Alsea Rising: The Seventh Star (Chronicles of Alsea Book 10)

by Fletcher DeLancey

  “No, I can’t,” she managed. “There’s too much to do here, setting up the new fleet. But I thank you for the offer.”

  “Of course,” he said briskly. “I anticipated that and sent the authorization to Ambassador Solvassen’s office. We’ll hold the ceremony by quantum com. Expect correspondence from the Office of the President establishing a date and time.”

  “Yes, Director.”

  He gave her a nod in lieu of a goodbye, and the virtual screen went transparent.

  “My sainted Shippers,” Dr. Wells said. “The Medal of Galactic Service?”

  “I’m as surprised as you are.” A slow smile lit Serrado’s face as she looked at the seething admiral. “Though I did tell you I’d be going out on top.”

  “Don’t do what you’re thinking.” Commander Cox caught Greve by the arm. “I’ve heard what happens when Captain Serrado defends herself. Much as I’d enjoy seeing it firsthand, our chief surgeon is leaving the ship. You’d be getting patched up by her assistants.”

  “My staff is extremely capable, thank you,” Dr. Wells said. “They’re up to the task.”

  “I’d rather not get my hands dirty. Get him out of here. Commander, stay a moment.” Captain Serrado watched with fierce triumph as the security officers marched Greve away. Not until the lift doors closed did she turn back. “I’ve been waiting four days to ask you this question. The cams that stopped recording—”

  “It wasn’t me.” Cox hesitated. “Well, a tiny part of it was.”

  “I’m all ears. Dr. Wells and First Guard Sayana know the full circumstances and are cleared for this conversation.”

  “I’m all ears, too,” Dr. Wells put in.

  He glanced at them with a calculating shift in his emotional signature. “That explains where the sedative came from. And the training in how to use a Gaian injector.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Dr. Wells said. “We were discussing security cams?”

  Rahel put on her best innocent look.

  “Work on that,” he advised her before meeting Serrado’s expectant gaze. “What I told Admiral Greve was ninety percent true.”

  “An excellent lie, then. What was the ten percent?”

  “The bridge cams didn’t cut out when I said they did. You spoke with someone named Salomen, who I assume is Bondlancer Opah, and said you needed the seventh star. There was a bit of conversation about logistical details, and then a light flare overloaded the sensors.”

  She stared at him in wonderment. “You altered the records to protect me.”

  “Greve was on the rampage. I didn’t see the need to give him ammunition. Nothing you said to Bondlancer Opah endangered this ship, its crew, or the interests of the Protectorate. In fact, I suspect it was just the opposite, though I have no proof.”

  “I’m afraid you won’t get any.” She held out a hand. “Thank you, Commander. I’m deeply grateful for your support. More than I have words to express.”

  He shook her hand firmly. “Serving with you has been a pleasure, Captain. I hope you’ll keep me on for the next Alsean cycle.”

  “Count on it.”

  “The next cycle?” Rahel looked up at Dr. Wells, who shrugged. They were equally in the dark.

  Captain Serrado gestured toward the lowered shuttle ramp. “I’ll tell you on the way. It’s a Hades of a story.”

  29

  Coming home

  “I cannot believe they’re finally coming home.” Salomen shaded her eyes, looking into the sky for the first sign of the shuttle.

  “It’s been a long fight.” Tal was focused not on the sky but on her bondmate, who wore a summer dress that bared her arms and shoulders. It offered plenty of tanned skin for the touch and a tantalizing glimpse of chest ridges and cleavage that taxed her self-control. Given the number of journalists waiting with them on the bricks of the landing pad, she could not afford to be caught with her eyes in the wrong location.

  In another time and place, the Lancer ogling her Bondlancer would enhance both their reputations, but this was a serious event. Other than Vellmar, there was no Alsean more famously associated with their dazzling victory than Rahel Sayana. That she had been injured so grievously while saving the planet from a bioforce missile endeared her further. Her return was global news.

  Her confinement, on the other hand, was a state secret. Tal would have shouted it from the front steps of the State House, but the Protectorate was embarrassed by Admiral Greve’s battle-losing opening gambit and the fact that Rahel had removed him so easily. Alsean silence on the matter had been a useful tile to play during negotiations.

  Salomen wrapped an arm around her shoulders and squeezed. “I’m proud of you.”

  “I’m a little proud of myself.”

  Laughter rumbled through her chest. “You deserve to be. You performed a miracle.”

  “The miracle was yours. I merely hammered out a new interplanetary agreement.”

  “Tyrina.” Salomen turned, taking her by the shoulders to rest their foreheads together. “These journalists may not know what you did, but I do. So do Ekatya and Lhyn. Miracles are not only the province of the divine.”

  In her peripheral vision, Tal saw several vidcams hovering nearby to record the moment. At least she wasn’t looking down Salomen’s neckline.

  “I love you,” she whispered. “You inspire me to do the miraculous.”

  In answer, Salomen kissed her forehead, a gentle confirmation of their bond.

  Since the battle, they had barely been able to be in the same room without touching. Something about that intense, high-powered Sharing had heightened their need for each other, an effect reported by the other divine tyrees as well. Healer Wellernal speculated that it would lessen with time, but so far it showed no signs of abating.

  Lhyn had suffered quietly, having the same need with no means of relieving it. Tal and Salomen did what they could to help, but there was only one solution.

  “There it is!” someone cried.

  And that solution was here, Tal thought.

  Anticipation increased her heart rate as the shuttle soared over the dome of the healing center. Even her breathing was affected while she watched it settle onto the landing pad and spin down its engines. The ramp lowered, and she joined the journalists and Guards in their exuberant applause when Alejandra Wells pushed Rahel out in the mobile chair.

  Ekatya appeared in the doorway, tracking their progress, then looked over the heads of the journalists and straight into Tal’s eyes. Her smile was radiant.

  “She looks ten cycles younger,” Salomen said quietly.

  “She’ll look fifteen cycles younger by tomorrow morning.”

  They held hands and watched Rahel answer questions, a cycle’s worth of experience showing in the confident way she handled them. Ekatya was soon pulled in, as was Alejandra, and the planned five-tick event became ten. Then Rahel stood up from her chair, drawing a new round of applause.

  “I’d like to say one thing,” she announced in a clear voice. “I caught that missile, yes, but I only worked the grappler. First Pilot Candini is the one who made it possible. I don’t think any other pilot, Alsean or Fleet, could have done what she did. And then she saved my life. If she’s watching this, I have a message for her.” She paused, allowing an expectant silence to fall. “Nightwing, you’re still a wonderful friend and I’m still not putting spikes in my hair. But I am getting that tattoo.”

  “Oh, well done,” Tal murmured as the journalists laughed. She felt an inordinate pride in this warrior, who had come so far and accomplished so much.

  Still holding Salomen’s hand, she stepped forward to offer formal greetings and a few words meant for public consumption. Salomen welcomed her sworn warrior home with a double palm touch—an act that floored Rahel and sent the vidcams into a momentary whirl—and Tal ended the event with a declaration that Rahel had family waiting inside.

  While the Guards formed a protective rank around them, Alejandra ordered Rah
el back into the chair and began pushing her toward the healing center doors.

  “You have family waiting inside, too,” Tal told Ekatya as they followed.

  “My heart’s about to leap out of my chest.” She rubbed the body part in question. “But the ache is gone. I knew she was here before I landed the shuttle.”

  “She’s missed you desperately,” Salomen said. “She puts a brave face on it, though I don’t understand why. She knows it hides nothing.”

  “It will take more than a cycle and a half of living here to overcome a lifetime of cultural training. Our instinct is always to hide our vulnerabilities.”

  “It’s clear you’re her bondmate,” Tal teased. “That sounded just like her.”

  The comment bounced off. “Hopefully, it’s only the best bits that are contagious.”

  “Are you implying she has any bits that aren’t the best?” Salomen asked.

  That tease also failed when Ekatya caught sight of the crowd visible through the healing center doors. Alejandra pushed Rahel over the threshold to a new round of applause, complete with whistles and foot stomps from Vellmar and Candini. The waiting people surged forward, leaving one individual behind.

  Lhyn stood still, her eyes locked to Ekatya’s.

  For her part, Ekatya didn’t seem to notice anyone else in the spacious lobby. She walked as if in a daze, skirting around the edge of the crowd and dodging bodies without ever breaking her focus.

  “Mother! Sharro!” Rahel cried, standing up from her chair in time to be enveloped in a taboo-breaking warmron with both women. They laughed and cried, profound relief and love broadcast for all to sense. Salomen brushed a knuckle beneath one eye, and Tal wanted to absorb the beauty of a reunion she had enabled through endless hanticks of high-risk politics.

  But she could spare them only a glance, her attention drawn by Lhyn’s sudden movement. Ekatya sped up at the same time, and they met behind the crowd in a silent explosion of joy that had every Alsean in the room turning to look.

  Lhyn lifted Ekatya right off her feet, then set her down and wrapped her in a warmron so tight that the wing of a fairy fly would not have fit between them. Her eyes were closed and her face wreathed in a beatific smile, while Ekatya had her nose tucked into Lhyn’s throat and looked as if she would never move again.

  A squeal shattered the quiet.

  Lanaril shifted the bundle in her arms with a delighted grin. “You felt that, didn’t you, Periso? Your senses might not be developed, but you know love. Yes, you do!”

  Rahel held out her hands and twitched her fingers. “Give him to me. I haven’t seen my little brother in too long.”

  “Rahel Sayana, I did not raise you in a mud puddle. Show some manners,” Ravenel scolded.

  “Especially to the Lead Templar,” Sharro added. “Who graciously agreed to hold our wiggly child so we could give you a proper greeting.”

  “Give him to me, please. O great and wondrous Lead Templar.”

  Laughing, Lanaril handed over her charge.

  Rahel settled him in one arm and offered a finger for his tiny hand to wrap around. “Hoi, Little Mouse, well met! I missed you and your sweet baby scent.”

  “You’re fortunate he’s smelling sweet for you,” Sharro said. “He wasn’t five ticks ago.”

  “Did you drop weight for the big event?” She pulled him closer, rubbing her nose on his still-smooth forehead and making him burble with glee. “You might be a warrior after all.”

  Vellmar groaned. “Now you’re giving warriors a bad name.”

  “You don’t all evacuate your bowels before important moments?” Salomen asked innocently.

  Lhyn’s voice rose above the laughter. “See what I mean? You never think things like that are going to come out of her mouth.”

  “I don’t know why; you’ve known me long enough.”

  “No, we really haven’t.” Ekatya was still wrapped in Lhyn’s arms, her eyes sparkling as she smiled at them. “But we plan to.”

  30

  A toast

  “Battles end; bureaucracy is forever” was an old Fleet saying that Ekatya had never understood quite like she did now.

  The preparations for a battle were nothing compared to those for decommissioning a ship. A printed list of the logs, reports, images, and other files being sent to Command Dome for historical conservation would surely reach from the Phoenix’s nose to its tail.

  Every piece of artwork had to be taken down and packaged for shipment, meaning she could not walk down a corridor without tripping over another crew member carefully prying tile art from the bulkhead. She had personally boxed up the ship’s bell from her office and the builder and commissioning plaques from the bridge.

  Commander Zeppy had a team packing up the official plaques and insignia throughout the ship. More teams swarmed the corridors removing every Fleet identifier from bulkheads, doors, offices, and public spaces. Officers and crew in every section were looking for any other object that could be considered an integral part of the Phoenix’s short history and tradition, each of which required an explanation of its significance in writing. Her section chiefs vetted the selected objects and sent their reports to her for approval.

  She had been reading many, many reports about many, many objects.

  Because this was a handover as well as a decommissioning, all ship’s systems had to be in top working order and signed off by the appropriate section chief. Every file not necessary to the running of the ship had to be pulled from the ship’s computer. All ship’s stores not included in the handover were being packed up. Every time she turned around, something else needed to be done.

  On top of everything else, she was writing her final Command Operations Report covering the year to date. Given that this time period included the biggest battle of her career, her report contained a staggering amount of detail.

  Having never yet met a pile of work she couldn’t add to, she was also dealing with her relinquishment of command, retirement, award acceptance speech, and induction into the warrior caste. She was hopping from the moment she woke each morning until her eyes slammed shut at night, secure in the comfort of Lhyn’s arms.

  She had never been so happy.

  The isolation that had haunted her since Admiral Greve’s arrival was gone, replaced by Lhyn’s company and the camaraderie of a crew working toward a common goal. There were still those who didn’t know how to act around her, but she had been accustomed to that since making captain. Awe of rank and awe of possible divinity didn’t differ all that much, she found. What made the difference were the walls that had fallen around her. Each time she spoke openly to an officer, crew member, or friend, she rejoiced anew in her freedom. Only now did she fully understand how caged she had been.

  And yet, her cage had been virtual. Lhyn spent every day aboard one or another of the Voloth ships, working with slaves and some hangers, and returned to the Phoenix each evening with tales of cages that were all too real. The Alsean Council had asked for her expertise to help sort out the hundreds of requests for asylum, work, or repatriation. It was difficult but rewarding labor, and Lhyn buried herself in it.

  All of that dropped away when they came together at night. Though Andira and Salomen had told them what to expect, they were still startled by the ongoing level of need.

  “I don’t think Alsean dartflies have this much sex,” Lhyn mumbled into her neck one night, still breathing hard from her exertions.

  “I don’t think I like your comparison.” Ekatya lifted a weak arm to rest it on Lhyn’s bare back. “Doesn’t the female dartfly eat her mate before laying eggs?”

  “Well, yes. But only after she’s joined with him for twenty hanticks straight.”

  Ekatya chuckled, remembering their explosive reunion in the State House. “We did beat that time, didn’t we? If you don’t count the sleep and food breaks.”

  “Food breaks we only had because Salomen made sure we were fed.” Lhyn kissed her throat, then slid off to collapse in a
heap beside her. “At least we’re down to an hour now. This was practically a quickie.”

  “If only my crew knew your definition of a quickie. They’d be convinced of my divinity then.”

  “That’s what it takes to convince them? I should have known. And here I thought it would be the way you took down Greve.”

  With some effort, Ekatya rolled over and snuggled in. “Not if they knew the truth.”

  What the crew did know was that Greve had been whisked off the ship in disgrace. Shocking disgrace, in fact, for no one could recall another instance in Fleet history when an admiral had spent time in a ship’s brig.

  “How did you manage that?” Andira asked during one of their too-rare quantum com chats. They had both been running ragged since the battle, though Ekatya thought she might have it easier. She only had to deal with one ship; Andira was handling five.

  “I didn’t,” she said. “It never occurred to me to ask for brig time. All I wanted was to get him out of Fleet. But I think you’re right about Sholokhov having a special regard for me. Those files Greve was keeping? One of them was a recording from before Commander Cox bought me that black market scanner. Before I found and destroyed the illegal cams in my quarters.” The cams they now knew were installed by Greve’s adjutant, thereby earning his own court-martial.

  “No! Tell me he didn’t. In your bedroom?”

  “Thank all the stars, no. In the main room. But I had gotten ready for a shower and decided I wanted a cup of that spiced tea Salomen gave me, the one that takes a tentick to steep. I figured I’d start it steeping before my shower. I didn’t bother putting on a robe to go out to the kitchen. Cox said the access log for that file was in the triple digits.”