Page 40 of The Commander

The grunt bounced forward, nervous speed an indication of a young age. He wasnew batch, the most annoying type of soldier. Their gangly poor muscle control always made them look jumpy and over eager. They tended to be stupider than those who were older.

Great. Not an auspicious sign for an intelligent conversation.

Bastian’s office was the cleanest space in the building. Set up by the engineers under standard plans for a prime male of size, chair, desk, and a personal interface system fit his specifications.

He liked the off white paint they’d added. Easy on his eyes. Stark and clean behind the red hat’s dark fur and uniform.

The Sarrian duty soldier exercised a mindful attempt at preparing for its interview.

Its uniform looked fresh. No stains. A size too small.

Why was it so hard to make uniforms that fit? Machines on this planet could certainly be calibrated to suit all shapes and sizes. Every calculation came out wrong, producing shoddy work.

“Speak,” Bastian ordered as he sat back in the cow leather of the chair.

“Sir. There was sssomething found where the girl was caught.”

Bastian cut it off before it could waste time elaborating. “What?”

“What?” A red hat’s lips couldn’t pucker to replicate the human language well.

“Yes.” Bastian had to keep himself from hissing with impatience. “What was found?”

Its eyes bulged in a sign of distress, and it licked its lips. What was wrong with the thing? The young ones had issues, but never this bad, not unless they were afraid. Or guilty.

Bastian tilted his head to the side, watching as 48001 reached behind its back and showed him the cause of its discomfort.

A name day blade. Found near Kitten?

“It smells like humanss blood.”

Every Prime Commander carried one. The cumbersome size and the grandiose expense of each unique blade symbolized a prime battler’s commitment to the goddess of their incarnation. Battlers had once been known as the Queen’s Blade, protectors, and defenders of the queen’s body and home.

But the queen goddess was dead, silent for centuries. A governing coalition of profiteering family houses stepped into the void. They bastardized everything she represented.

Women from the houses called themselves her priestesses and took over her rituals. They commandeered all that was hers, including the battlers. A name day blade was no gift from the goddess. It was a mockery of the hunt—a mutated representation.

The naming ritual consecrated the blade to the battler, connecting them forever. His honor tied to it, the blade would one day be used to remove the battler’s heart and end his life in the death ceremony, before both were incinerated together. One did not pass on the blade or give it away. One blade for one battler.

Control valued the ability to allocate their battlers, especially during off planet explorations. The Sarrian were meticulous about leaving no trace of themselves or their technology for any enemy to discover. It was mandatory that all Sarrian carry at least two or three surgically inserted tracers.

The red hat set the blade on his desk and backed away as if it could bite him.

“Where was it found?”

“In some greenery, along with a sack that carried pants, a pair of shoes, and rabbit snares.”

“Where is all of that?”

“Gralf said not to tell you. They’re with Unch now.”

“Who?”

“56983 said not to tell you. 56541 has them. I snuck the knife out. Thought you should know.” It pointed at Bastian and tried to look honest.

Bastian tapped the intake pad of his digital secretary. The P.I. answered any question he asked and helped him keep track of the grunts and the entire area under his direction. “I want access to all surveillance footage for the quadrant. Remove all dead space for quicker viewing. Highlight any two legged creature activity in order of events and list all anomalous behaviors first.”

With the audio off, a light indicated the computer received his instructions. He wanted to know what the fuck had been going on with his Red Hats and the rebels.

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