The Kelbrid Chronicles
REDUX
---
Gonna change my way of thinking,
make myself a different set of rules.
Gonna put my good foot forward,
and stop being influenced by fools.
---
IV. Simple Twist of Fate
Cerrid
My name is Senator Cerrid Awen-Caoilfhionn, and for reasons I am still not entirely sure of myself, I have put my whole career on the line for a motley group of aliens to whom I owe no allegiance.
Perhaps I was simply looking for an excuse to piss the rest of the Senate off. They can be so terribly boring. There will always be moments in my life, like this one, when my military and political occupations clash. As an officer, it was a natural, easy decision to intervene, but as a Senator, I am expected to debate the issue ad nauseum until it is too late to do anything at all.
One of the worlds I reside in moves quickly, decisively. The other is weighed down by tradition, by posturing, by outdated dogma.
But really, I wouldn't want it any other way. Because I am so young, and not the result of any noteworthy breeding, the Senate would normally relegate me to the sidelines, treating me as a Senatorial apprentice. I would have to wait decades before any opinion I might choose to levy would hold weight. But, because I also hold one of the highest ranks our military offers--commanding a state-of-the-art Genpur--they are a little afraid of me. When my word reaches the floor, it comes with an extra layer of experience, of clout.
They are also fearful of appearing to insult the entire military by disagreeing too harshly with me.
I try not to abuse my unique position. Matters of state generally hold little import to me. Let the old men argue about what day of the year the observance of Imeacht should be held on, or what to name the newest Genpur-crootah. But I refuse to allow crucial moments like this latest confrontation pass beyond our reach because none of the old fools can agree on anything important.
"Well, my girl, you've certainly stepped in it this time," comes a familiar voice from just beyond the archway forming on the entrance wall.
"Senator Finnideach," I say, standing to greet one of the few practical Senate elders, my mentor.
He enters, moving with a slow stiffness that pains me to see. The tips of his ears and nose have gone white, matching the full mane of long hair that crowns his head, spilling down his shoulders where great bunches of it are gathered into braids and gold beads.
"Yes, yes, sorry to be so late. Those damn aibi tubes leave me a bit disoriented," he says, chuckling to himself.
"Yes, we're the first to use them," I answer, closing the distance between him and touching brows in the traditional greeting between close friends and family. "They are exceptionally fast. Just something to get used to, I suppose."
"Ah, well, I don't think I shall have to worry about that," he says, taking a seat at the stavo table.
"You shouldn't make light of such things, Finn," I chide gently, offering a bottle of dearsacch.
"A lovely vintage, Cerrid, and under normal circumstances, I would happily accept," he says, "But we will both need our wits about us when they call the mod." I can see that speaking aloud is becoming increasingly difficult. Finnideach is an elder, several times over, and his tusks--like all Kelbrid males'--never stop growing, not until death. His are so long that all vocalizations are exceptionally difficult.
/If you would rather.../
"No, no. I much prefer this way," he says, patting the top of my hand with his own. "I am a creature of habit, Cerrid. I will be jawing and carrying on until they add my ashes to the talamh, on the Daigear-Il."
More talk of death. I replace the bottle on its tray and shift some of the crystal glass around, enjoying the delicate sound they make against one another.
An alert sounds from my office, and it appears another delegation has sent their 'official statement' regarding the day's actions.
"Sons of ifrinn!" I swear, and dismiss the report as I have all the ones before it.
"Language, Cerrid," he says, laughing softly.
"If memory serves, you were the one who taught me the more colorful phrases in my vocabulary, Finn," I remind him, leaning back in my chair as it adjusts to my movement.
He shrugs and rubs his hands together, apparently ready to get down to business.
"The mod will most likely focus on the intentions of our newest passengers. Many of the Senators are particularly upset about the Eirabalann. But I'm sure you anticipated that," he says.
"Hmph. Are they afraid someone will slip up and sneak a nibble?"
"This isn't a joke, Cerrid. The Ena are gaining power in the political arena. Don't pretend to be ignorant of that. They'll tell their followers that this is some kind of--" He spins his hand in circles, withered tail flipping against the floor. "--Some kind of divine sign. They'll claim that now is the time to go back home."
"To what end, Finn? Hunting another sentient race for sport? The Ena can't possibly argue that we need to eat Eirabalann for sustenance. We've long since found other, equally satisfying, sources of food--unintelligent sources of food. It won't fly with the people. We've evolved."
Finn sighs and looks toward my office, the dark blue shift that rests on his shoulders wrinkling with the movement.
"I believe that, as always, you give them too much credit. The bloodlust…" He shakes his head, his voice dropping. "You know better than most that it wasn't ever truly bred out of us. We just shuffled the impulse to the bottom of the deck, that's all."
"Would you do it?"
"Hah!" he seems genuinely amused. "No. I'm far too old for such things."
"I am not, but I would never--"
"You? No, I doubt you would. But your ena…" He watches me, his gaze intense. "We are killers, Cerrid, it is our truest nature."
"If that were so, we would have never left. For generations we have chosen to fight that part of ourselves. I can't believe we would so easily revert--" I hesitate, feeling the words catch in my throat like stones.
"You...You are my mentor, Finn. Whatever you think is the best course of action, I will follow your advice."
"Bring them to the mod," he says simply, running a finger along the rim of one of the glasses.
"What?!" I blink rapidly and push away from the table. "They wouldn't understand what was going on. Most of the Senators refuse to speak anything but Ja-di once in chambers. I'd have to have a translator. It would be disruptive."
"It will put a face on an abstract issue, Cerrid."
"What if Acras makes an appearance?" I ask, crossing my arms across my chest. This is a dangerous plan, but Finn has never steered me wrong. He is more clever than I can ever hope to be. If he sees a way to sway the mood of the mod in our favor, whether or not I can see it too is moot.
"He is sure to. As I said, the Ena are gaining in popularity. Even if uninvited, that thug and his followers will make sure to claim a seat." His gaze has gone soft, as it always does when Acras finds his way into a conversation.
"Yes, and if they manage to get inside chambers, I can't have two Andalites in a room with the damn savages!"
"You are so worried for the Eirabalann and their human friends already?" He flicks his ears, looking at me quizzically.
"They are… They are not what we have been taught."
He snorts. "And what is it, exactly, that they are teaching you young people about Eirabalann? or humans, for that matter?"
"That they were--are--weak, stupid, lesser. But, if that were ever true, they have come a long way, Finn. They are not as helpless as we thought."
"Then they should have no problem facing Acras and his vile gang."
I nod, resigned to this unconventional plan, and send for my Communications Officer. Finn and I sit in a comfortable silence while waiting for the fidgety male to appear.
After a few moments, I hear him approaching, battle-trained ears picking up the heavy footfalls easily. I am still occasionally alarmed by how noisy non-combat personnel can be.
"Come in, Ru-Reasach Fiosrach." The use of his proper name will alert him to the presence of an elder. Citizens like Ru, even those working within the military, are often taken aback by the presence of a Senate Elder, and Finnideach is rather famous.
He comes in, the archway flexing open for him, his back straight as a board and eyes held just a little toward the ceiling. He wouldn't dare look a male of such rank in the eye, though I doubt Finn would have cared.
"How are our guests doing?" I ask.
"They, ah, slept for a few hours each, and have been to stavo," he says, swallowing hard. There's the tiniest shake traveling up and down his body. I wonder how long he would have to stand in so near to Finn before he'd faint.
"Ah, they... They are wondering about the fate of their, ah, friend, the injured Prince," he finishes, and I can see that he's trying hard not to pant, breathing heavily through his nose.
"Of course they are," I say, and look to Finn. "The Eirabalann we took of the Yeerk ship," I explain.
"A Prince, no less," Finn states casually, nodding to me and looking amused.
"The Yeerks and the sentient anomaly we recorded ripped him to pieces. You should have seen the condition I found him in, disgusting..."
"Ah, but this is why I stick to politics, Senator Cerrid. I do not wish to ever see such things," he says.
"Senators," Ru says, regaining our attention. He sways on his feet and takes another deep breath. "They, ah, ah, would like to see him if it is possible."
"Give me a moment, and I will get a report from Etain," I say, turning my head away from both males. As the link to my sister opens up, I can hear Finn offering Ru a glass of dearsacch, and though it's a bit muddled now, I swear I hear Ru yelp.
/Etain. I need a report on the status of the Eirabalann./
I can feel her irritation at being interrupted. It seems she's still working.
/The internal and external damage was terrible, Cerrid. If I can get his brain firing again, I have to have the rest of his body in sustainable condition. I've repaired his organs, closed up the major arteries, and we've loaded him with nanites to keep his system functioning artificially until his brain can take over./
She goes silent for a moment, clearing her thoughts as they race between us.
/Sorry about that. Where was I? Oh, right. Thankfully, he got here before his cellular structure deteriorated too much. The lack of oxygen may have created some damage, but I should be able to repair it./
/Well done. I only ask because his friends are concerned, they want to know what is going on./
A flash of embarrassment and contrition flares brightly between us.
/Of course they do! How stupid of me, I should have been sending them regular updates. It's just... It's an Eirabalann, Cerrid. I was distracted and--/
/Believe me, I understand. What can I tell them?/
/The prognosis is good, I think. When we stimulate the parts of the brain responsible for basic functions, they stay lit for a few minutes. I think that, with prolonged, continuous therapy, I can bring him back. I just can't risk doing so until his body can handle it./
/If his friends wanted to come and see him--/
/For what reason?/ she asks.
/I haven't the slightest. They asked if they could, and while I don't see the harm in it, I thought it might be best to get my Chief Medical Officer's consent./
/As long as they stay out of the clean zone, I can't see how it would be a problem./
/Excellent. I'll escort them down myself. It will give me a break from all this nonsense with the Senate./
A spike of concern pulses from her end.
/They're coming down on you pretty hard, then?/
/Not hard enough to break me, I promise. Keep up the good work, Little Genius./
/Of course./
She severs the link and I am left blinking a few times, shaking the feel of her from my head. It's always like this between siblings, especially when they are as close as Etain and I. When someone knows you as well as we know each other, the minds connect more fully and are slow to part.
"Officer Ru-Reasach," I turn to look at him and he almost drops the glass of amber-colored dearsacch from his hand. I give him a moment to compose himself. "Bring the humans to the operating theater on this level. I will meet them outside the entrance wall. Etain is still operating, but she has consented to an audience."
I look away from him, signaling that he should simply leave and do as I have instructed. He practically bolts from the room, bowing low as he passes Finn, nearly tripping in the process.
"Rather nervous fellow," Finn states, once Ru is gone.
"Yes, you seem to have that effect on people," I tease, throwing back what's left in Ru's glass.
"But not you, never you. Even as a child, you stood up to me. What was it you called me the first time we met?" he asks, amusement shining in his eyes.
"An 'incorrigible old fart,' I believe."
He laughs, wiping the corners of his mouth, thinking back to that first day together. "Brat."
He leans back and sighs, knitting his fingers together, letting them fall on his lap. "Cerrid, no matter what happens tonight, I support your decision."
"Because you really agree with me or because you feel obligated to?"
"I trust those senses of yours. You have a keen intuition about people and their motives. I never had that particular gift. I can't say I would have done the same--bringing them aboard the Juy-Il--but," he looks up at the ceiling, "I believe I would have been wrong."
He rises, gathering the blue shift around him.
"Well, I'll leave you to your humans and your Eirabalann. Until the mod, farewell, Senator," he says, and comes around the table to touch brows with me before leaving.
My quarters suddenly feel void of all warmth. The mod looms in my mind like a gathering storm, festering, septic clouds hanging overhead. But, like a storm, I can only brace myself and wait it out. Right now, the alien wards I have brought under my protection are facing a storm of their own; the outcome of which will decide whether or not one of their outfit will return to them or be lost forever.
This is the storm I choose to face first, not because it is any more important than the mod, but because it feels right to be with them at this moment.
Finn is correct, I do feel great concern for them, though I have yet to discern why. Somehow, the 'why' seems unimportant. I have always allowed for a great deal of instinct to drive my decisions, and at the moment, my instincts are telling me to do what I can for them. To protect them, if they need it.
There will be time to wrestle with these thoughts and all that they imply later. It is only a short trip by aibi to the hospital, but I would rather be the one waiting outside the entrance wall than the other way around.
I look at the bottle of dearsacch on the table, tracing a finger along the label.
"Oh, why not?" I ask the empty room, and give in to impulse, allowing myself another glass.
"To friends long since gone," I pour a portion on the floor, knowing the ship will absorb it once I leave the room. "And to those yet found," I toast the room and swallow the contents.
I allow the liquid to settle in my stomach, enjoying the lingering taste on my tongue. Smoke and iron, I think, and I feel a memory bubbling up to my conscious mind, triggered by the taste of the liquor. With a shudder, I remember the last time I had been inside a hospital wing. The scar on my back burns as potent as the dearsacch down my throat, and I block the rest of the recollection before it drags me too deep.
"Damn..." I whisper, before storming out of my quarters, leaving the glass rolling on it's side across the table.
I have no time for this.
I have a surgical theater to get to.
Lyrics: "Gonna Change My Way of Thinking," Bob Dylan.