by Drew Avera
Ilium shook his head. “No, I don’t want what happened here to become a fleetwide scandal.”
“So, it contains some seedy information about the past?” Stavis leaned closer as she whispered her question.
“I dispelled everything,” he replied. Her smile straightened and he knew her concern was for the future, as was his.
“I can send it on your private channel.”
Ilium handed her the recorder, taking her hand when she grabbed it. “Keep this between us. I don’t want speculation to run wild on this ship. Once we see where everything falls, then I’ll make a decision on informing the crew.”
“Yes, sir,” she replied, taking the recorder and moving over to his chair and plugging the device in to upload the file. Her fingers combed over the screen as he watched. He had given her all of his passcodes, at least the ones that would allow her to act on his behalf in moments such as this.
The thing about Stavis he liked most was that she had the integrity to do the right thing. The risk of giving her access felt more like a security blanket.
“Done,” she said, rising from the chair and handing the device back to him. He took it, holding her hand in his for a moment as they looked into each other’s eyes. It was the only touch between them that could be innocent enough to not stir whispers. “It will take a while for the message to be delivered from this far out, but it is encrypted so no one will be able to read it should their transmitters be used as a satellite.”
“Thank you. Now, I suppose I should tour the ship and see what kind of damage is done that we haven’t heard about yet.”
“Do you want me to accompany you?” Her eyes peered into his longingly. He was caught in her gaze and didn’t want to be released. But the burden of duty and responsibility tightened around him. He knew he had to break away, to do what was right instead of what felt right.
“I do, but I think you’re needed here.” Ilium gestured towards the bustling bodies as they worked to restore the ship to full functionality.
Stavis nodded. “Meet up with you later?”
“Absolutely. That’s the part I look forward to most.” She looked down at her hand still on his and let go. It felt like cutting a piece of himself off.
Ilium watched Stavis return to her duties before he turned and left the bridge as dread filled his heart for the contents of the message she sent to Headquarters. She hid her concern much better than him. Once the fleet knew of his past, what was to keep them from doing what Haranger failed to do? That was the question that gave his heart pause.
With nothing he could do about what the future held, he focused on the present and most important thing; restoring the ship and keeping his crew alive.
27
Crase
The rickety ship groaned as it was devoured by Key Omos. Despite slowing the Eruga to a crawl, the feeling that a large circular peg was trying to fit in a smaller square hole came to mind. “Was the data on this Key incorrect?” Crase asked, scouring through the paper charts he found buried in a drawer on the bridge.
“I’ve never used this one, so I’m not sure,” Esma replied, his voice dripping with worry. “This is why I hate flying in the dark.”
Crase smirked, taking satisfaction in Haranger’s errand-boy being so uncomfortable. “If the hull cracks under the pressure then you won’t have to worry about that anymore,” he said, resisting the temptation to embellish further.
“I really don’t need to hear that right now.”
“Come on, death is a part of life. You can’t live if you’re afraid to die.”
“And you’re not afraid of death?” Esma asked skeptically.
Crase sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’ve been close so many times that I’m thoroughly convinced death doesn’t want me.”
“That’s bold talk coming from a man close enough to dying to taste it. What would the gods think of your arrogance?”
Crase folded the charts and placed them back in the drawer. “I think the gods would see their equal if they existed.”
Esma slumped back in his seat as another report of compressing steel popped along the ship’s hull. The dual-hull design would protect them, for now, but it was anyone’s guess how much more pressure it could take. “I’m not keen on blasphemy.”
Crase laughed heartily, holding onto his side to keep the cramping at bay. “Really? You work for one of the most menacing people in our galaxy, a man who sits in the middle of a war annihilating billions of people, and you have a problem with someone expressing a disbelief in the gods? You do realize there was more than a million religions in our part of the universe before the war started, don’t you?”
“Those were false gods, otherwise they would have been protected,” Esma shot back.
Crase stopped laughing then. Peering down his nose at the other man, the sinking feeling of being around a crackpot was more unsettling that being in the presence of Haranger himself. “You can’t believe that.”
“Can’t I?” Esma shot back against the backdrop of Key Omos bearing down on them.
Crase fell back into his seat and pulled the harness over his shoulders. “You have a deluded sense of reality if you think deities capable of existing would choose to only reveal themselves to the Greshians and condemn the rest of the galaxy. It isn’t logical.”
“How much about our past’s belief systems contain logic, but reveal the truth nonetheless?”
To Crase, none of it, but he knew where the argument would go from here and chose to let it die, like his faith had.
Like an answered prayer, Key Omos released the Eruga from its snare, transporting the craft and its crew to their final sector. “I told you there was nothing to worry about,” Crase said as he unstrapped his harnesses and rose from his seat. On the monitor he peered at the scattered dots. From this distance it was hard tell them apart, but as he ran his finger along the screen, their names appeared. On the farthest reaches of the sector sat the Pilatian system, named for a planet that no longer existed. Crase smiled at the irony of the ship beneath his feet returning home.
“How much longer?” Esma asked.
“Two days to build up speed, four before we have to decelerate, and another two before we reach orbit.”
“It feels like I’ve been in this tin can for a month.”
Crase looked at the date set to Greshian Prime time. “That’s because we have, more or less. Do you wish you sat this one out?”
Esma didn’t answer. “I’m not picking up any Greshian Fleet ships in this sector.”
“That’s a good thing, trust me.”
“If things go south, then it would be nice to have some backup.”
Crase rolled his eyes. “This isn’t a Greshian mission, there is no backup, things will not go south.”
“How can you be sure? It’s not like you took back your ship the last time.” Esma taunting tone made Crase want to turn on the man and choke the life out of him. He sucked in a deep breath and fought to ignore the urge. “At least this time you have a full crew. We can move in and kill them all.”
“Now you’re talking,” Crase said, his eyes focusing on the tiny dot representing Pila. It was nothing more than a terraformed space station with an artificial atmosphere. He’d seen images of it years ago and from the ground it looked like any other planet, but from orbit it looked like a wedge. He never thought he would step foot on a world like that, yet here he was, on the verge of conquering new territory in the name of revenge.
“You never said what it was about that ship that has you relentlessly going after it. You have access to many suitable vessels for your needs.”
Crase shrugged. “Some things are a matter of principle.”
“I think you’re lying. Principles from a man with your history don’t mean much,” Esma replied, his voice much calmer after exiting Key Omos.
“The Replicade is the most advanced warship I’ve had in my possession. It can be piloted solely with AI and is equipped to take o
n some of the most advanced ships in the galaxy. I invested millions into repairing it so I could disappear into the dark without worrying about my enemies finding me. Does that answer your question?”
“All but one, is it capable of taking out a Greshian planet-killer?” Esma’s question was so specific that it took Crase a moment to realize he was standing there, looking dumb with his jaw slack.
“Potentially. Why do you ask?”
Esma leaned back in his seat with a satisfied look on his face. “No reason.”
Crase knew the man was lying, though he wasn’t looking forward to finding out the reason why.
One thing at a time, he told himself.
One thing at a time.
28
Gen-Taiku
“I think you know what to do,” General Nara said, his arms crossed over his chest and a scowl on his face. The Pilatian man had seen Pila in her glory days and in her moments of terror and Gen couldn’t help but wonder if he was willing to take them back to those dark times to make his point. Brendle’s explanation for his position wasn’t acceptable but was at least understood. General Nara’s, on the other hand, now seemed more ridiculous.
Of course, she felt she had a friend on board now and knowing the person she would be killing made the task seem harsher.
“Yes sir, I do, but I think we can reason with them,” Gen said, hoping to stall the inevitable as he stared down at her.
“You can’t reason with a Greshian, otherwise we would not be living underground. I hate to break the truth to you, but they will deceive you and kill you with their next breath. Do what I ordered or I will send someone else.”
Her eyes darted to Tushia, seeking help in persuading their leader, but his cold eyes looked away from her and she felt utterly alone. “Yes, sir,” she replied, popping to attention and waiting to be dismissed. General Nara nodded his approval and she disembarked the cramped confines of his office.
Walking through the narrow, subterranean tunnels, her mind thought of Malikea, the Lechun man willing to go against his captain’s orders to ensure the warship would not be used against them. She believed the man, she felt his gentle hands and saw the peacefulness in his eyes. Why Nara could not see the possibilities as well was maddening.
“How did it go?” Beva asked. He still had his weapon slung across his back.
“Don’t unpack your things. We’re going back at nightfall.”
“That well, huh? I thought your new friend had a legitimate plan if you asked me.” He ran his fingers through his sweaty hair as he leaned back against the wall.
“Unfortunately, the only person General Nara really listens to is himself. I feel so stupid for thinking he would accept Malikea’s terms. I know there is no reasoning in the midst of war, but peace feels like a possibility; you know?” Gen’s voice trailed off as the door to Nara’s office opened. She looked back to see Tushia step out, his face flush as he looked in her direction. Gen took a step towards him as the door slammed, but Tushia about-faced and stalked away, his gait long and quick as if he was hurried to get away from whatever conversation followed her briefing with General Nara.
“I guess that was an ass-chewing. Look at the way he’s walking,” Beva joked. His words brought enough levity to the situation to elicit a smile from her, but nothing more.
“Would I be crazy for disobeying his orders?” Gen asked, whispering just loud enough for her words to reach him behind her.
She heard him shuffle his gear around as his lumbering, broad frame moved away from the bulkhead. “If you want my opinion, then no. But I’ve never been good with authority. The cold, hard truth is that you disobey Nara’s orders at your own peril. I’ve seen him turn on others and it isn’t pretty.”
“How so?”
“During the war? He publicly executed dissenters as a show of power,” Beva answered.
“But that was military law during wartime,” Gen said. “This resistance is more of a movement than a military campaign.”
“Do you think he sees it that way, Gen? that man has spent more time in a uniform than both of us have been alive. I don’t think you could remove him from it without denying him who he is. Besides, going against him puts you on a side of this pseudo-war I don’t want to be a part of.”
Gen took a moment to think about what Beva said. Her fear was that he was right and any choice she had in the moment was forced upon her by a General blinded by his rage and his fear. “Noted,” she said. “Gather your men. We have a ship to destroy.”
29
Brendle
Brendle woke up in the cargo hold, chained to a pad-eye used to strap down gear for flight. As his bleary eyes peered over his surroundings, he noticed Malikea and Deis similarly shackled.
“I see you’re back with the living, Mr. Quinn,” Pedero said nonchalant. Her fingers glanced across the monitor, but access to the weapons system was denied to her. “I’m going to need your help arming this ship for our attack against the resistance. I’m sure you understand that business must still be carried out. Of course, your betrayal of Princess Herma means we must advance the timeline.”
“I’m not helping you, you crazy bitch,” Brendle snapped.
Pedero smirked. “Your bravado could use a little work, Mr. Quinn. Besides, you’re fooling yourself, not me. I happen to know that you will give in and help because I have an insurance policy that guarantees it.”
“Yeah? You can take your little insurance policy and choke on it. I’m not fucking helping you. And once I get out of these chains—"
“Let me guess, you’re going to kill me with your bare hands? You’re so predictable.” Pedero glanced at one of the Pilatian guards and Brendle watched as the man stepped towards Deis, pulling out his weapon and placing it against the unconscious Lechun man’s head.
Brendle’s eyes narrowed as he stared them down, but in his gut he knew she was right. He also knew that there was no guarantee they were making it off this ship alive whether he helped or not. “Fine,” he seethed, the feeling of defeat washing over him like a stench.
“As I said, predictable. Mussa, please assist the ship’s captain to this console to access the data I need.
The Pilatian guard stepped towards Brendle, kneeling to disconnect the chain shackling him to the pad-eye. “One wrong move and your friend doesn’t wake up. Got it?”
Brendle clenched his jaw and nodded. A moment later, he was lifted to his feet by the guard, a gun stuck to his side as he was led to the monitor.
“What do you want?” Brendle asked, refusing to look at Pedero.
“I need access to the weapons system so my people can arm the ship. I’ll have more for you later, but try to resist the urge to waste my time. It won’t bode well for your crew,” Pedero replied, the smugness of her voice digging its way under his skin in a way he could not shake.
Brendle placed a hand on the monitor, allowing the scan to take place before unlocking the ship’s subsystems pages. He then scrolled past the engine and environmental controls data to access the weapons. “We have PDC’s, a rail gun, two .50 mm cannons, and two torpedo tubes. Access to everything is below decks, through that hatch.” He nodded towards a rectangular section of the deck outlined with red paint. “It opens hydraulically with the console on the bulkhead.”
“Thank you, that should make things easier on my men. Mussa, please escort Mr. Quinn back to his station. I don’t want him getting any ideas.”
“Let’s go,” Mussa said, shoving Brendle from behind. His chains dragged against the deck as he slowly walked back to the pad-eye where he woke up. His mind flooded with thoughts on what to do next, but each semi-plan felt doomed as he conjured them. There was no way he could fight off armed men without one of his own taking a bullet.
I can’t win for losing, he thought as he dropped to the deck.
Mussa bound him back to the pad-eye and rose with a groan. Brendle noticed the man favored his right knee. He didn’t know what he could do with that information, b
ut letting it dwell in the back of his mind might open a possibility later on.
Hopefully.
“See to it this ship is fully stocked. I have some errands to run for Princess Herma,” Pedero said.
“Yes, ma’am,” Both guards said simultaneously. It reminded Brendle of the servants he’s seen on Greshian owned by the rich.
Pedero stepped off the ship, down the cargo ramp, but Brendle could hear her ordering someone around outside. He could only imagine a larger crew of people loyal to Princess Herma waiting on her beck and call. The real question is can they be turned?
Moments later, the first crates of weapons were hauled onboard. As the tops were lifted, Brendle noticed the weapons were Pilatian design. “You guys are going to use your weapons against your own people when you have an enemy to your freedom sitting high in her tower?”
“Shut up,” the guard next to Deis said, still holding his weapon to his the Lechun’s bald head.
“Come on, if you’re going to kill me, at least let me run my mouth. It’s not right to let things go unsaid. Besides, isn’t it genocide to kill a race of people? That’s what the emperor is doing, causing mass genocide on a galactic scale. You Pilatian are the lucky ones, you have survivors. Malikea and Deis lost their whole civilization. Once they’re gone, the Lechun race will be extinct. It’s the same thing that will happen to the Pilatians if Princess Herma loses interest. Are you sure you want to go out on the wrong side of history?”
The man stomped over to Brendle, kicking him in the face and driving him backwards. The only thing preventing him from slamming against the deck was the taut chain tearing at the flesh on his wrists keeping him bound. “I said to shut up,” the guard snapped.
Brendle shook his head, spitting blood onto the deck as he glared up at the man. He would be lying to say his face didn’t hurt, but he was happy Deis no longer had the gun to his head. As he kept his eyes low, he noticed the same relief on Deis’s now awake face. A slight curl of the Lechun man’s lips let Brendle know he wasn’t going down without a fight either.
