Seaside

Seaside

         

It was a relatively calm day. The smoke and ash that had filled the skyline the day before had dissipated enough to where the sun of early morning was shining just over the horizon, catching the shimmer of the ocean waves. The beach had been cleared of the previous days fighting, leaving only deep grooves in the light brown surface of the sand. Hours after the cease fire, the beach was almost back to looking as it did when the first set of boots landed on the planet almost six months ago. The soft breeze carried the smell of the sea towards the tree line, with only a mild scent of the battle from the night before. 

         Bishop made his way through the thin trail to the beach, walking slowly to take in the thick trees that made up the forest. They reminded him of the trees near the small town of Elder on the artificial planet of Sawyer. The base of the trees may be slightly wider than those trees, but the bark was of the same color and texture that reminded him of his younger years of his home. The closer he approached the tree line to the beach, the more his hand would find the occasional scorch mark from the various attempts to take the beach from the months before. By the time he had reached the last tree, there was a sizable chunk out of its base, caused by a series of oversized splinters that stuck in the surrounding sand. As he stepped clear of the trees, the breeze caught him, and he took a deep breath. 

         The beach looked different, almost calm, save for the crashing of the waves on the shore. He was familiar with the area, but on this occasion, he was not being shot at by various forms of weaponry, while patching up one of his many patients. It almost seemed out of place, at first, to be here without having to tend to anyone, but the moment passed the closer he got to the shoreline. He stopped just short of the water touching his boots, as he relaxed and took in the scene. 

         The cease fire was almost twelve hours old, but Bishop could not shake the feeling that this one might actually stick. There had been two called before; one almost a month before his squad was assigned to this planet, and the other about six weeks ago. The first talks had simply been a ploy to allow some strategic maneuvering involving an important planet that each side wanted, lasting only a day before the peace talks broke down. He had noticed that many of the soldiers in his squad had begun to show signs of strain with having to fight day after day for reasons that many have begun to question. Hopefully, that will transfer to both sides when they come to the table and, fingers crossed, come to an understanding that would allow all of the soldiers, on both sides, to go home. Somehow, Bishop still held out hope somehow, even as he patched up every soldier, friend, or foe alike, that he would maybe be able to leave the service and go home. While he had the same hope the last time, he crossed his fingers that this time it would stick. 

         As he walked closer to the tide, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Reflexively, his hand fell to his right hip, then he remembered that he had left his firearm back at the base. He smarted at leaving it behind, but his left hand rested on the medical pack slung there. If needed, Bishop knew he had at least had a scalpel in the pack if needed. The figure moved along the shoreline a few feet ahead of him, coming around the burnt-out tree left standing on the beach. Bishop noticed the person walking towards him wore the uniform of a Shuroki soldier, but there was not a weapon slung on his hip or across his back.

         The soldier noticed Bishop a couple steps away from the beach and slowed his pace, raising hands palms out, showing off their lack of weapon. Bishop stopped in his tracks, also raising his hands palms out, mimicking the soldier’s actions. He became very aware of his surroundings, as the soldier walked towards him. The sand was smooth where the water washed over it and then retreated backwards, letting the next wave come forward. That was the only thing nearby: sand and water, with the occasional scorch mark at various points of the beach, the water having not washed the marks away.

         “I’m unarmed,” the soldier said, speaking in Bishop’s language. “I hope I’m saying that right,” he added. 

         “You are,” Bishop answered. “And I am also unarmed.” He motioned to the small medical pack on his hip. “This is all I have on me.”

         “Medical?” the soldier asked.

         “Yes,” Bishop replied, answering in, what he hoped, was the soldier’s language. 

         “You speak my language?” the soldier asked.

         Bishop nodded. “A little here and there.”

         The soldier shook his head, slowly lowering his arms. Bishop followed suit, noticing the small communicator in the small pocket of the soldier’s utility vest. Bishop had one as well, in its usual place he kept it so he wouldn’t lose it when he wasn’t using it. He had never been this close to a Shuroki soldier without a firearm being pointed at him. They were relatively human looking, save for skin that look more like cracked dark leather, than flesh. Most Shuroki’s skin was darker, but this soldier eyes were covered in white from temple to temple. Whether this was cosmetic, or a birthmark, Bishop could not tell. His eyes ran across the rest of his uniform, not noticing anything else that would resemble a weapon. 

         “Taking in the sites?” Bishop asked, lowering his arms down to his sides. “Such as it is,” he added. 

         “Something like that,” the soldier replied, looking around at the surroundings. “In another time, I’m sure it looked pretty here.”

         “Yeah,” Bishop replied. “I’m sure it did.”

         “Medical officer?” the soldier asked. 

         “Yes,” Bishop said. “Medic.” 

         “I’m sorry?” A confused look flashed on his face. 

         “That’s what it is called,” Bishop replied. “Well, that’s what we call it.” He paused, thinking of the word that the soldier would understand. “Mir-Ja.” He hoped that was the right word. 

         “Close enough,” the soldier said, extending their hand. “Ves.” 

         “Bishop.” He took the soldier’s hand and shook it. 

         “Did I do that right?” Ves asked. “I haven’t had much contact with human, and those I have had contact with usually are shooting at me.”

         “Close enough,” Bishop replied. “Get shot at a lot?”

         “More than I would have liked,” Ves said. “But I guess that’s what happens.”

         “Sadly, yes,” Bishop said.

         “Hopefully,” Ves began, “all the shooting is finally over.”

         “I hope so,” Bishop answered, turning to look out at the sea. 

         “Not a fighter?” Ves asked, and then caught himself. “No, I wouldn’t imagine you are, being a Mir-ha.” Ves stressed the last part of the title, giving the correct pronunciation. 

         Bishop mouthed the correct pronunciation and then answered. “Not even close. I only carry a weapon because I have to. If I had my way, I wouldn’t touch them.”

         “I can appreciate that,” Ves said. “When this is all said and done, I doubt I will ever touch one again.”

         Bishop nodded in reply, turning his attention back out to the sea. They both stood silence, listening to the waves crash against the shoreline. The color of the waves was a deep blue, almost deeper than those he was familiar with on Sawyer. He wondered what kind of life was in this ocean, and if there was a cease fire, would he get a chance to possibly take a boat out and take a look. 

         “May I ask you a question?” Ves asked, breaking the silence. 

         “Sure,” Bishop said. “But I will warn you up front, I don’t know much in the way of anything military.”

         “Neither do I,” Ves said. “This is more along the lines of the history of your people.”

         “You have an interest in us humans?”

“History is a, what’s the word?” He paused, thinking. “Interest?” It sounded like a question. 

         “That’s the word,” Bishop smiled. “What’s your people’s word for it?”

         “Kresta.” Ves replied. 

         So,” Bishop said. “What is your question?”

         “Your people were found floating out in space for quite a few years,” Ves started. “Now that your people are part of the Coalition, has anyone thought about finding your home world?” 

         “I’m sure someone has,” Bishop said. “But I think the problem is that a couple of the ships we were in got lost along the way.”

         “I’ve read a little about this,” Ves said. “Three of the Generation Ships were lost? Is that right?”

         “Two ships,” Bishop corrected. “Two of them were lost.”

         “And the information was in one of those ships?”

         “That’s the theory,” Bishop answered. “Since the systems on the ships only hold so much, the information was spread throughout the ships. When the missing two were unaccounted for, the information was lost as well, along with a few odds and ends.”

         “Odds and ends?” Ves looked at him. 

         “Miscellaneous things,” Bishop answered. “More along the lines of historical artifacts from the old world.”

         “Historical artifacts?”

         “As my grandpa use to say,” Bishop replied. “Probably junk that someone could part with.”

         “So,” Ves continued, “the location of your home was on one of those ships?”

         “That’s the theory,” Bishop said. “And maybe one day, somebody will answer it.”

         “Ah,” Ves said.

         “My turn,” Bishop said. “If I may?” 

         “Of course,” Ves replied. 

         “What brings you out here?” Bishop asked. 

         Ves gave the man a quick look of confusion, but corrected himself before answering, the surface of his cracked, leathery skin twitching slightly. At that point in the war, if you could call it that, Bishop had more contact than anyone in his squad, usually providing medical aid to those captured by his squad. While many among his side grumbled about offering aid to the opposing side, Bishop adhered to the code of conduct that the Coalition had in place, especially when it involved two of its member races. The wounded were seen as noncombatants, and if it was discovered that one side violated this rule, the concept of war crimes would then be brought upon all those who violated the rule. 

         “Just taking in the morning air,” Ves said, motioning to the surrounding air. “Such as it is.”

         “Yeah,” Bishop replied. “Air quality will be pretty shaky for the next few hours.”

         “Hopefully the cease fire will become permanent, and the atmospheric scrubbers will be able to do their job.”

         “Hopefully,” Bishop said. 

         “But” Ves continued. “I felt the need to…” He paused, as if trying to find the words. “See something vadin,” He paused again, turning to Bishop. “Pretty.”

         “Ah,” Bishop said, smiling. “Gotcha.” He looked from one end of the beach to the other, taking in the visual of the tide coming in and then retreating. “Funny.”

         “What’s that?” Ves asked. 

         “Vadin is one of the words from your language that I know.” He turned to face Ves. “It’s a thing with me. I try to learn how to say certain words in other languages whenever I can.”

         “Really?” Ves replied. “Interesting practice.”

         “Yeah,” Bishop said. “Some collect trinkets. Some rocks. Metal. I collect words.”

         “I’m curious on how that practice got started.”

         “Oh, that would be my mom,” Bishop said. “She loved languages.”

         “Oh? Teacher?” Ves asked. 

         “Diplomat, actually.” Bishop said. “But eventually became a teacher after she left the diplomatic corp. Taught for several years before she retired for good several years ago.”

         “Both are honorable professions,” Ves said. 

         “Yeah, although I find that some would disagree.” Bishop said. “Mostly politicians.”

         “I find that politicians are normally the farthest from honor that you could be,” Ves paused, leaning slightly towards Bishop. “Although there are a few exceptions.”

         “Very few,” Bishop replied. “But they are some here and there.”

         “Agreed.”

         “So,” Bishop said. “I ask again. Why are you out here?” He motioned to the insignia on the front of Ves’s tactical vest. “I know what that means. What rank you hold, and I have to ask why?”

         Ves looked down at the pin, then back up at Bishop. “Sometimes you have to see the end results of what is going on. Maybe to make sense of what you, as a people, are doing.” Ves looked at Bishop. “And what it could possibly cost.” 

         “I understand,” Bishop said, then paused. “Somewhat. Being just a medic, I can’t imagine the decisions you, as a major, must make every minute of every day.”

         “Maybe, maybe not,” Ves replied. “But I do envy the simplicity of the decisions that you have to make on a constant basis. Not necessarily who to save, but how to save those who come under your care.”

         “Some of my superiors would question the who part,” Bishop said. “But I don’t have the time for that. I am in the business of saving lives.”
He looked at Ves. “Any and all life I can.”

         “Interesting,” Ves replied, meeting Bishop gaze. “I haven’t met very many human soldiers, and most of them have spent the last few months shooting at me, so I have very little experience with your people, but do all share that belief of yours?”

         “Some,” Bishop said. “Sadly, not enough. But you have to keep in mind that I’m a medic, not a carfa. I may carry a weapon, but I would be more comfortable with just my medical pack.”

         “Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure,” Ves said. “I believe you are a warrior, just a different kind of warrior.”

         “Maybe,” Bishop replied. 

         There was a sharp beep from the earpiece stuffed into the collar of Bishop’s vest. With a sigh, he took it and slid it into place around the outside of his ear, the small speaker positioned directly in front of his eardrum. Once in place, Bishop tapped the smooth surface, causing it to beep out of rest mode. As he did so, he noticed Ves placing his right hand up to his own right ear and tapping the earpiece that Bishop assumed rested there. 

         “Bishop,” he said. “Go ahead.”

         “Bishop,” the voice squeaked. “You are hereby recalled to base.”

         “Confirm,” Bishop replied. “Orders? Are we back to…”

         “The campaign is over, private,” The voice said. “The squad is being recalled.”

         “The campaign?” Bishop started.

         “Is over, private,” the voice cut him off. “Return to base. We are leaving.”

         “Yes, ma’am,” Bishop said. “On my way.”

         Bishop tapped the earpiece again, silencing it, and then looked at Ves. The man wore a shocked expression on his face, having pulled his own earpiece out and holding it in his palm. “It’s over,” he said, an expression of shock on his face. “We’re going home.”

         “I guess we are,” Bishop said, equally surprised. “I mean, I’m not upset, but…”

         “More like shocked?” Ves asked. 

         “Yes, quite,” Bishop said. “Did your people give you an idea of how?”

         “Not really,” Ves said. “Just that something has happened that has changed the game, their words.”

         “What does that mean?” Bishop asked. 

         “No idea,” Ves said, opening a pocket on his vest and placing his earpiece inside. “We better get going if we’re going to find out.”

         “Guess so,” Bishop replied, extending his hand. “It was nice to meet you, Major Ves.”

         Ves smiled and took his hand. “Same, Private Bishop. I hope we see each other again sometime. I would prefer peace time.”

         “Same,” Bishop said, shaking his hand. “I would add in civilian life as well, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

         “One thing at a time,” Ves replied, releasing Bishop’s hand. “Well, thank you for sharing this moment with me. Hopefully, it will be the first of many between our two sides.”

         “I hope so,” Bishop said. “Take care, Ves.”

         “You too, Bishop.” Ves replied, bowing slightly. 

         Both stood for a beat, looking at each other before Ves turned and made his way back down the beach, not taking his gaze off the horizon. Bishop watched for a couple of seconds and then turned back towards the tree line and the forest beyond it. After a few steps, Bishop paused and reached into one of the small pockets of his vest. He found the small vial there that he had emptied the day earlier during a much different situation that now felt happened years ago. He popped the small cap to one side of the vial and bent down, scooping up some of the sand from the beach inside. He placed the cap back in place as he rose, placing it back into his pocket as he made his way towards the tree line.