Organic Mechanic

   Zeerchichi's mind screamed in agony. Her ship, Reacher, was wounded unto death and plummeting planetward. The two minds and bodies were intertwined, and Zeerchichi was overwhelmed at the hurts done to her closest friend, her sentient ship, Reacher. Broken wings flapped and trailed along Reacher's body, bones grinding and twisting. The capsule of water protecting Zeerchichi was cracked wide open, exposing her to the toxic atmosphere. The Poisoner Watership had dealt them a massive blow, sending a chemical propellant missile which exploded close enough for the expanding rod warhead to penetrate Reacher in a dozen places.

How did that filthy poison missle hit us? It followed us!

Reacher, Reacher, talk to me! Don't give up! She held her thigh closed with both hands clenching the long wound.

Reacher's calm thoughts soothed Zeerchichi's panic, as always.

Zeerchichi, do not fear. We struck the Poisoner Watership a serious blow. Yes, my wounds are mortal. No, do not cry for me. I detect a suitable body of fresh water, sufficiently distant from battle and Poisoner habitats. I will land there before I am forced to disassociate. You will be safe there. For a time, you will be safe.

None of the Chereeth understood the violent tenacity with which the Poisoners defended the very planet they were so aggressively destroying. The foundation of Chereeth culture rested upon the liberation of worlds from parasitic infections, which were inimical to flourishing flora and fauna. Chereeth leaders constantly reminded the people of their scared mission to free worlds.

If this world is saved so it can grow and thrive, our sacrifice is worth it.

Zeerchichi suffered one last flash of agony, then impact brought oblivion.

***

Spencer Marshall was broken, inside and out. One last energy bolt from the Invader Aircraft had almost capsized the Destroyer, Defender. Even her new trimaran design and composite alloy structure were barely enough to keep her from sinking. Spencer had been slammed against an equipment console, badly breaking three lower ribs like dry sticks. Oddly, it seemed his ship's skirmish with Invader Aircraft ended the conflict. Or the conflict ended regardless. When the Corpsman released Spence from Sick Bay, all was quiet around the planet. The Invaders all but vanished without a trace except for the destruction they meted out.

That same night, Spence made his painful way up to the weather decks to see the stars and breathe some fresh air.

His broken ribs throbbed on his lower left side. Rubbing an unshaven cheek against the fur collar of a heavy leather flight jacket, he inhaled warm steam from the weighty porcelain cup of strong Navy coffee. The moonless night was clear and cold. Breath mingled with fragrant steam. Rocking side-to-side, the aluminum alloy deck creaked as he flexed his knees, automatically after long years of practice, keeping himself and the cup level. Skeletal masts and rigging arced back and forth across the blazing star field, like an upside-down pendulum. So far out to sea and away from any ambient light, the stars shone in painful brightness, casting ghostly shadows across the grey deck and bulkheads. Salt dust blew in the breeze, sparkling in the pure light, like a floating current of diamonds dancing about against the grey background. Green bioluminescence stirred to life by the ship's passage, left a phantom trail in the obsidian blackness of moving water.

So quiet. Spence loved the open air of the night when the rest of the crew hunkered down, warm inside. As he looked about, the starlight revealed scorched holes and buckled bulkheads. The final battle had been a hard one and hard-won — so many dead. Turning his mind away from the visual of the last funeral, a dozen more shrouded bodies committed to the deep, Spence tried to look ahead to shore leave. Would she still be waiting? Emission Control (EMCON) and Operational Security (OPSEC) forbade crew communication with loved ones. It was another painful thorn in every crewmember's flesh. To be heard is to be seen, to be seen is to be targeted, to be targeted is to die. He knew the mantra by heart.