Slate

Of course, as soon as Ellie was conscious and competent, she had delivered a full verbal report to Slate. It had taken more than forty-two hours for her to come back to reality, not that Slate had been watching every minute pass.

He had been hovering about outside the ward like a pest when the nurses finally granted him entrance. Ellie was tucked into the furthest corner, propped up on thin pillows with arms laid flat at her sides. It sickened him to see her so weak. Her skin was discoloured from its usual pinky-beige, leaving her almost grey. Her hair was dishevelled, her eyes half-lidded, and her limbs moved like they were made of wood. Slow and creaky.

He dropped into the seat at her side after drawing the flimsy curtain around them. His Major was on-duty instantly at his presence. She knew exactly why he was there, what he needed from her. They did not make small talk; although, Slate wanted to ask how she felt, whether she was being well taken care of on the ward. Ellie was all business. She relayed the events from the moment they left The Sentinel until her last memory of shoving the final officer aboard their transport ship and then the floor rushing to her face as she collapsed. Slate took notes on his hand-held computer as she spoke.

There was an itch, though. A twist in his gut. That something had been edited or left unaccounted for. She had not mentioned Forest, but it could easily be that she was simply not aware that he had not made it back to the transport ship.

Slate trusted Ellie; she was his kind of person. He had come to know her as being concise and not one for pre-amble or ramble. Perhaps it was her story-telling method, her descriptions short and her tone blunt. He still wanted her to join his Ailu’t crew after the trial was over, so he pushed the feeling away.

If she had something to tell him that was of interest to their mission, she would not hesitate to say so.

He returned to his office on heavy legs. Conflict pulled within him, twisting his emotions around each other.

He had mere minutes to himself before someone was requesting access. He accepted the request, and the door slid aside to reveal Dr Bonnie teetering in the corridor outside. There was a moment of hesitation, as though her body required manual puppeteering to force it through the doorway. As she made her way to his desk, Slate got a clearer and clearer view of her state with every step.

It horrified him. Doctor Bonnie was a woman of restrained intelligence and quiet strength. And an unstoppable chatter creator. Her ability to talk and fill a room with senseless noise knew no bounds. Here she stumbled towards him silently on unstable legs, clothes dishevelled, braids half tied up into a twist that was slowly unravelling itself. The soft skin of her face was swollen, and the whites of her eyes were streaked with red.

Slate rose from his seat and approached, removing at least part of the distance for her to hobble.

“Slate,” Bonnie whispered. He leant in to hear her more clearly.

She was exhausted, swaying on her feet before him. His body moved before his mind could process his next action. His hands took her by the waist and upper arm and pulled her close, steadying her against him. Dainty and drained, she allowed him to support her weight. She lifted her head feebly as though it weighed twice as much as the rest of her body.

Her almost-black eyes drew him in, searching for the small flashes of brown that peeked out when the light hit her irises just right. Her adorable round nose was so close he could almost bump it with his own. Their lips fell together. Gentle and slow, he kissed her with fear she might crumble in his arms. Instead, she melted. He cradled her liquidised form against him, groaning into her mouth when her tiny fingertips dug into his shoulders.

When his eyes had slipped shut, he didn’t know, but he pried them open and pulled his face back. Bonnie’s lashes fluttered as she opened her own.

Their loud breaths filled the small space between them.

“I- I have to tell you something,” Bonnie spluttered. “I came here to tell you.”

Slate frowned but said nothing. He was apprehensive of her next words. Bonnie peeled herself from his embrace to deliver her news.

She clasped her hands over her stomach before saying solemnly, “There’s been another death.”

Slate sighed, squeezing his eyes shut.

“A suicide.”

His eyes snapped back open. “What?” he seethed.

“Legacy, the officer I signed off for mental health leave.”

Slate was well aware of who Legacy was. The duty shirker who was supposed to be on the mission with his partner Forest. There wasn’t an ounce of honour between the pair of them. One a diplomat’s plaything and the other a coward.

“Why would he do something like that?” he asked, partly voicing the question aloud to himself.

“Guilt, possibly,” she murmured. “Perhaps he felt if he had been there on the mission, he could have helped in some way.”

“Killing himself has helped no one,” Slate growled. “It’s the most selfish act he could have taken.”

Bonnie stepped back, her small frame shaking. “How dare you!” she snapped. “For someone to take their own life, they have to reach a point where they genuinely believe there is no hope for them or their future. They feel worthless and tired and-”

“And isn’t that your job?” Slate questioned abruptly. “To make them feel special and pander to their sad spells?”

Bonnie’s beautiful eyes shimmered with tears, and Slate felt a painful grip twist his stomach.

“I apologise,” he said quietly.

Bonnie did not respond. She stepped back and turned away with hurried steps. Not before he had seen the tears streaming down her already-puffy face.

When the door slid closed after her, Slate grabbed the nearest item from his desk and launched it at the wall, shattering his home clock. It had proudly displayed the current time in his home country on his desk since The Sentinel had launched into the skies. Now the numbers were permanently halted.