Eskhara Trent Hergenrader

Trent Hergenrader is a doctoral candidate at the University of Wisconsin‑Milwaukee in English with an emphasis in Creative Writing. His short stories have appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Realms of Fantasy, Weird Tales, Black Static, and other fine places. His stories have received honorable mentions in both The Year’s Best Science Fiction and The Year’s Best Fantasy & Horror. He is also a graduate of the 2004 Clarion Writers Workshop. He lives in Madison, WI.

Hergenrader was inspired to write the story after reading news about the occupation of Baghdad, when U.S. soldiers were faced with waves of attacks by insurgents. “I found the scenario distressing because it was (and is) an impossible situation for our both our troops and the Iraqi citizens who want an end to the fighting,” Hergenrader said. “As a solider in an occupied territory, you are always a target, so how can you reconcile any desire to show the local civilians that you’re not a monster when you’re constantly under threat of attack?”

I walked the perimeter of the firestorm, watching the pale strands of grass curl and blacken, stamping out flare ups even though this alien grass didn’t burn well. You’d never have known it by looking around. I could clearly see where each of the three firebombs detonated, blackening the sandy earth and obliterating all traces of life. Firebombs are synergistically engineered, so a burst of three in a tight circle created a maelstrom of pure fire. In a matter of seconds, an area a few hundred meters across becomes a solid wall of flame, incinerating anything within the perimeter. The superheated fire burns out after a just a few seconds because it consumes all the available fuel in a snap, leaving nothing but a blackened ring of devastation. Firestorms are scary as hell even when you know they’re coming and, believe me, it makes quite an impression on the locals.

The dozen or so seditionists lay scattered like shells on the beach, their armor too weak to repel the flames. One minute they were crouched in the grass executing an ambush, the next they’re drowning in a sea of fire. They never had a chance, given the technological superiority of our weaponry, but they’d chosen to prolong hostilities, viewing us as enemies rather than visitors. Normally, resisters understand the score quickly and learn to work with the Confederation, no matter how much it may sting their pride. But this was a religious faction according to our local guide, Adriassi, and they were courting annihilation.

As our squad’s Xenologist, I submitted daily activity reports back to Confed Command. If the Confed decided to build a refueling hub here, which seemed more likely with each passing week, they wouldn’t tolerate any uprisings. Instead of a sixteen‑soldier exploratory squad, they’d send a battalion of troops to wipe out any perceived threats. Adriassi said he’d passed this message to liaisons for the seditionists, but these pointless ambushes continued during our geologic surveys, and they all ended exactly the same way–with a smoldering black spot in the grass.

“Look sharp, Kiernan,” Rauder said over the com. “There could be more hostiles under cover.” She shouldered her rifle and scanned the field of tall white grass. On the far side of the burned out expanse, Marsten and Finnel squatted near a charred hunk of metal that was all that remained of an armored seditionist. As Marsten rolled the body over, a charred arm broke off in his hand. I looked away.

Regulations require us to inspect fallen combatants for technological components that may have survived the firestorm. Here we weren’t likely to find anything; aggregated Confed data suggested this planet’s tech was a generation‑and‑a‑half behind our own. They were on the verge of some major breakthroughs, like interstellar travel, but they weren’t quite there yet. That put the Confed in a perfect bargaining position, since it meant we could trade technology for some friendly real estate on the planet, which the Confed had designated ES‑248QRT4T.

As ES‑248QRT4T’s primary Xeno, I’m charged with coming up with a suitable name for the place. Some Xenos simply stick with trite standbys with an alphanumeric code tacked on, but there have to be two or three hundred planets with names like “Poseidon XG34T” or, worse, the ones obviously named after girlfriends, kids, or pets. Unlike many of my colleagues, I wanted to distinguish between planets with proper names, even if finding a unique name proved to be difficult. Our translators usually rendered the local names for home planets with words as unpronounceable as the administrative codes, and with the Confed branching out to hundreds of new planets each year, it took time to find a suitable moniker for each new planet.

I approached the body of one of the dead seditionists who had made a run for it just as the firestorm touched down. His momentum had carried him into the grass, and tendrils of black smoke curled up from the scorched husk of his armor. As a Xeno, I’m not required to do survey work with my fireteam, but I couldn’t abide being that kind of soldier. I had no intention of ducking any military responsibility. Of course, that’s easier said than done when you’re about to inspect corpses that have been burned alive inside suits of armor.

I set my rifle down and gripped the seditionist’s ankles when I heard a panting noise and froze. I looked up to see a wild‑eyed, robed figure crouched at the head of the body, his hands inside the helmet’s shattered faceplate. Startled, I stumbled backwards with a shout. In immediate response, there was squawking over the com, a jumble of voices, and a burst of rifle fire. With a small cry, the robed man collapsed back into grass with a rustle.

Rauder sprinted to my side. “Kiernan, what was that? Are you all right?” she said, her voice tinged more with irritation than concern for the hapless Xeno.

“I didn’t see him at first, he was hidden in the grass,” I said catching my breath. “He was standing over the body.”

“Was he armed?” Rauder asked. She still held her rifle at the ready, waiting for the slightest movement in the grass. My viewscreen showed Marsten and Finnel approaching from behind at a run, but no combatants in the field.

“No,” I said regaining my feet. “He wasn’t even wearing any armor.”

Marsten pulled the armored body into the clearing as I lifted the robed man from the grass, whose chest had been caved in by Rauder’s shot, and laid him out beside the seditionist. His dead eyes still had a frantic look to them, and the glossy sheen of his flesh had already begun to fade. I drew his lids shut, then noticed something peculiar. His hair had been shaved into a triangle, one point at his forehead, the other two over his ears. We’d seen plenty of locals on the planet, but none who had fashioned their fine white hair like this.

“What do you make of it?” Finnel said.

“Who cares?” Rauder replied, then asked me, “Who you calling, Kiernan?”

“Adriassi, of course,” I said under my breath, ignoring her exasperated sigh. Invariably, Rauder never liked the cultural contacts I appointed, finding them all to be simpering, fawning twits, and I was sure she felt Adriassi fit that description perfectly. She refused to accept that a Xeno needed someone reliable to help decipher the bewildering maze of local customs for his daily reports. Most contacts, as in Adriassi’s case, turned out to be friendly, intelligent, and helpful. What was more startling than the surface differences between cultures were our basic similarities; it never ceased to amaze me how much humanoid species resembled one another, both in appearance and characteristics. If it hadn’t been for their waxy complexion and long, droopy earlobes, Adriassi’s kind could almost have passed for one of us.

“Kiernan here,” I said as the connection opened. “We encountered something strange. Adriassi, can you help?” I said, remembering the seemingly random rule of local etiquette: during telecommunication conversations one should start each question with a person’s proper name as a sign of respect. I initiated a visual pathway between our armors’ viewscreens, so he could see what I was looking at. He blanched the moment the image of the robed man became clear on his screen, and ran a nervous hand over his bald head.

“Adriassi, who is this?” I continued. “Why does he dress this way, and cut his hair so? I found him near the body of a terminated seditionist.” I turned the corpse’s head down to give Adriassi a good look at the pattern on his skull.

Adriassi stroked his earlobes as he spoke. “He’s a priest,” Adriassi said, “Conducting rituals for the deceased.”

I watched his lips move and there was a lag before his voice came through the com, meaning our translation device was struggling to find cognates between our languages. “Adriassi, what kind of rituals?”

“It’s complicated,” he answered. “As we have discussed, the seditionists have strict beliefs. They think the soul can be trapped in the body after death and left to rot if not properly freed. They believe souls leave through the mouth, so the priest conducts a mouth‑opening ceremony freeing the souls to rise to heaven.”

The lag between his moving mouth and the translation was severe enough to be disorienting, so I shut down the visuals as he spoke. I relayed the information to the rest of the team.

Rauder snorted, then patched into the conversation. “Is that so? Check this out,” she said. Adriassi’s face soured, insulted either by her intrusion or her failure to address him properly. She opened her own visual pathway with Adriassi as she lifted the priest’s body and ripped off the wide hood of his robe.

“Rauder,” Marsten said, sounding tired. “Knock it off.”

“Just doing a little soul catching for Fireteam Bravo,” she said as she dragged the corpse of the armored seditionist away from the group a few paces, then thrust the hood inside its helmet and made as if she were capturing the dead seditionist’s soul inside. Then she twisted the hood shut like it was a sack and held it over her head, waving it at the grassland.

• • •

“She did this how many times?” Adriassi asked, his glassy eyes veering away from mine to scan the front room of the eatery where we sat. He had difficulty relaxing in public, even in his armor. Like him, I’d removed my helmet as a gesture of fostering openness in our conversations; like him, it made me uneasy. Confed armor could repel most of what the seditionists could throw at us, but diagnostics showed that their plasma rifles were strong enough to penetrate our armor’s weak points–the flexjoints at the wrists, elbows, the thinner material under our arms, behind our knees. The armor’s weapons detection sensors would give me enough time to slap on my helmet before an attack, but Adriassi had no WDS in his armor so he would far more vulnerable. I had no doubt that some seditionists were gunning for him specifically because he had chosen to cooperate with us, but regulations prevented me from offering to upgrade a native’s armor or conducting meetings in a Confed‑secured zone. At each of our cultural exchange meetings, he was taking a significant risk. He knew it, and so did I.

Of course, such conditions make the work of filing accurate daily reports difficult, sometimes impossible, and antagonistic behavior like Rauder’s only compounded the problem.

I let out a sigh. “She did it fourteen times, once for each dead seditionist. Do you think her gesture will mean anything to someone watching?”

“Oh, yes,” Adriassi said, shrugging his shoulders, his people’s equivalent of a nod. “It most certainly will. But why would she do such a thing? It certainly cannot help?”

“I can’t explain. Maybe she thinks it will demoralize them, or that they’ll become more reckless in their attacks if they’re angry.” I left out that Rauder’s actions seemed tame compared to some of the atrocities I’d heard about on other planets. The Confed investigates allegations of improper conduct, but with an infinite set of diverse planets and cultures, the circumstances are always extenuating apart from cases of indiscriminate slaughter. Besides, the prosecution would rely heavily on the attendant Xenologist’s reports and I had no desire to stir up a bureaucratic mess that would ultimately lead nowhere. Attempting to explain this to Adriassi would be next to impossible, so I made the best excuses I could.

I waited for the explanation to filter through, as the translator had gotten hung up on the words demoralize and perhaps reckless. The translator parses about eight million known languages in order for us to communicate with the alien species we encounter, cross‑referencing grammar, syntax, and phonology, uploading and downloading lexicons even as we spoke. It handles the structure of languages incredibly well, but it was dicier when it came to semantics, the actual meaning of what we want to say. The more specific a word or phrase, the more difficult it was for the translator to get it right.

Adriassi shrugged slowly, his face thoughtful. “The Marosett, the ones you call seditionists, believe we were four‑footed beasts until the Sky King gave us souls and helped us stand upright. They want their mouths open when they die so their souls can return to their creator.” As he spoke, the translator again turned sluggish, then produced only a single word: “Superstition.”

In an earlier conversation, Adriassi had explained that many of his people believed emigrants from an advanced civilization had terraformed this planet and then destroyed everything from their past, deliberately erasing their origins. Some of Adriassi’s people believed that one day they would unearth a cache of advanced technology; others, including Adriassi, believed that one day their progenitors would return for them. No matter how many times I denied it, Adriassi seemed convinced that our squad was a group of emissaries come to measure his people’s moral progress before inviting them back into the fold. Fundamentalists like the seditionists, however, were convinced they have always been of this planet. They held the earth sacred, even down to the endless fields of tall white grass that had no obvious use.

I didn’t want to dwell on Rauder’s behavior any more, so I changed the subject and questioned him about the major industries on ES‑248QRT4T, all the while trying to think of a more appropriate name for the place. It’s funny how insignificant a planet’s name is while you’re there; you really only need to refer to it after you’ve left.

Adriassi answered my questions, but in a distracted manner, all along keeping his eyes on the street, keeping his eyes open for any would‑be assassins.

• • •

“I see your five and bet fourteen,” Marsten said, clenching a hand‑rolled cigar between his teeth and exhaling pink smoke. He and Rauder sat on one side of a triangular table across from Finnel and Vok, the gorgeous redhead from Fireteam Alpha.

“Fourteen what?” Finnel said with a sigh, picking through the pile of multicolored square bills and oval stone coins on the table. “I can never figure out this alien money.”

“How about fourteen souls?” Rauder said and laughed too loudly as she pointed to the brown sack hanging from her bunk.

I rubbed my eyes and hunkered over the monitor, indexing bits of information Adriassi had relayed over the course of the day, trying to give some logical shape to my report. A wispy, pungent cloud of smoke persisted in the barracks even though I’d turned the filtration system to the max. It was making me lightheaded.

“Can it, Rauder,” Vok said. “You’ve got nothing in that bag but hot air.”

“Not true. I’ve got a nice collection of souls,” she said and blew a smoke ring across the table. “Isn’t that right, Kiernan?”

I pretended not to hear and continued poring over the report, trying to sort Adriassi’s comments and find connections to other conversations we’ve had about religion, economics, and civics. For a planet of less than two million inhabitants, they’d created a remarkably convoluted system of governance. Trying to make sense of how life functioned here was like sorting through a rat’s nest.

“Kiernan, want to fill in for me?” Finnel called. “I’m no good at this game.”

“Always hard at work,” Vok sang at me, batting her lashes. “Get over here, Kiernan and help me. Finnel’s right, he’s terrible. They’re up by thirteen points, but I’ve been letting them win so Rauder will keep sharing her ratleaf. This stuff doesn’t need any translation,” she said and took a drag on her own dainty cigar.

“You’re still at it? File the report already,” Rauder groaned. “Like anyone reads those things. This is a nothing rock in the corner of nowhere. If the Confederation loses its mind and decides to use this planet as a refueling point, we should just move everyone to another planet. No tiptoeing around their precious cultural beliefs, no locals to interview, no need for Xenos.”

Marsten moaned and threw down his cards. “Here we go.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Rauder?” I said, rising to the bait. “Relocate the ones who go peacefully, wipe out the ones that don’t, and move on to the next planet. Of course, you’d keep whatever you find to get you off.”

“An excellent policy,” Rauder said.

“For an ignorant barbarian.”

Rauder pounded the table, making the stone coins jump, and the room went silent.

“I’m so sick of your bullshit, Kiernan. Every planet, it’s the same thing. You gobble up as much as you can about these people, their habits, their histories, pretending you’re doing good work, but that’s not reality. The Confed takes what it can, and tries to prevent things being taken from them. That’s how things work and, from everything we’ve seen over the years, that’s how it works everywhere. None of these people want to be your friend, Kiernan. The only reason locals talk to you is because they’re afraid of what we’ll do if they don’t cooperate.”

“Oversimplifying as always. Adriassi puts his life on the line to tell me these things,” I said. “He wants us to understand, maybe if for no other reason than to prove that his people aren’t just targets on a shooting range. They’re more like us than not, Raud–”

As we went back and forth, Vok crossed the room and caught my elbow. “Come on,” she said, tugging my arm. “Let’s get some air.”

I glowered at Rauder, allowing myself be pulled to the door.

“We always said Bravo acted like a bunch of idiots,” Vok said with a sigh as we leaned against the barracks wall. The breeze played with strands of her hair.

“It’s idiotic, I admit. We do this every few weeks just for kicks.”

Vok held out her tightly rolled ratleaf cigar and I shook my head. She pressed it firmly against my lips, looking at me hard and not smiling. I took a small puff and held it in. The tingle hit my fingers and toes immediately and my tensed muscles relaxed. I took the cigar and took another drag.

“Rauder can be a jerk but she’s not stupid,” Vok said. “I saw you in town with your contact yesterday, helmets off, chatting away. Do you have any idea how dangerous that is? What if the seditionists have some weapons our sensors can’t detect? Or what if they’ve got some long‑range sniper rifle? Blink once and your head’s a red smear, and your folks get some dry communiqué from the Confed sending their deepest regrets. Is that what you want?”

I rolled my eyes. “If they had those weapons, don’t you think we’d have seen them by now? Adriassi and I were in a crowded place having a quiet conversation. Everyone loves mocking Xenos, but these interviews are part of my job. To do them right, you need to drop your guard a little, be willing to open up.”

The ratleaf had me buzzing good. I raised the cigar to Vok’s mouth, brushing my fingers against her lips and she smiled. “To show them that we’re not all monsters,” I said.

“Kiernan,” she said in a low voice, “Believe me, I’m not like Rauder. I think Xenos play an important part of what we do on these planets, I really do. If we can learn something from each of these places we encounter, we’ll all be better for it.”

She placed her hand on my cheek. It’s warm and dry. “For starters,” she breathed, “you could ask your friend if they have any decent pickup lines on this planet.”

We both broke into laughter, our giddiness prolonged by the ratleaf. She patted my shoulder and turned to the door. “Just promise to be careful,” she said.”You know what they say about the road to hell being paved by good intentions.”

“That’s funny,” I said as she opened the door. “The data in the Xennologist database suggests it’s paved with brimstone.”

She rolled her eyes. “You come up with a name for this place yet?”

I smiled and shook my head.

Through the open door, Rauder thundered, “You in or out? The bet stands at fourteen souls.”

• • •

Adriassi ground the orange nut in the palm of his gauntlet and sifted the dust into a bowl, then squirted a blue liquid from a pouch he’d just purchased. The merchant warily eyed Rauder and me, fully armored and with our rifles slung over our shoulders. Then he turned his attention back to Adriassi, who motioned for him to add another powder to the bowl. The concoction quickly congealed and became a lump. Adriassi scooped the doughy mixture from the bowl and offered it to me.

I retracted my faceplate and held it to my nose. It smelled earthy and resembled a chunk of sod.

“You sure that’s okay to eat?” Rauder asked, her voice hesitant.

“Sure,” I said, without much confidence. One of our first activities on new planets is testing a variety of foods in the public market for toxicity and most check out as safe, even if they fail to please our palates. Occasional successes like the ratleaf, however, made experimenting worthwhile. I closed my eyes and took a bite.

“This is fantastic!” I said, working the material in my mouth. “It’s sweet but not overpowering. Smooth and just a little salty. Try it, Raud, you won’t believe it.”

“No thanks,” she said, but again sounded hesitant.

“Great stuff,” I said, still chewing. “Now the flavor’s shifted. It’s deeper, more subtle. Keep this recipe secret, Adriassi. You could trade this stuff to any Confederation personnel who might pass through here in the future.”

“Let me see that,” Rauder said, taking it from my hand and retracting her faceplate.

Adriassi shrugged his shoulders in modesty. “It’s very common,” he said, beaming. “But I’m happy you like it. And you?”

Rauder cast me a glance. “Sure, I’d buy this. I might even send some home. I haven’t tasted anything like it before, and we’re what you’d call well‑traveled.”

“Chalk it up in the win column, Adriassi,” I said, then added quickly as his face twisted in confusion, “That’s just an expression. So, what else can you show us?”

As Rauder’s faceplate shut with an audible hiss, I turned, not able to keep myself from smiling. Before turning in last night, I had submitted my report to Confed Command like always. I indicated that I would be doing field work with my cultural contact the following day and requested a companion escort for safety reasons. I had briefly mentioned my confrontation with Rauder and hoped, perhaps naively, that the CC officer issuing work details would take the hint. I went to sleep praying they would pair me with Vok and woke up to discover they’d assigned Rauder. I’ve become convinced CC does that kind of thing either for laughs or to be deliberately annoying.

Rauder had been even less pleased, but apparently decided to make the most of it, and the morning had passed without any conflict. Rauder hardly spoke as Adriassi led us through the maze of carts, identifying the multicolored foods, medicines, and ornamental crafts as I took samples and conducted material studies. The eyes of the shoppers and merchants followed us, some fearfully, others with curiosity. Rauder’s free hand often strayed to the priest’s hood she wore at her belt, or her “soulbag” as she’d taken to calling it. When Adriassi excused himself to haggle with a merchant, I asked her, “Think someone’s going to steal that off you?”

“What? This?” Rauder asked, again covering the bag with her hand. “No.”

“I notice you keep touching it. Feel a little self‑conscious maybe? Carrying a hateful reminder like that around a peaceful place like this?” I asked, motioning to the shoppers. “Mixing with the locals isn’t so bad, is it?”

“Kiernan–” she started to say, her voice hard, when our WDSs went off in unison, a faint but unmistakable high‑pitched whine, alerting us to the presence of hostiles in close proximity. My faceplate hissed closed as Rauder reported. “We’ve got fifty–no sixty–seditionists closing fast from all sides. Real fast. Marsten, Finnel, report. Fireteam Alpha, check in, we’ve got a situation.”

“Is there a problem?” Adriassi’s stood beside me, his face gaunt and frightened inside his helmet. The seditionists were closing faster than any of their ambushes in the fields, and I tried to think of a way to get Adriassi to safety when it hit me: We were in the center of a sprawling market. Over the com, Marsten and Finnel reported that they would reach our position in under five minutes, but Fireteam Alpha was on the far side of the city. The seditionists would be on us in seconds.

“Would they attack us in this market?” I asked, but Adriassi’s face was blank, uncomprehending. I remembered he couldn’t hear over our communications system and would have no idea what I was talking about. “Would the seditionists attack here, with all these people around?”

Adriassi’s mouth fell open. Rauder had her rifle ready and screamed, “Get to cover!” as the first green plasma bolt shot through the crowd, skipping off the top of her helmet. Then the air was filled with weapons fire from all sides and chaos erupted. Shoppers rebounded off our armored frames, running like crazed animals, trampling the fallen in their attempts to escape the barrage. Stray bolts passed through their limp bodies, which offered no resistance.

Rauder tipped over two carts, forming a bunker, then called to me. Shots careened off my chest and back, each hitting with concussive force, driving the wind from my lungs. Adriassi cried out as a shot tore through his thigh, and on instinct I grabbed him by the collar and flung him to safety behind Rauder’s barricade.

A bolt struck my ankle‑joint and I screamed at the instant, searing pain even as more shots ricocheted off my forearm and shoulder. Our barrier was disintegrating under the hail of fire as Adriassi crouched between us, whimpering. Rauder poked her head out to squeeze off a shot and was rewarded with a half‑dozen blows, one glancing off her helmet and blasting the earth beside the petrified Adriassi.

“Fireteam Bravo,” Rauder shouted into her headset. “Deploy firebombs when you reach our location.”

“You can’t!” I shouted over Adriassi’s head. “There are still civilians in the area, and Adriassi’s armor can’t handle a firestorm. He’ll be burned alive.”

“Launch!” Rauder shouted over the com as a chunk of the barricade exploded and peppered our faceplates.

My eyes fell on the brown bag hanging at Rauder’s side, and without thinking, my hand darted out and grabbed it. “What are you doing?” she shouted as I rose, reaching out and extending the bag out over the edge of our blasted and blackened barrier.

Plasma bolts struck my fist, as I began waving the bag, knocking it down, but I hoisted it high again. A few seconds passed and then the bombardment slowed, and then stopped. Rauder mounted her firebomb on the end of her barrel and hissed, “Are you crazy? Get down.”

I stood up slowly, the bag held aloft over my head. Around me, the market stood in ruins, blackened and smoking, the colorful wares spilled onto the dirt streets amidst the bloody bodies of the fallen. In every direction I saw seditionists, their rifles trained on me, their expressions invisible behind their black faceplates. I opened my hand, showing I held no weapon. Then I exaggerated my motions as I opened the bag and again waved it, pushing my hand through the bottom, turning it inside out. I waved it again then let the breeze carry it from my hand. I amplified a single word–“Free”–and the scorched air fell silent.

The first shot struck the joint at my raised elbow and I shrieked as I my arm hyperextended. A split‑second later, a second shot struck the back of my knee and I toppled, as hundreds of other bolts buffeted my head, back, and chest. I collapsed onto the ground holding my arm in agonizing pain.

“Deploying!” I heard Marsten shout as a bolt struck the side of my head, blurring my vision. Rauder launched her firebomb into the sky even as I cried for her to stop. A chest‑thumping thud reverberated in the air, and with the last of my strength, I pulled Adriassi flat and smothered his body with my own as we heard the second and third firebombs detonating.

The dust swirled in miniature tornadoes as the bombs sucked the oxygen from the air, then a white‑hot bath of flame poured over us. Before the fog of pain enveloped me, I remember the flame finding the seared holes in my armor and scorching my flesh, and my voice joining with Adriassi’s, screaming.

• • •

I write this from an orbital infirmary, far away from planet ES‑248QRT4T. The armor saved my life, but the firestorm branded me with third‑degree burns: thick ropy scars down my arm and leg that will be with me forever. Had the plasma bolts opened a gap at my neck, I would be dead. Rauder’s armor was never breached and she walked away from the assault with only some severe bruising from the force of so many direct hits. They tell me Adriassi survived, albeit as a quadruple amputee. My body covered his head and vital organs but his exposed arms and legs were incinerated in the firestorm. Of course, there’s no way for me to contact him to apologize, to tell him how I wished things hadn’t turned out this way.

During Vok’s visit, she said some trade agreements on the far side of the galaxy had broken down and, as a result, the Confed has decided against using the planet as a refueling hub. The squad was being redeployed to some other far‑off rock somewhere else, and Vok assured me that the replacement Xeno temporarily assigned to my squad is even more annoying than me.

All that remains, however, is the issue of my naming the planet. I have spent a considerable amount of my time laid up in bed researching options and have finally come to a decision. I’ve checked and the name hasn’t yet been registered for any other planet, so applying for naming rights is a formality. Besides, only a few people will ever remember this planet anyway.

Like many words, the one I have chosen has ancient roots, and it has spawned many other words during its continuous, circuitous evolution. Originally it meant the hearth, or the place of the fire; a few thousand years and dozens of permutations later, changing spelling and meaning, it signifies a black mark on the skin, a sign of damage by burning. I have decided that this insignificant place–a nothing rock in the corner of nowhere–deserves a name designating both fire and scars.

It will be named Eskhara, in remembrance of what happened there, the impact we had on those who would be our enemies, and on those who would be our friends.