admiral had been stationed about 200 muh-ruga southeast of Rok’s location.
Maybe Grav was still alive and had remained in that area.
By virtue of his position, Grav would have been kept apprised of the status of the campaign and troop movements.
If anybody would know what was going on, he would.
Rok went to check on the captain. His labored breathing sounded more like a death rattle than normal respiration. He’d stopped coughing, which Rok had taken as a positive sign but now realized was the opposite—Xenyth had weakened too much to cough.
Did he still have a fever? When Rok had been ailing, he’d felt hot, burning up.
I should touch him and find out. He recoiled at the idea.
One never touched another Progg, let alone a superior officer, without permission.
One rarely touched another person at all.
During mating, physical contact was unavoidable, and a parent had to tend to a child, but other than those instances, they avoided physical contact.
The captain opened glassy, unfocused eyes. “Rok? Are you there?”
“Yes! How are you feeling, Captain?” He reached for a bedside jug. “Water?”
“No. Listen…listen to me. I will soon be joining Zok in battle,” he said, his voice weak, shaky, almost inaudible.
“No…no.” He shook his head in denial of his own conclusion. “You can beat this. I survived. If I did, you can, too,” he contradicted his commanding officer, a grievous offense.
“Truth does not change because it is hard to face. When I am gone…” His voice faded away.
“Captain!”
Xenyth’s mouth worked to get the words out. “You must…carry on. Do not concede, do not surrender, do not retreat. Follow…the last set of orders and do not give up.” His breath rattled in his chest. “Zok…be with you.” The light in his eyes extinguished.
* * * *
“May you fight valiantly in Zok’s army.” Rok fired, freeing Xenyth’s body from its physical form, releasing his atoms to the cosmos. He holstered his weapon.
“Where the hell is everybody?”
Rok pivoted, checking for the silver medallion before lifting his gaze and recognizing a familiar face. “You were supposed to report two weeks ago,” he said in English, his translator enabling him to understand and speak most major Earth languages.
“I had nothin’ to report ’til now.” Out of his T-shirt pocket, Knife extracted a small pack, tapped out a white stick, placed it between his lips, and then lit the tip. He inhaled a deep breath and then blew out a stream of noxious, stinky smoke. “Where’s the captain?”
“He died,” he said and then kicked himself for the admission.
“Everyone else, too? Shame. Been happenin’ a lot. Not seein’ many of you alien guys around much these days.” Knife squinted through the smoke.
He’d announced he’d adopted the name to “stick it to” as many fellow humans as he could.
He’d lived up to his vow—hunting down a dozen stragglers, which Rok’s unit had dispatched.
Knife had proven to be a valuable, effective asset, but Rok would never turn his back on the man.
If he’d betray his own, he couldn’t be trusted.
While the Progg used humans like Knife, they despised them. Nobody respected a traitor. Only the worst sort of coward turned on his own people. Finding no favor with Zok, Knife would someday meet a deserving end.
“Anywho,” Knife said. “I located three more. They’re holed up in a church basement.” A gleeful chortle degenerated into a hacking cough.
“Why is that funny?”
“Because they think they’ll be safe there.
” He took another drag of his burning stick, dropped it, and ground the butt into the floor then stuck a fresh one into his mouth and lit it.
It surprised Rok that Knife hadn’t set his face on fire yet.
Thick bushy brown hair covered his face from nose to neck.
More matted hair clung to his scalp beneath the filthy hat he pulled low over his forehead.
With his bushy head, significant body hair, dull pale skin, and weird animal-like teeth, Knife was an unattractive creature. Of course, Rok’s loathing for the man might have colored his opinion of his appearance.
The Progg valued strength and courage, respected those who fought back, who protected their own, who sacrificed to benefit the whole. Every single citizen would give his life for Progg-Res.
Knife repulsed him. The only interesting characteristic about the tracker was an inked drawing of a naked human woman covering his arm from shoulder to elbow.
Were female mammary glands really that big?
Rok had never seen a human female in person, let alone one unclothed.
Knife’s other arm was covered with random drawings that made no sense, but the inside of each forearm sported a dagger. He guessed that referenced his name.
“So, do ya want me to take you to them, or not?”
Do not concede, do not surrender, do not retreat. Follow the last set of orders and do not give up.
“Take me there,” he said.
* * * *
The church, identified by a tall spire with a crossbar, was located in a neighborhood of Earth dwellings. They weaved through a parking lot packed with empty vehicles. Cars had squeezed into every available space.
“Why is this lot so full?” Rok asked. No other lot had so many vehicles.
Knife shrugged. “Pitiful bastards hoped God would save them. All the churches are like this.”
They marched up the steps to wide double doors. Knife stubbed out his fire stick then pressed a finger to his lips.
Rok unholstered his vaporizer, and the tracker eased the door open, admitting them into a wide, dim antechamber. Beyond the open inner double door was a huge room filled with benches.
Knife motioned and tiptoed toward the nave to peer inside. “They’re downstairs—just needed to make sure,” he murmured.
Inside the big room, peaceful light bathed the space in a warm glow, streaming in through high, colorful windows appearing to tell a story, although Rok couldn’t begin to guess what the story was.
Backpacks, purses, bags, and thick books lay scattered on the benches and the floor, an indication Knife had been correct in his assertion people had been vaporized as they huddled in prayer.
Cells and fluids transferred to and infused fabric, so clothing vanished with the person.
There was nothing left behind of the individuals themselves—except for…
Rok peered at an object on a pew. “Are those teeth?”
“Dentures. Got a set myself.” Knife clicked his false teeth. “Follow me.” He moved across the antechamber to a set of stairs and silently descended. Rok flexed his fingers and gripped his weapon. He was more nervous than he’d expected he’d be to make his first kill.
That humans were other, not unintelligent, not exactly lesser but alien, should have made it easy.
Building a galactic empire of habitable planets was Progg-Res’s destiny—Zok had deemed it so and given them dominion over every living being in the galaxy—or at least over those without the means to defend themselves.
Knife preceded him into the room at the bottom of the stairs.
“Who are—” a man said.
Rok stepped into view. A woman holding a small child screamed. The baby started to wail. The man jumped in front of the woman and child, shielding them with his body.
“Don’t kill my baby. Please don’t kill her,” the woman begged, hunching over the infant.
He aimed his weapon at the father. He could get all three humans with one blast. Three good kills. If Xenyth hadn’t died, he would have awarded him a star. His first step toward promotion.
Knife lit up another smelly fire stick.
“Kill me, but let my wife and daughter go, please,” the man said.
Knife snickered.
Rok pivoted and fired. Zzzz.
Knife vanished, leaving only a set of false teeth, a pack of smokes, a tracking disk, and a medallion to show he’d ever existed.
Rok picked up the medallion and marched up the stairs.