Beyond Kuiper: The Galactic Star Alliance

by Matthew Medney

  Look at that boy run. I really do need to get back to the gym.

  Aubree’s eyes lingering on his tight backside, she decided it was a good night to have him over for dinner and help keep the bed warm.

  Reaching her centuries-old-office, she unlocked it with an ancient key. The door creaked open on a cozy lair piled high with books and scrolls. Before entering, she waited until a pleasant male voice asked:

  “What occurred on the thirteenth of Cheshvan, 5361?”

  “The Battle of Sekigahara.”

  Only then did she enter, closing, but not locking the door behind her. Auto-candles flickered to life; overhead lights dimmed. Removing her journal and a tablet, she dropped her tote on a chair. Setting the kettle to boil, she removed a teabag from her pocket and placed it in a suitable mug. Cradling the completed drink in her hands, she entered the adjoining room illuminating a central hologram table. Rather than books and scrolls, this space was lined with data discs. She took one, labelled PAN OCEAN MIG, and placed it on the table. As it spun up, a map of the Pacific Ocean appeared so vast the hologram’s edge revealed the earth’s curve.

  “Play simulation starting at 7000 BC.”

  Centuries ticked by: lines crossing from island to island.

  Sipping her tea, she wondered what Alex Hamilton wanted and why he pretended to be from the Smithsonian. It didn’t bode well. She hadn’t seen the NSA, now dubbed “WSA,” liaison in four years. When her predictions nearly caused a rigged election, she’d nearly imploded her career to expose the truth. That was when she told the Agency she was done and did not want to have that fight again.

  “Call Jordan and Askar.”

  The field team answered in three rings. Their FaceTime windows had barely appeared when their virtual shouts filled the room. Jordan had tamed her wild Maori hair into thick dreads, undoubtedly brutal in the South Pacific heat. But, almost as giddy as Michael, she ignored the sweat pouring down her face.

  “Professor, this is huge! I’m still eyeballing it, but the additional carvings seem key.”

  “Details?” Aubree inquired patiently.

  Askar chimed in. “The wall was within twenty feet of where you predicted… perfectly integrated with local building patterns. We’re sending the data package now.”

  Four holograms of ancient cartographic wallscapes appeared atop the ocean at the sites where each were found. A fifth loomed large above the rest.

  “Superimpose new data.”

  Rotating and scaling, it descended and overlaid the Pacific. The carvings were now loosely aligned with several small land masses.

  “See how the new one adds seventeen islands?” Indicating one group, then another, she said, “Those five are likely part of French Polynesia, section 879. But these, over here, don’t correspond to any known landmasses.”

  “Any current landmasses,” Aubree corrected. “Computer, add location of the most recent bracelet find from site 22 Kappa. Rollback migration sim and replay, accounting for new jump points.”

  Lines once more traced the ocean linking island to island until the trail reached from Asia to Patagonia. The computer crooned. “Simulation accuracy rate has increased to 74%.”

  “Professor, the pace and degree of early expansion we’re seeing totally throws accepted models.”

  “Indeed. And…”

  A shadowy man entered quietly but still dominating the room.

  Aubree dismissed the call. “Sorry, too much tea. I’m going to have to call you back after a quick bathroom break.”

  As she broke off, Alex Hamiliton removed his hat and placed it on the table scattering the holobeams. She greeted him with the usual sarcasm.

  “This is why I typically leave my door unlocked. It’s considerably less disturbing than finding you behind a bookshelf. It also saves me the time of having to reset the traps.”

  He remained maddeningly impassive. “I did wait outside a bit. It sounded like what you were discussing was important.”

  She glowered. “Apparently not enough to keep you from interrupting.”

  Waving him back to the outer office, she powered down the table and grabbed her journal. It held a razor-thin blade in the binding…just in case.

  Alex moved her bag from the chair before sitting.

  “Make yourself at home, why don’t you? Just like old times.”

  “No need to be completely salty, Aubree.”

  “I disagree. Why are you here, Alex?”

  “Two reasons.” He tossed a small folio on her desk. “First, the Agency wants you to monitor a potentially rigged election in the Turkish Zone.”

  “No means no. I’m not coming back.” Aubree scowled, rounded her desk and leaned against the window frame, a position that kept her on her feet, and elevated above her uninvited guest. “Last time, it was North America trying to destabilize South America to incentivize the anti-W.C. movement.”

  “Which aligns with your current views on world governments, yes? Or did I mishear your little speech in the lecture hall?”

  “You know damn well that deceiving the people, even if the truth shows the W.C. in the wrong, defeats the whole purpose.”

  Ignoring her flat refusal, Alex went on. “The second reason involves your Recurrence Theory. Top brass wants a debrief on any new developments. I have strict orders to take you to Iceland.”

  What? Why be interested in that? The Recurrence Theory codified her belief that the cycle of civilization was millennia older than suspected. It was widely considered inconclusive and certainly unconnected to politics.

  “And if I won’t go?”

  Alex sighed. “Unfortunately, I was told to let this man convince you. You might want to brace yourself.”

  “Why? Do you think that at this point some WSA goon can…”

  The office door opened and William Hunt walked in. Seeing her dead husband striding towards her with open arms, Aubree’s dropped teacup shattered against the floor. Her vision swam. Suddenly, a big part of her was back holding Ken’s hand watching the cancer slowly take him. At the same time, he was here—right now. A fog engulfed her senses she could hear herself screaming.

  Alex managed to catch her before her head joined the teacup.

  Ken’s face appearing above her, she reached to touch him.

  William gently gripped her fingers. “Aubree, Kenneth is gone. I’m sorry. I can only guess how hard it is for you to see me walking around with his face, but this isn’t just important, it’s vital.”

  It wasn’t Ken. Up close, she could see it was Kenneth’s twin brother, William. There was a difference in the light behind his eyes. Understanding cleared her vision. She pulled her hand to her mouth and sobbed.

  Ten

  The galactic Star Alliance

  At first, Kruk was impressed that the GSA had dispatched a speedy Mayad1 class cruiser with fighter support to escort him to Mijorn. Even at Patch 42, though, the 21,000 kulon trip would take 39 prikes, and the journey so far had been lonely and uneventful. He thought he’d spend more time with Captain Paradon catching up on studies, getting tips on his Recall training, but they’d only had two brief conversations.

  For trips this long, passengers were usually kept in cryo. Kruk was not only awake, he was confined to quarters for “security purposes.” Mute guards were ever-present at his cabin door. Meals were brought to him. There was a Resistor3 for physical training, but his network access was limited to a scrubbed internal military hub. As the prikes stacked and he tried to guess at the reasons, a sickening dread crept over him.

  Forever eventually ended; his solitude broken by the arrival of multiple soldiers, and an order to get dressed. They took him to the main hangar. The artgrav4 had dissipated, meaning they’d landed. For an instant, Kruk saw Paradon arriving, but the hatch opened and he was blinded by warm sunlight.

  Sweet, real air breezed over him filling his lungs. As his eyes adjusted, he saw buildings, lines of flying ships, and, further off, the massive skyscrapers of an oceanside city. A
t the horizon, the land rose into mountains; their peaks seemed to touch a giant halo in the sky. He’d arrived.

  Not far off, KruktuskenBor stepped off his starship, Nadisir5, and took in the scent of alpine runyaya6 and blue varoons7. The hangar for the The GSA’s Council of Worlds’ regional office overlooked ice-laden peaks so tall that snow never fell on the summits. Through the atmosphere’s purplish haze, he saw The Ring8 encircling the planet—an ancient reminder of a civilization long gone. Bor had returned to Mijorn, original home of the GSA.

  He only wished it was under better circumstances.

  An attaché approached: a lovely specimen of the Zundrilla9, with rich, vermillion scales, and metal protrusions.

  “Councilmember KruktuskenBor, this way, please.” Cricking nervously, she motioned him toward an exit. “I’m afraid I must apologize. Normally, we’d have significantly better accommodations, but our site lead is off-world and notice was short, so we’ve prepared your old office.”

  Wherever Bor went, he received respect. During his 270 turns in the government, he’d rotated ever higher, finally reaching the top of the Communications Department. Now he was a Prime, a Sector head, and a World Council member. Though it meant never again living on Dragsa, his home world, serving the galaxy had always been his sole ambition. Required to move every eight turns, he’d lived on 33 planets and had experienced at least as many cultures, traditions, lifestyles, ecologies, and reasons for living.

  He gave the attaché a moment to sweat what his response might be, then smiled politely. “Not a worry. I prefer the high altitude. It provides clarity, not to mention a break from the usual hustle and bustle of a government center.”

  Hooting happily, she led him onward. At the exit, Bor touched the stone wall allowing the tactile sensation to stimulate his memories. Recall was a skill few Dragsan’s had mastered at his level. How long had it been since he’d visited Mijorn as a Tier 3 Comm Officer? 45 or was it 48 turns? Regardless, he remembered how exhilarating it was being this close to the action.

  Being part of the inner circle granted access, and, thankfully, a privacy that few could imagine. Because of who he was, his son’s message had been sent on a hidden channel only he and his predecessors knew existed. More than that, he was able to destroy all record of it by sending scrambling waves, disguised as interference from a supernova, through every galactic relay it passed.

  His son’s first words conjured a ghost he’d prayed would remain dead:

  The Creators of Space have returned.

  He didn’t doubt it. Kruktusken wouldn’t use the channel if he weren’t certain. The boy’s summons to Mijorn only confirmed that the threat was real. The rest was more personal.

  “Farraf, I don’t understand. In the stories you told me as a child, good triumphed. But an evil rises and its armies live. Command thought they wanted Earth, but I realized they were after one of the probes I monitor. I had to warn them. Even so, the attack was flawless. They not only got the probe, our containment procedures failed to maintain the quarantine.”

  His son’s actions conjured dual emotions. He’d acted admirably under immense pressure, but there was a cost. To convince Paradon, Kruk must’ve mentioned Loronzon.

  It had been five turns since he’d seen the boy. Galactic service was a family tradition, but strict anti-nepotism laws banned them from serving together or even residing on the same planet. As a result, the family was rather fragmented, including his relationship to Kruk. Sometimes, Bor envied his brother, DraktuskenDor10, for staying home. Dragsa’s shining Nedsewa Sea sang deep in his heart, regardless of time or distance.

  The Inner Council’s choice of Mijorn told Bor they were attempting to maintain tight control. If the government intended to be transparent, he’d have been summoned to Primidous for a full-scale Council meeting. It was easy to understand why. The revelation of Spek’s return would fracture the lovely peace that they’d kept for so long. But the truth, like death, was subject only to delay.

  Nothing lasts, not even the stars.

  After navigating genetically coded locks, laser, and psionic evasion fields, they arrived at a very familiar set of semitransparent sapphire corundum doors.

  “Is there anything else you need, sir?” His eager attaché was still lightly hooting. Must be new. Experienced support staff were practiced in being deadpan and nigh-invisible, whether your boss wanted atomic launch codes, fine Samonca11 prostitutes, or a snack.

  “Would you find Thyron pre’Ducator for me? I believe she’s still facilitator for this office. And send a formal Type 96 to Prime Abbotkrine requesting an immediate audience.” To maintain secrecy, he added a half-true explanation. “He’s an old friend, and we haven’t seen each other in some time.”

  Not that it seemed to matter. More than familiar with the name of the Effective Force Prime12 for the Sector, the attaché made a squeaky gulp and hastened off to do as asked.

  Bor pushed the portals with his palms revealing the room in which he’d spent so very much time controlling what the galaxy read, heard, and thought. Three sides of the hexagon were set in the mountain; the other three were composed of the same corundum as the door. More fully transparent, they revealed a sweeping view befitting the workplace aesthetic Primes shared.

  Despite the grave reasons for his return, the full-circle made him chuckle.

  There were, of course, changes. The Clykwordol 13sculptures were conspicuously absent as was the Tusken’s familial tapestry of the first star map, the Dra Ma Kun14. It had been mounted alongside a replica of the translation construct that was passed from one world to another heralding the end of The Great Silence15. He assumed both were in storage.

  Once he scanned his implant, the system instantly presented his correspondence matrix and divisional status reports. There was no pressing work. Then again, he couldn’t imagine anything capable of shifting his mind from the return of the Creators.

  To think, I sent Kruk to the Nova System as a safe start to his career. Still, sooner or later, he’d have needed some battle experience. The irony brought a deep, mournful trill. Now, he may have more than he’d ever need.

  The vast, intricate web of lies Bor helped build successfully concealed the rebellion of the Voidwhisperers’ original alpha squad, The Darkness Matters. Now, the falsehoods would collapse. Odian Spek’s return would herald rebellions or, worse, wars of planetary secession. The inner circle had fifteen contingency plans, but even the most optimistic were well aware that many of the consequences of their lies would be irreparable.

  Right or wrong, it’s far too late to turn back.

  Nebula whale16 chimes signaled his former staffer’s arrival. “Come in, my dear.”

  “Prime KruktuskenBor, it is my pleasure to serve you again. This office has not seen someone of your stature and ability since you departed.”

  Thyron pre’Ducator was the lady who would pour his morning skrava or shoot someone, depending on his needs. Neither the passage of turns or the burden of a thousand secrets seemed to have aged her. He wondered if the same might be said of him.

  “You’re far too flattering, as always. Are we ready?”

  “There’s a slipsphere17 at port 19 waiting to take us to Councilmember Abbotkrine’s residence.” Bor smiled at the expected efficiency. It was good to be back.

  Soon they hurtled down and away from the mountain. Unlike station sliptubes, in which crew traveled short distances suspended in air, slipspheres moved in a vacuum allowing shockwave-inducing speeds. In seconds, they were rushing past the beautiful habitations of the wealthy on the outskirts of Rikjia18. The indigenous Metra built Mijorn’s oldest city at the base of the tallest mountain peak. Its modern counterpart, and GSA headquarters, sat across the bay.

  They zipped past stone-walled gardens and orchards surrounding lavish estates. As the sphere decelerated gracefully, it allowed for a better look at boulevards lined with ancient palaces and monuments. All were made from the same corundum as his office doors and windows but
on a scale no one had been able to replicate for millions of turns.

  They came to a stop at the local station, a central ring hub, where additional tubes undulated outward like petals. The sphere opened, leaving them standing at the head of a spacious avenue lined with broad Namasaldra Trees19.

  Bor walked quietly down a starkly empty street, Thryon shadowing him respectfully. The lack of inhabitants was Pias’ doing: partly standard security, partly a need to keep their meeting secret.

  With a quick glance from Bor: Thyron took a holocom from her belt. “Kimora, please let Prime Abbotkrine know Councilmember Bor is here.”

  A lush fountain in the middle of the boulevard engulfed Bor’s vantage: crescent walls of cascading water still falling, flipped over, revealing circular steps.

  “Prime Abbotkrine welcomes you to his home,” Kimora announced.

  The stairs took them to a state-of-the-art tunnel system and four waiting Hammerguard. They were escorted past two junctions, a set of blast doors, and into a maglift. Fearing what lay ahead, the railing forcefield felt like the universe closing its grip on Bor.

  Pias had been the Voidwhisperer program’s strongest advocate. Once he found out Spek was alive, the touchy subject could become volatile. Whatever strategy he settled on, Bor worried it might not be fully objective.

  The lift emerged in a huge underground structure with vaulted angular ceilings and spectacular floor mosaics. These were the halls of Ridius Ek, built to honor the great Metra leader who’d helped unite Mijorn and the galaxy. Knowing that legacy was at stake, Bor passed his stoic, cast diamond statue with a deep sigh.

  Right, left, then right again, they finally reached the entrance to the quarters of the Effective Force Prime. The Hammerguard20 stood down, about-faced, and froze at their new posts. At KruktuskenBor’s knock, Kimora called from the other side.