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Fal’ran couldn’t picture it. Smith exuded confidence and self-assurance, but it seemed hard-fought. Something told Fal’ran Smith had earned the right to stand there in a Klah’Eel uniform with his back straight and his chin up.
Smith didn’t confirm or deny, but the flash of a wry half smile told Fal’ran he was right. He clapped Fal’ran’s shoulder as he passed him. “Get some sleep, Fal’ran. You’ve got people to impress tomorrow.”
Fal’ran inhaled the last wisps of Smith’s scent as he passed. “Goodnight, Captain. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Smith lifted a hand over his shoulder in goodbye. “Bright and early.”
Fal’ran watched him walk away and saw the moment Smith looked back at him over his shoulder. He clutched the image of Smith’s cheeks flaming red again when he ducked his head tight to his heart as he fell asleep.
Chapter Nine
Fal’ran woke up nervous.
He hated it. His stomach tying itself into knots, untying itself, and repeating over and over again. His chest felt as tight as when he’d first stepped into this stupid, thick atmosphere and been drowned by the air.
“I can smell you,” muttered a quiet voice from the weight bench.
Fal’ran inhaled the scent of bitter nerves before turning his head and opening his eyes. He made out Bar’in’s slim form in the pre-dawn gloom. “I can smell you, too.”
“It’s not like anything bad will happen to us if we suck.” Bar’in turned his precious sniper rifle around in his hands, then around and around again.
“No.” Fal’ran pushed to sitting and placed his feet on the ground. “In fact, bad things will happen to us if we’re good.”
If they were good, they’d be sent to the front lines. Whatever that was like. They’d gotten reports over the last week of small Insect strikes and random sightings of monstrous, fast, black ships. A few Qeshian special forces units had been wiped out. Most had been avoided. Everyone agreed the front line was somewhere in the Qeshian System, but it was more of a hazy zone at the moment.
“They might disband us.” Bar’in shrugged his shoulder, his head still bent low over his gun. “If we fuck this up, I mean.”
“Yeah.” Fal’ran opened his footlocker quietly, not wanting to wake Tar and Sazahk, and watched Bar’in’s outline. “You never wanted to be in this squad, anyway.”
“Exactly.” Bar’in checked his ammo and his magazine and his chamber and his safety. “Neither did you. Always thought you were too good for us.”
“Mhm.” Fal’ran stripped off his shirt and exchanged it for a clean one, keeping his voice quiet and even as a counterbalance to Bar’in’s nervous energy.
“Fuck.” Bar’in exhaled hard, then got up and stood in front of Fal’ran. He poked him in the shoulder with the butt of his gun. “Let’s not fuck this up, Fal’ran, alright?”
Fal’ran chuckled and rubbed the shoulder Bar’in had hit. “Alright, Bar’in.”
“Fuck you.”
“Fuck you, too.”
Fal’ran smiled as Bar’in stomped to the other side of the tent and poked Tar awake. He had thought he was too good for this dysfunctional squad of misfits. Tar sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and let Bar’in fix the braid that had come askew in the night. Sazahk groaned and rolled up to sitting, his thin, pale hair a tangled mess and his skin shimmering orange. He didn’t think that anymore.
The air thickened with anxiety and anticipation as they readied themselves. They didn’t speak more than they needed to, dressing and re-checking their packs, testing the radios. Fal’ran had thought he’d woken up nervous, but every whiff from his anxious teammates ratcheted the nerves in his belly up another notch.
Outside, the quiet sounds of the camp coming to life increased to a cacophony: shouted orders, marching boots, the buzz of low altitude aircraft, and the clatter of land cruisers. By the time the light filtering into the tent turned yellow with true sunlight, the noise outside and the nerves inside had combined into an oppressive weight that seemed to choke the entire team.
Fal’ran gritted his teeth and looked at them as they all stood ready in the center of the tent. He was trying to think of something to say to break them out of their own heads, when the tent flap flew open, and the bright scent of excitement burst into the room.
“Up and at ‘em, s—Well, look at you guys.” Smith skidded to a stop before slamming into Tar. “And I was worried you’d all still be asleep.”
“You’re late.” Bar’in adjusted his rifle strap with a glare.
“I am.” Smith grimaced, and a hint of irritation floated through the raw excitement he pumped into the tent. “I got a little static from the brass picking this up. Fal’ran, catch.”
Fal’ran caught the heavy metal canister Smith tossed at him. “What’s this?”
“State secrets. Troop movements. Launch codes. The latest blackmail on the Minister of the Treasury.” Patrick shrugged. “It’s whatever we’ve been entrusted with keeping out of enemy hands.”
