“Ekatya says he was her best chief engineer by far,” Lhyn said. “She hated losing him, even though she couldn’t blame Andira for poaching him.”
“It’s a good thing I did, isn’t it? He and Eroles are the reason she’s getting her ship back.”
“I think she’s gotten over it.” Lhyn smiled at Tal before refocusing on Eroles, who was explaining why the ship couldn’t use its own engines.
Tal paid no attention, having memorized these facts long ago. Her thoughts were on Ekatya and the memories flooding in.
When Salomen brought Ekatya back after that fight, Tal could hardly believe she was sensing the same woman who had stormed out half a hantick earlier. The sizzling anger had vanished, replaced by shame and painful regret. The moment their eyes met, Ekatya was stumbling over her apology. Her tentative movements, as if she were afraid she had broken something irrevocably, had hurt Tal nearly as much as the vicious words before.
Wisely, neither Salomen nor Lhyn let it end there. They had conducted a family meeting, based on the tradition Salomen learned from her parents, and made sure nothing was left unsaid or unacknowledged.
While Tal felt vastly better by its end, Ekatya was not convinced of her forgiveness. Words could only do so much. A Sharing was out of the question, given Tal’s emotional unsteadiness at the time.
Physical reassurance was the obvious answer, yet when Ekatya hesitantly asked, Tal’s yes coincided with Salomen’s I’m not leaving you alone with her.
A guardian’s protective anger was too deep an instinct to be assuaged with apologies. Intellectually, Salomen knew Tal was safe. Emotionally, she could not walk away.
Tal had no solution. Neither did Salomen. Ekatya was devastated by the proof that she had broken a trust.
“Then don’t leave her,” Lhyn suggested. “Stay in the room.”
To Tal’s surprise, Ekatya agreed to the condition.
Joining with one tyree while the other watched would have sent her through the roof on a normal day. On this day, with pregnancy hormones and a deep need for reconnection enhancing her arousal, she went straight to the stratosphere. Ekatya painted her apology on Tal’s skin, love soaking through muscle and tendon to suffuse her bones, while Salomen’s silent presence surrounded her with safety, love, and arousal of a different flavor.
At the end, Tal was left a sated puddle in the center of the bed, incapable of reciprocation or even a coherent word. The last thing she remembered before dropping off to sleep was Salomen’s lips against her temple.
When she woke some time later, Ekatya was watching her with wet eyes and a tremulous smile.
“She left you in my care,” she said.
Six words, Tal thought as Ekatya made an adjustment to her console onscreen. Just six words to describe the most profound change she had ever sensed in an emotional signature, and it happened in the space of one nap.
“What are you thinking?” Salomen asked, caressing her stomach.
Tal caught her hand and lifted it for a kiss.
“Ah. Never mind, I know.” Salomen leaned in to kiss her properly. “You were hotter than a black rock on a summer day,” she whispered.
“It’s the post-battle drive all over again.” Lhyn’s knowing gaze was on them. “You two can’t be apart for longer than ten pipticks.”
“And just think, we have three more pregnancies to look forward to.” Exuding satisfaction, Salomen settled back against the sofa.
Onscreen, the announcers were leading up to the big reveal.
“We’ve seen endless speculation about the ship’s new name,” the first said. “The crafters working on the hull have been notoriously tight-lipped. No one could pull a word from them.”
“I heard that bribes were offered,” the second added. “The betting has been intense.”
“Hope you all have your bets laid down, because we’re about to see for ourselves.” The first held up his reader card. “This file unlocked forty ticks ago, giving us the name and the background behind it. I have to say, it’s a perfect choice.”
“I liked the Caphenon,” said the second. “Once I learned how to pronounce it.”
Lhyn laughed. “I’ve heard that a lot.”
“I was career Fleet and even I had to learn to pronounce it,” Alejandra said.
The vidscreen was now showing the ship from above. The enormous cover stretching over most of its length had sheltered the crafters from the weather and concealed their work from view. Conjecture over what lay beneath it had consumed Alsea for nearly a moon.
“Here is the statement from the Office of the Lancer,” said the first announcer as the cam gradually magnified the view. “Four and one-half cycles ago, the Caphenon gave her life for Alsea. In the course of saving our civilization, this valiant ship ended her dance among the stars and crashed to the ground, wounded beyond repair—or so her creators thought. We have always thought differently.”
“Words for Fahla,” murmured the second.
“The ship we now return to the stars is not the same one that tumbled through our skies on that dark night. She is reborn. She wears a new skin and an Alsean name to celebrate her return to life.
“But what to name a ship with such a storied past and brilliant future? This ship restored our divine tyrees after an absence of one thousand cycles. She saved Blacksun in the Battle of Alsea. She brought us the Savior, chosen by Fahla to end the greatest threat Alsea has ever known. The Templars speak with one voice when they call this ship a vessel of Fahla. And thus, in the end, she named herself.”
The view was now so magnified that the ship filled the screen. Silently, the clamps on the port side scaffolding released their grip on the cover. It fluttered to the hull and was drawn away, the starboard rollers tucking it into a neat cylinder to reveal what had been hidden for so long.
“Goddess above,” Micah said as the artwork came into view.
Tal sat forward, her fingertips tingling with anticipation. Though she had approved the design and known the name for moons now, this was a moment of pure magic.
“Oh my stars,” Lhyn said. “It turned out beautifully.”
The ship’s formerly silver hull was now a gleaming white, reflecting the sun so brightly that it overwhelmed the vidcam’s sensor. The broadcast promptly switched to one positioned at a different angle.
Spread across the entire domed section was a great molwyn tree in the circular, stylized form of a Shield of Alsea. Atop its branches, six stars shone in an arc that stretched from port to starboard. But unlike a true Shield, the star representing Fahla was not sheltered beneath the topmost branches. Instead, it was centered above the six smaller stars, dwarfing them as it pointed the way the ship would go. Above it, following the arc of the bow, was the ship’s name and identity number.
“SC zero zero one,” the announcer said in a reverent voice. “The Seventh Star.”
Neither announcer spoke again, allowing their silence to mark the import of this event.
On the opposite sofa, Alejandra let out a long breath. “I’d never have believed something like that could bring tears to my eyes,” she said, wiping her cheek. “You embedded the truth right into her name.”
“I can finally give credit where it’s due,” Tal said. “Lhyn suggested it. I took her idea to the war council. They had narrowed down the possibilities to a list of five and then argued over them for a solid moon. But when I offered this one, they threw out the shortlist and unanimously agreed. In about six ticks, as I recall.”
Micah gave Lhyn an approving smile. “Well done. I cannot imagine a better name.”
“Thank you. I have to admit I’m a little proud.”
“Be more than just a little proud,” Salomen said, her own pride plain to see.
“Great Mother.” The second announcer finally spoke. “That was worth the wait. For the record, this is the largest Shield of Alsea ever produced, spanning four hundred and twenty-five strides.”
“To put that in a different perspective,” the first said, �
��it’s as long as three and a half city stadiums, end to end.”
“Or fourteen wallball courts,” the second interjected.
“Even more amazing to me is the fact that this is not painted. It’s etched and sealed, to make it robust against micro-abrasions from space travel. I can hardly imagine the labor involved or the sheer technical difficulty of it.”
“Agreed. This is a magnificent artistic accomplishment and a shining credit to the crafter caste. Admiral Serrado, how does it look from your position?”
The view switched to the inside of the shuttle, where Ekatya was surreptitiously drying a hand on her trousers. She turned in her seat to face the vidcam, the ship’s bow filling the window behind her.
“I think it’s one of the most gorgeous sights I’ve ever seen,” she said, a telltale hoarseness in her voice. “I have to admit, it hurt to learn that she wouldn’t keep her original name. The Caphenon will always have a special place in my heart. But it had to be this way. She’s not the same ship. A rebirth should bring a new name with it. And oh, look at her.” She glanced back over her shoulder, then faced forward again with a brilliant smile. “She’ll be the most dazzling ship in the galaxy when we get her in orbit. Prime Crafter Bylwytin,” she added in a stronger tone, “I commend you and your team on this work of art. You’ve created the envy of both the Protectorate and the Confederated Worlds. Prime Builder Eroles? Let’s take her up where she belongs.”
For the next half hantick, Tal watched enthralled as the final preparations were made. The rolled hull cover was removed from the scaffolding, the tens of builders and scholars in the control room verified the readiness of all boosters, the sling tensions were drawn up, and the announcers checked on the ship’s pilot, sitting with her backup on an otherwise empty bridge.
“Not much to do here yet.” Candini ran a hand through her spiky hair. “But I’m activating the displays as soon as we get airborne. This is going to be the view of a lifetime.”
“We’ll be transmitting that view through this broadcast,” the first announcer assured the audience. “Everyone will get the view of a lifetime. First Pilot Tesseron, no offense, but I sincerely hope your presence there is superfluous.”
“So do I,” Tesseron said seriously. “It’ll be a new record. The hardest I ever worked and trained, just to sit on my hands and do nothing.”
“Not quite the same thing as flying a fighter, is it?” asked the second announcer.
“Fahla, no. But there’s a majesty in piloting a Savior-class warship that you won’t find anywhere else. My first time in the pilot’s chair on the Phoenix—whew. Best moment of my life.”
“Hoi,” Candini said in mock indignation. “I thought that was your first flight with me, right after this ship crashed.”
He shrugged. “My standards are higher now.”
Tal laughed along with the announcers. Candini had developed into a leader who could be at ease with her subordinates while commanding their respect. Her promotion to Chief Pilot of the Alsean Fleet Fighter Force—or the AF3, as it had come to be known—had raised no objections despite her species. No Alsean could yet match her for either flight or training skills, though Tesseron was getting close. He was her obvious successor and the clear choice for this mission.
The scene shifted back to the shuttle, where Eroles was checking her reader card. “All preparations are complete. We are ready to launch. Admiral Serrado?”
Ekatya turned around with a questioning look.
“As the Prime Builder, it is my right and privilege to give the order for this launch, the culmination of four and a half cycles of work. I hereby cede that right to you.”
Tal sat up straight.
“You didn’t know she would do that?” Lhyn asked.
“I had no idea.”
Ekatya was clearly shocked. “Prime Builder, I—I don’t know what to say.”
“It was your decision to save Alsea at all costs that resulted in the crash of this ship. It should be your order that sends it back to the stars.”
This was restitution on a global and historical stage. Two and a half cycles earlier, Anjuli Eroles had indirectly revealed Ekatya’s divine tyree status to the Protectorate. Though the error was inadvertent, Ekatya had paid a high price for it.
“Well done, Anjuli,” Tal whispered.
Onscreen, Ekatya lifted a hand. Their palms touched in a private moment viewed by hundreds of millions.
“Thank you, Prime Builder. I accept.” She interlaced their fingers and held her gaze for several pipticks, then let go and turned back to her console. “Moving to the safe zone.”
The broadcast stayed focused on their cockpit, allowing the audience to see through their windshield as Ekatya flew east, then turned in place and hovered. Ahead, the ship and its scaffolding filled their view.
“Launch team,” Ekatya said crisply. “This is Admiral Serrado. Initialize on my mark.”
The view changed to one taken by a vidcam mounted beneath the ship, looking down its length at the bases of eighty scaffolds, the fusion boosters they held, and the forty slings stretched between them.
“Three. Two. One. Mark.”
Eighty fusion engines burst into life, turning the shadowy scene into one of light and roiling air as hot exhaust filled the airspace. They rose as one, slowly clearing their scaffolds.
For a heart-stopping moment, Tal thought the operation had gone wrong. The ship did not budge. Then she remembered what Eroles had said about the slings being unable to reach maximum tension until they bore the full weight of their load.
“There she goes,” one of the announcers breathed.
The broadcast returned to Ekatya’s shuttle. From this angle, it was easier to see the change as the ship rose from its bed of scaffolds. It moved so slowly that Tal clenched her fists, willing it upward.
“All slings at optimal tension and holding steady,” Kameha reported. “The load is balanced and secure. Boosters at optimal positions. Beginning Phase Two.”
Now the ship rose faster, its belly clearing the tops of the scaffolds. At long last, it was fully in the air.
Salomen’s hand covered one of Tal’s fists, urging her to unclench it. Tal seized her hand instead, too tense not to be gripping something.
Onscreen, they were now on the ship’s bridge, where Candini let out an exhilarated whoop. “Look at that!” she cried, pointing down.
The bridge displays were fully active, the central dais appearing to float in the sky. Beneath it, the ground was dropping away.
She and Tesseron grabbed their armrests as the bridge shuddered.
“Booster failure,” Kameha’s voice said calmly. “Number fifty-three. Compensating.”
They were back in the shuttle, where Kameha’s fingers danced over a control board in his lap.
“Shutting down boosters fifty-three and fifty-four. Rebalancing.”
Through the windshield, they saw two boosters drop toward the ground, their sling rippling between them. Small parachutes erupted, slowing their descent.
“No need for alarm,” Eroles said. “We planned for this. There is more than enough redundancy.”
“No more vibrations,” Candini reported.
“Excellent. Admiral, I’d like a visual.”
“Acknowledged.” Ekatya moved the shuttle forward and flew a circuit around the ship as it continued to rise. The view from this close was nothing short of spectacular as they passed booster after booster, all straining under the load but working in smooth harmony.
“Seventy-eight boosters at optimal positions and power loads,” Kameha said. “Altitude two thousand strides.”
“Two thousand!” Tal exclaimed. “Already?”
“Time flies when you’re wetting yourself,” Micah joked.
“That’s the truth and a half,” Lhyn said.
The screen filled with a view directly from the bridge display feed. The scaffolding below already looked like a small thicket of twigs, the bare ground where the ship had been
no more than an oval of brown against the green fields. Steadily, the oval shrank.
Now the broadcast split the scene, leaving the bridge display on one side while the other showed the view from one of the vidcams at the periphery. Ekatya’s shuttle paced the ship upward, tiny in comparison to the behemoth rising through the skies.
Tal’s heart thudded against her ribcage. This was the most dangerous part of the launch: high enough to kill Candini and Tesseron should more boosters fail, low enough to preclude any possible measures to save them or the ship’s integrity.
“They’ll make it,” Salomen said quietly. “You heard Alejandra. Eroles is competence personified, and Kameha is the best.”
“I know.” She forced herself to loosen her grip on Salomen’s hand. “It’s just difficult to sit here and watch someone else take the risk.”
Salomen wrapped her free arm around Tal’s shoulders and pulled her in. Nestled together, they watched the ship rise.
At six thousand strides, the broadcast gave up on the local vidcams, which could not fly high enough to show the ship as anything more than a featureless egg shape. Once again, the audience watched through the ship’s bridge display and the shuttle’s windshield. On the bridge display, Blacksun had come into view in the east.
At ten thousand strides, Blacksun was a toy city, its wheel-and-spoke layout clear to see as it bestrode the junction of two great rivers.
At twenty thousand, Tal began to relax. Should a disaster occur now, Candini had a chance to control the crash, just as she had the first time.
At thirty thousand, she let go of Salomen’s hand and snuggled into her side. The measurements changed to lengths, shrinking the numbers while Alsea shrank beneath the ship. The rate of ascent quickened as gravity lost its hold and the ship’s weight diminished.
Two hundred lengths up, all of Blacksun Basin could be seen, as well as the white peaks of the Snowmount Range, Fahlinor Bay, and half the east coast of Argolis. The Seventh Star was now in low orbit. Should it be necessary, Candini could fire up the engines and take over the ascent with almost zero risk. Still they waited, letting the fusion boosters lift the ship to an altitude that gave them more “wiggle room,” as Ekatya had put it. Even if the engines failed to come up to full power, there would be plenty of time to send a team over from the Phoenix for repairs.
Alsea Rising: The Seventh Star (Chronicles of Alsea Book 10) Page 41
