by J. E. Gurley
Jazon brushed his hand across his slick scalp, a reminder of what was at stake. He hoped the simple act of removing his hair looked like an act of respect and not one of desperation.
The Dastoran Highborn were the embodiment of nobility. Each movement, each fluid gesture was as graceful and as choreographed as a dance. Their casual manner and air of bemused condescension, their elegant technique of blending art and technology, and their noble cause of species uplift set them apart from other, younger races. High Lord Hromhada, as did most Dastorans, looked slightly Asiatic with almond-shaped eyes that seemed far too cold for such a gentle face. His pale, almost pasty complexion belied the strength of character radiating from him. Dark blue lines outlining his silver eyes drew attention to them, giving the impression he was staring, a useful tool for intimidation. Without dominating, he seemed to fill the room with a sense of dignity. It was easy to see why the Dastorans had earned the respect of all worlds.
Dastora, the home world of the Dastorans, lay deep within the Local Arm of the Milky Way Galaxy, secure inside a globular cluster. Few outsiders had ever visited it, though its beauty was legendary.
The Dastorans were one of only two Primary Races remaining active in this quadrant of the galaxy. The other race, the Fallusians, had long ago relinquished space for a life of simplicity on their home world, Llus. Only a select group of that species still roamed the galaxy, returning home periodically to relate what they had seen and learned to the population in a celebration called the Fal, the Merging. According to the Dastorans, there were other Primary Races still roaming the galaxy, but most found the Outer Arms too deserted, too empty of stars for their tastes.
Of all the Secondary Races in the Alliance, only Earth had developed space travel independently. All others owed their technology to the largesse of the Dastorans, who had taken it upon themselves to become foster father to a dozen fledgling societies. This awkwardly placed Earth in a class by itself, too young to be a Primary, but too proud to accept domination.
As he and Ulrich stood before the gathering, Metak announced loudly, “My Lord Hromhada, and gentle Ladies and Sirs Huumba and Harthim. I present Jazon Lightsinger and Count Ulrich Stumphman of Terra.” He either purposefully, or as an indirect insult, disregarded introducing them to the only other Terran seated at the table.
Their fellow Terran, Jazon noticed, was old, maybe one hundred years or so, although it was difficult to ascertain age when cloned body parts and antioxidant, anti-aging drugs were so prevalent. Even Jazon had a cloned liver, a relic of his Marine days. The man sat apart from the others with an air of aplomb and quiet dignity, as if he were used to commanding respect, totally disregarding his solitude.
He looked vaguely familiar to Jazon, but his face did not strike any specific chords of memory. His eyes seemed to smile as they followed Jazon’s every move. His only distinguishing characteristic was a small metallic briefcase attached firmly to his wrist by a short, organic chain coded for release only by the briefcase’s recipient. If he were a courier of some kind, what did his presence have to do with him or Ulrich?
The Ladies were obviously favored courtesans of Lord Hromhada. He would never dine in public with his bonded mate. The two Highborn Ladies purposefully ignored the three humans, chattering quietly among themselves and with the two Dastoran males. The two males wore the white robes of Drones, non-breeders, sterile until they had proven their worthiness. The absence of facial tattoos indicated they were also immediate members of the High Lord’s family.
Jazon suppressed a sneer. In his opinion, Drones made poor soldiers, not cowards but extremely foolish. He had watched far too many Drones risk ill-advised encounters simply in an attempt to earn breeding rights. Most paid with their lives for their misplaced sense of honor, taking a great number of their followers with them.
Both men looked up as the two Terrans passed by. He noticed an undisguised expression of contempt on the face of the one Metak had called Huumba. Jazon tried to return the look in kind.
Lord Hromhada spoke surprisingly good Standard Terran as he said, “Welcome aboard my ship, gentlemen. I call it Thrallimar, Golden Throne in your language. I thank you personally for accepting my invitation. I am sure you have many questions, but first we dine.” A simple nod brought a dozen tray-laden servants scurrying to the table.
Jazon started to protest, eager to find out why they had left Ataxa, but his grumbling stomach stopped him as the aroma of food overwhelmed his senses. Breakfast suddenly sounded like a wonderful idea. Metak ushered him and Ulrich to seats opposite the Highborn, but still a few meters away from the other Terran. Jazon tried not to notice as the mysterious Terran stared at him during the entire meal, eating nothing.
The food presented to them was as sumptuous and as tempting as any banquet laid before the highest royalty on Earth. His stomach rumbled when he saw a heaping tray of broiled shellfish from the Gulf of Mexico, roasted Angus beef from Argentina, and grilled spring lamb from New Zealand. His mouth watered over deep, crystal dishes laden with steamed fresh vegetables from both Earth and Dastora. He glanced at Ulrich, who had the look of a child just ready to tear the wrappings from his birthday gifts. Lord Hromhada was making many allowances to his guests by presenting so many Terran dishes, especially the meats.
“Eggs!” Jazon promptly dug into a platter of chicken eggs, as rare as dragon’s teeth in the outer fringes. He piled his plate with eggs both fried and boiled, ignoring Ulrich’s not so gentle jab in his ribs to remind him of his seldom used table manners. If anyone at the table resented their indelicate Terran appetites, they at least had the decency not to show it.
Each dish’s’ tantalizing aroma clamored for a spot in Jazon’s overworked nostrils. Unable to decide, he sampled it all. He stopped only when his stomach began to groan audibly from its heavy burden. He noticed Ulrich had done a thorough job on his meal as well. The pile of dirty dishes mounting in front of them looked as if they had fought a hard battle on the tabletop and had come through victorious.
The others seemed somewhat amused by their keen appetites, but said nothing. Jazon wondered if Lord Hromhada normally carried an extensive selection of Earth delicacies aboard his ship, or if this feast was one more tool designed to persuade them to accept his unspecified offer. If so, Jazon’s stomach, after protesting so long against Ataxan food, was more than willing to comply.
He noticed the Dastorans ate as simply as they dressed, picking delicately from bowls of fruit and raw vegetables passed around the table. The only hot dish he saw consumed was heesha, a thick, dark porridge made from a combination of lightly seasoned vegetables and a cooked grain. The Dastorans ate slowly with an economy of moves that made him ashamed of his rough table manners.
Later, when the servants had removed the trays and served the wine, Huumba looked at him with contrived amusement and asked in halting Terran, “I understand the Terrans consider you a hero because you fought in the Battle at the Rim. Why are you not still fighting for your world?” His tone was unmistakably supercilious. The Ladies hid delicate smiles behind colorful napkins, but did nothing to protest their kindred’s ostensible rudeness.
Jazon’s pulse quickened. Huumba had hit upon a sore spot. He had almost died at the Battle of the Rim. What could this Dastoran know of that battle? The thought of it made him shudder inwardly. He took a sip of wine to regain his composure, and then spoke slowly.
“Hero? All Terrans are heroes just by continuing to fight the Cha’aita in spite of the odds. I fought my battles and won my medals, and then decided to see more of this glorious galaxy for which I was fighting.”
He took another sip and added, as if an afterthought. “When you’ve earned your Breeder’s rights, perhaps then you will understand.” His calculated barb struck deep. The Drone stood up quickly, knocking over his glass, spilling dark wine across the table’s crystalline surface.
“You insult me, Terran. I am Huumba of the Tuus Enclave, a Highborn Dastoran. You are a thief and a vagabond, at
tempting to steal passage to Earth, a home you abandoned.”
Huumba seemed to know a great deal about his past. Jazon decided to see just how far he could push the Dastoran. “Earth has lost one colony to her enemies; Dastora, six. Have the Dastorans grown so weak and so lax in their old age to allow Trilock scum to gnaw your bones? Is your zenith behind you? You wear the armband of an Enclave Protector, Drone Huumba.” He pointed to the unmistakable silver sword over the Tuss Emblem the sleeve of Huumba’s white robe. “Why are you not commanding a Thistleship in battle in your Lord’s service instead of flinging insults at a Terran warrior?”
Such an insult should have sent the Drone into a blind rage, attacking Jazon across the table. He palmed the stunner concealed beneath his napkin, waiting for the attack. Instead, Huumba sat back down and began laughing. It was a surprisingly delicate sound coming from the Drone.
“You show no fear, Terran. That is good. Where we go, fear means death. Where we go, you must be a hero.”
“‘Every hero becomes a bore,’ one of our finest poets once said,” Jazon retorted. “Ralph Waldo Emerson.” He looked around the table to see if anyone had recognized the quotation. The Ladies were ignoring him completely, and Huumba was swirling the remainder of his wine in his glass, trying very hard to look uninterested in the conversation.
The mention of the Battle at the Rim had stung Jazon deeply. It evoked memories he had no wish to recall. He had come through the conflict alive, and they had called him a hero. Many had not, and they had only called them casualties. Jazon knew the ease with which the Drone had backed down meant the verbal attack had been a rouse initiated by Lord Hromhada to check his mettle. He should have suspected such. No Drone would dare insult the Highborn Lord’s guest, especially while dining. Meals were a sacred part of the Dastoran religion, or philosophy – he forgot which. Earlier in their history, Dastorans had paused in the middle of heated conflicts for a shared meal. He glanced at the Terran and saw a wry smile on his face. Evidently, Jazon had passed a test of some kind.
“Perhaps you would care to tell us why we are headed to Lahhor?” Ulrich asked, filling the awkward silence after the exchange between Huumba and Jazon.
“Lahhor is where we pick up Occam’s Razor.” The old Terran spoke for the first time. His voice was clear and resonant for his age, as if he had been at one time a great orator. He smiled at the two Terrans, enjoying their discomfort.
“Occam’s Razor?” Ulrich and Jazon exclaimed almost simultaneously.
“It is a ship, your ship, to be exact,” he said, looking pointedly at Jazon. “It is a one-of-a-kind prototype.”
“What do you mean by ‘my ship’?” Jazon asked, confused.
“Just that. The ship will be yours to command, if you agree to work with us.”
Jazon shook his head and frowned. “Just who the hell are you?” he challenged, growing tired of the man’s smirking. He didn’t care if he broke some kind of Highborn protocol or not.
“My name is Lyton, Emil Selander Lyton.”
Ulrich choked on his wine, sending a fine mist of spray across the table.
“Prof… Professor Emil Lyton of the University of Zurich?” he sputtered, and then daubed at his dripping chin with a napkin.
“Yes, I was there at one time. You’ve heard of me?” Professor Lyton seemed pleased at Ulrich’s recognition of him.
“Yes, indeed.” Ulrich turned to Jazon as he explained. “Professor Lyton is one of the fathers of Meta-Systems Transitions.”
Jazon, clueless, shrugged his shoulders to indicate his ignorance. “So?”
Ulrich rolled his eyes in exasperation. He spoke with great fervor. “Don’t you see? He developed the Three Principles.”
“Hardly that,” the professor protested, interrupting the exchange between Jazon and Ulrich, “I merely advanced the hypothesis which Hustsaba of Dastora first postulated in his study of the Dastoran Mahata Fey. He truly grasped the relationship between sentient beings as being dynamically fundamental to the character of their development. I merely assumed the next logical step. I determined that the relationship went beyond sentience and extended into the metaphysical realm, perhaps even a subatomic one.”
Jazon placed two fingers in his mouth and whistled loudly, startling everyone at the table. “Gentlemen! You’re speaking gibberish to me. Perhaps you could tone it down to a mere soldier’s level.” He glanced at Huumba who glared at him with undisguised disdain. The Protector’s earlier tirade might have been contrived, but his dislike for Terrans obviously was not.
Ulrich explained as if speaking to a child. “As you would know if you had ever bothered to read my book, the Three Principles state first that all sentient beings are interconnected, that is, every species has a degree of connectedness to every other species, perhaps even a common ancestor.
“Secondly, freedom extends beyond sentience, extending to the subatomic level. Humans are born with free will, the freedom to choose our future, our fates. Likewise, one cannot pinpoint the precise location of sub-atomic particles because of the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle. They have the freedom to be wherever in their domain they choose to be at any given time.
“Finally, the whole reacts to outside stimuli, and takes such actions as are necessary to regain its former balance. Is that close, Dr. Lyton?” he asked breathlessly.
“Quite so,” the professor beamed. “We have recently discovered a new life form that drastically alters our interpretation of the Three Principles, pushes back the boundaries, so to speak. Since our initial discovery, possibly even due to our inadvertent interference, this life form has evolved more rapidly and in a manner completely unexpected. We must examine this life form to determine if it is truly sentient and if our war has disturbed its evolution.”
“And if it has?” Jazon asked. He was worried that the professor sounded like a zealot. He distrusted zealots. They always seemed willing to trade lives, even their own, for lost causes.
“Then we must end the war,” the professor declared.
Jazon held out his glass in a mock toast to the professor. “Here, here! Here’s to the end of the war.”
Ulrich shot him a withering look. “Where is this life form?” he asked, ignoring Jazon’s look of annoyance.
“Where the Local Arm connects to the Milky Way, near the Claw Nebula in the corridor leading to the Perseus Arm,” the professor pronounced calmly.
Jazon laughed aloud. “That’s right in the middle of the Battle Zone. You don’t think the Cha’aita would give us a chance to go there?”
Professor Lyton scratched his head and grinned. “Probably not. Nevertheless, we must see what damage we are doing. This life form’s emergence will inevitably have repercussions to all sentient races, as would its demise.”
“Such as?” Jazon prompted. This was beginning to sound like a load of feces to him.
Professor Lyton stammered. “Well, perhaps a breakdown of the underlying laws of physics. It’s impossible to predict exactly what such an event might do, but logic tells us any reaction could be catastrophic.”
“Logic,” Jazon snorted derisively. “You two read too much. The only threat we face is the Cha’aita.” He glanced down the room at the two Trilock and added, “Perhaps the Trilock.” Jazon saw Huumba’s eyes blaze at mention of the Trilock. Did the Drone’s hatred of the Trilock run as deeply as Jazon’s? Perhaps they had something in common after all.
“Then come with us and see for yourself,” the professor challenged. “When we have completed our mission, we will return you to Earth.”
Jazon shook his head and pointed toward the viewer, now showing scenes of the deep blackness of space. “Sounds tempting, but dying way the hell out there doesn’t get me any closer to home.”
Professor Lyton continued as if he had not heard him. “When you return, each of you will receive one million credits deposited to your accounts.”
It was Jazon’s turn to choke on his wine. He stared first at Lyton, then at Lord Hrom
hada. Neither face indicated humor. “One million credits? Why, that’s more than the CEO of Megacorp makes in a year.” Jazon eyes narrowed. He pinned Lyton with his icy gaze. “It sounds too easy. What’s the catch?”
Lyton counted off items on his fingers. “First, the Cha’aita will try to stop us, of course, as will the Trilock, each for their unknown, unfathomable agenda. Once we arrive in the Claw Nebula, we have no idea what we will be confronting. This new race could prove dangerous. Furthermore, the ship is, after all, a prototype, untested in actual conditions such as we will be facing.” He held out his thumb to join the other four fingers displayed. “And we will have to retrace our steps for our return journey. The odds of surviving are dismally small,” he said with a wry smile.
Jazon chuckled and shook his head. “And yet you think you can persuade us to go with you. How? A million credits doesn’t do a dead man much good, and I’ve got no one to will it to.”
The professor nodded his head in Ulrich’s direction. “Count Stumphman will go because he believes me and in the Three Principles. You will go because you have nowhere else to go. This is your last, best chance to reach Earth.”
Jazon thought it over for just fractionally longer than he would take to choose a wine with his meal. In spite of the odds, the professor had spoken a fundamental truth. Almost any place they wound up would beat Ataxa. He and Ulrich could always find some way out of it if things got too rough. Running had become his area of expertise over the last ten years. Besides, the Drone Huumba had challenged his honor. He hated to back down too easily. He glanced at Lord Hromhada, who seemed amused by the exchange among the Terrans. He had the look of a man who already knew the outcome of the discussion, was perhaps even slightly uneasy with the readiness with which Jazon knew he was going to accept.
