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Patrick didn’t hang around to see if the general thought of anything else, turning on his heel and leaving the small building. Of course, the land cruiser that had brought him to Yal’rest’s office hadn’t bothered to stay to take him back, so Patrick started the long return trek with a sigh.
General Yal’rest was out for a scapegoat. Patrick knew that. General Yal’rest was out for a scapegoat because War Minister Hashi was out for a scapegoat, because the Klah’Eel Parliament was out for a scapegoat, because the intergalactic community was pissed beyond measure about the poisonous gas the Klah’Eel had unleashed across half a planet.
And shit rolled downhill, so now Patrick was buried in it.
Patrick arranged his face into a friendly smile and waved at a couple captains as they cruised past him toward the officers’ tents, while he trudged along the side of the road. Once they were gone, he dropped his hand with a sigh.
Shit burial or not, it wasn’t the Klah’Eel Parliament’s fault that Fal’ran, Tar, and Bar’in had been in a dozen fights in the past two weeks and it wasn’t Parliament’s job to fix them. It was Patrick’s. And asshole or not, Yal’rest was right about one thing.
If Patrick couldn’t turn his men into a battle-ready team, he didn’t deserve his stripes.
* * *
Fal’ran wiped the sweat off his face for the hundredth time that day.
In the two weeks since he’d stepped off the military transport and onto Klah, he’d sweat more than he ever had in his life. He must be losing his entire bodyweight in water every other day and carrying it around with him as it sank into his clothes, leaving him damp and disgusting.
Bar’in and Tar struggled with the moisture, too, even if none of the three of them would ever admit it to each other. Bar’in kept a strip of bright purple fabric tucked into the pocket of his combat fatigues, sometimes wiping his face with it, and sometimes tying it around his forehead to lift his long chestnut hair off his neck. Tar just sat and panted as sweat poured from his temples.
None of them were used to this sort of air. Natural, fresh, thick with water and smells and pollen and dust. It clogged Fal’ran’s throat and nose and made his head feel stuffed and fuzzy.
Fal’ran wiped the palms of his hands against his pants so that he wouldn’t slip off again, then jumped and caught the pull-up bar set into the tent’s sturdy beams to do his next rep.
He’d never thought he’d miss it, but as Fal’ran struggled to breathe through the exercise, he longed for the artificial, recycled, thin, dry-as-bones air of the domes he’d grown up under. The air filling out the housing projects on Klah’s one large moon had left his skin dry, cracked, and flaking, and his hair brittle, but at least it hadn’t been so thick that it choked him as he tried to breathe it.
“You’re being an idiot.”
Fal’ran ignored Bar’in’s snide voice as he finished up his last two reps. “Am not.”
“Are too.” Bar’in had been the last to dress in combat fatigues after their commanding officer had left to get his ass chewed, but he was in them now, sitting on his bunk and fiddling with the cuffs of the sleeves that were too long for him. “You know Smith is going to run us when he gets here. You should save your strength.”
“I’ve got a lot more strength to spare than you.”
Not to mention a willingness to use it. Bar’in always did as little as possible, and with the minimal amount of effort required. But Fal’ran didn’t think it was laziness. He rolled his shoulders and jumped up to the bar to knock out his last fifteen reps. Bar’in operated in survival mode and no wonder. Fal’ran recognized the tiny hole in the shell of his left ear where a whore’s earring would have hung back in the projects. Why a whore had signed up to be a soldier when he clearly had no interest in climbing the ranks, Fal’ran had no idea, but he assumed the story wasn’t pleasant.
Bar’in snorted and replied at a volume loud enough for Fal’ran to hear, but quiet enough to tell him he wasn’t supposed to respond. “Yeah, and you let everybody know it.”
Fal’ran dropped from the bar before his sweaty palms slipped off, but let the comment go. He’d already risen to Bar’in’s bait once today; he didn’t need to do it again. He wiped his brow for the hundred and first time, then skirted the weight bench in the center of their tent and grabbed his water. There was no way in hell he was passing out from dehydration in this heat while the thousands of other soldiers in the camp who had all come from Klah or other planets with atmospheres pranced around in the sun like rich children.
As Fal’ran downed his water, he caught a whiff of bitter dislike and lowered his bottle to sneer at Tar, who sat on his own bunk an arm’s length away. But Tar had his head down, staring at the spot between his giant boots, with his elbows resting on his knees, in the same position he’d been in since he changed into his combat fatigues. Which he’d been the first to do, obeying Smith’s order before the human had even climbed into the cruiser.
Fal’ran shook his head and ignored Tar’s insulting smell, like he’d ignored Bar’in’s insulting comment. He’d already fought Tar over that today too, demanding to know what the older man was so pissed about and why he hadn’t backed down when he’d smelled Fal’ran coming, if he didn’t want to fight about it. The enormous man had only looked at Fal’ran with a blank expression and refused to answer. Then Bar’in said something and the fight had begun.
Fal’ran ground his teeth and sat down hard on his bed. All his twenty-three years he’d fought for an opportunity like this and when he’d finally gotten it, instead of being placed in a real squad with a real captain and a real chance to prove himself, he’d been stuck with these rejects and—
“On your feet, soldiers!”
Fal’ran raised his head to bare his teeth at Captain Patrick Smith as he strode into their tent, shiny with sweat and covered with dust.
—and a pathetic human commanding officer who clung on to his rank by the tips of his delicate little fingers.
Smith caught Fal’ran's expression, and his bright blue eyes flashed. “Fix your face, Fal’ran, before I fix it for you.”
Fal’ran rose to his full height, at least a head taller than his captain. He’d like to see Smith try, but he bit down on that comment. Deserved or not, fair or not, the human still had power over him. So, he locked his teeth together and glared and Smith glared straight back, his shocking eyes hard and confident.
Fal’ran had never seen eyes that color—as blue as the sky in Klah but as honed as a gatlung’s blade. No klah’eel had eyes that color and no human Fal’ran had ever seen, either. But color aside, Smith’s eyes still held all the usual bullshit: disgust, condescension, disbelief, the general wonderment that a kid from the Moon Projects stood in front of him now thinking that he was worth something.
And Fal’ran hated it.
