Catalyst

by Fletcher DeLancey

  “You grainbird,” Andira snapped. She turned in her seat, fixing Ekatya with a heated glare. “One. You are not a burden to me. You never could be; you’re my first tyree! For Fahla’s sake, do you still have no idea what that means? We are bonded, Ekatya. I missed you every day, too. Salomen could feel it in me a cycle after you left.”

  Ekatya tried to ask, but Andira rolled right over her.

  “Two. Don’t tell me how I feel. You think I didn’t see our Sharings as magic? I thought they were the closest I would ever get to touching the face of Fahla. And three, how do you think I feel now, knowing that I burdened you with everything that was going on in my life when you had your own set of problems that you weren’t telling me about?” She faced forward again. “Like a selfish dokker, that’s how. Like I took one of the few good things in my life and broke it because I wasn’t careful enough.”

  Ekatya waited a moment, then spoke cautiously. “May I say something now?”

  Andira waved a hand without looking, but her head turned when Ekatya caught her hand and held it.

  “I’m sorry. I’m not any more used to this kind of friendship than you are, but I’ll try to do better. And for the love of flight, you didn’t break anything.”

  If it were anyone else, she thought, she could have spent an hour trying to explain herself, to justify it, to convince the other person of her sincerity. It was hard to remember how much she hated the idea of her emotions being so easily read when that very ease was saving her from explanations she couldn’t put into words.

  Andira’s grip tightened. “I’m sorry, too.”

  “Don’t be. I’d rather have you angry at me.”

  “It’s not you I’m angry with. Fahla, look at this.” Andira let go of her hand and gestured at the view. They were high enough now to see the transparent curved line of Alsea’s outer atmosphere, a fragile shell holding in the precious elements that kept the planet alive. “My first time up here in a craft I can see out of, and I’m spending it making you feel bad about trying to protect me.”

  They were her own words, yet something about them rang false. Perhaps it was hearing them from someone else that made their fallacy suddenly clear.

  “What?” Andira asked. “I know how you feel. It’s difficult not to; you’re bombarding me with it.”

  “That’s not—” Ekatya stopped and tore off her headset, watching as Andira followed suit. Here above the atmosphere there was no wind noise to block, and she wanted no more barriers.

  “I just realized you’re not the one I was protecting,” she said. “At least, not until the last two moons. You have…an idea of me, an image that I lived up to when I was here. I didn’t live up to it after I left.”

  “And you didn’t want me to know.”

  Ekatya nodded and checked her course toward the Phoenix, a good excuse to keep her head down.

  “Were you afraid I’d think less of you because you spent a cycle being punished for what you did to save Alsea? I think less of your Protectorate, yes, but not you.”

  She looked up to find Andira watching her intently.

  “Of all the people on that planet,” Andira said, pointing, “and on that ship, I might be the one person who understands what you just said. I know about images and myths better than anyone. But you’re not my captain. You can try to project whatever image you want, but I won’t see who you want me to. I see who you are.”

  “That might be the most frightening thing you’ve ever said to me.” Ekatya tried for a light tone, but there was too much truth in her words. She forestalled any answer by flicking on the quantum com and calling the Phoenix, which had surely been tracking them from the moment they cleared the atmosphere.

  “Captain Serrado to Phoenix. I’m piloting the craft you’re tracking, so please keep a lockout on weapons.”

  The com screen activated, showing the round, cheerful face of Commander Lokomorra, her new first officer. “We assumed you were a friendly, Captain. Given the identifier on that fighter.”

  Ekatya frowned at Andira, who put on a too-innocent look.

  “What identifier?”

  Lokomorra’s eyes were outlined in black, a tattoo common in the megacity where he had grown up. His hair follicles had been permanently destroyed in two bands that ran from his temples to the back of his head, while the rest of his black hair was cropped short. The designs, in combination with his thick, forked beard, should have made him look ferocious. Instead, his eyes twinkled with amusement and two deep dimples appeared as he smiled. “You’re showing up on our display as Blue Seventeen, Whitemoon Base Squadron, Caphenon Wing. And that fighter model, which I have to say is prettier than ours, is called a Serrado. Do you think we can get Fleet to juice up our colors like that?”

  “Stand by, Commander.” She flipped off the com and glared at Andira. “I’m flying a Serrado? And you didn’t think to mention this earlier?”

  “That would have spoiled the surprise.” Her expression grew more serious. “We didn’t name it after an image.”

  Ekatya opened her mouth, then shut it again and cleared her throat. “And the single-seat model?”

  “There was some debate about that. After all, there were two Gaian pilots flying those in the battle, and both of them saved thousands of Alseans when they stopped ground pounders from hitting towns and villages. But one of those pilots did try to blow up the Caphenon, so in the end, everyone agreed.”

  The warmth was expanding through her chest. “Does Candini know those fighters are named after her?”

  Andira nodded. “She was remarkably enthusiastic about helping our pilots once she heard.”

  “Oh, that didn’t help her goddess complex. We’ll never shrink her ego down to size now! And Sholokhov will spit his brandy through his nose when he hears about Serrado fighters.”

  “I hope he does, and I hope it burns.”

  Ekatya wanted to hug her, but settled for flipping the com back on. “Commander, we’re going to do a flyby of the Phoenix. Also, it occurs to me that I didn’t get enough weapons training when I did my qualifying flights. Would you load a few target drones into the tubes?”

  “Of course.”

  “And Commander, I’ll be checking the logs when I get back on board. If I find this has been put up on the bridge display, you’ll be in charge of the morning PT runs for the next two weeks.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it, Captain. Didn’t even cross my mind.”

  “Glad to hear it. I’ll call when we’re ready.”

  Andira waited until the com was off before saying, “He’s quite a change from Baldassar. Far more casual.”

  “I have different priorities for choosing officers now. It’s amazing how nearly having a court-martial on my record makes me view others with a more open mind. Lokomorra has two reprimands in his file for unprofessional attitude, yet no record of any broken or even bent regulations. Which told me that he did his job perfectly well, but in a way his commanding officers didn’t like. I called him in for an interview and asked him about it.”

  “And?”

  “And I liked him. So I corroborated his side of the story with four other officers, and it all lined up. What his captains didn’t like was his personality. He’s very relaxed on the bridge. Too relaxed for some people’s tastes. But that doesn’t mean he’s not professional or that he doesn’t take his duties seriously. I’m finding him to be an extremely competent officer.”

  “That is different. You wouldn’t have accepted him on the Caphenon.”

  “No, I wouldn’t have. But Lokomorra would probably have been the first one to tell me that we couldn’t leave Alsea to the Voloth. After Lhyn, that is.”

  “I like him already.” Andira looked from the planet receding behind them to the ship growing larger in their front view. “Those images you showed me didn’t do it justice. She’s beautiful.”

&nb
sp; The Phoenix hung before them like a brilliant jewel in the darkness of space, reflecting the sunlight off her hullskin and the many outside viewports currently exposed. The top deck was fully uncovered, its beautifully landscaped garden basking in the light pouring through the transparent hull.

  Ekatya remembered her own first look, from the observation deck of Quinton Shipyards. Her strongest emotion then had been sheer relief in the knowledge that she was done with Gov Dome and Sholokhov. Now she enjoyed the surge of pride and felt no shame for it. She had paid a high price for this ship; her pride was earned.

  “She looks so different with a whole hullskin,” Andira marveled.

  “Not to mention the distinct lack of crash damage.” They were coming up on the Phoenix from behind, where the dual surf engines were by far the most prominent feature. Ekatya had always thought that one of the best parts of the Pulsar design was the way the engines blended into the body of the ship, looking perfectly in proportion despite their size. It was difficult to visually comprehend their enormity without a proper comparator.

  She reversed engines to bring them to a near standstill, then coasted right into the mouth of the starboard engine.

  “Great Mother.” Andira gazed wide-eyed at the cylindrical shaft taking up their entire field of view. “You could fit half a squadron in this. Are you certain this is the same design? It seems so much larger out here.”

  “I imagine you don’t often fly a transport inside the Caphenon’s engines.”

  “Not ever. Can we fly underneath it? I’ve never done that with the Caphenon.”

  “It’s a bit difficult when the ship is sitting on the ground.” Ekatya pulled them away from the yawning cavern of the surf engine and dropped them beneath the ship. With a small tap on the stick, they began moving slowly along the ship’s length, close enough that the shimmering brilliance of hullskin was all they could see from one side to the other. Upon reaching the area where the lower decks curved out of the flat aft section, she followed the graceful arc down, then back up again as they approached the bow.

  “We’re under the fighter bays now, yes?”

  “Correct. Full of shiny, hullskinned fighters that I can’t deploy in your atmosphere. I went toe to toe with Admiral Tsao about that. I didn’t see why we couldn’t have at least ten Alsea-capable fighters, given the fact that the Phoenix is tasked with protecting this whole sector in general and Alsea in particular.”

  “What was her reasoning?”

  “It wasn’t her reasoning, and it’s not tactical. It’s political. There are some asses still burning over the terms of the Alsea Treaty, not to mention the fact that you destroyed the Voloth without any real help.”

  “Without—” Andira sputtered. “What do they think you and your crew did, sit outside watching the fireworks?”

  “Believe me, they know all about our involvement.” She had recounted every detail at least ten times during her inquisition. “But any other pre-FTL planet would have needed half the Ground Warfare division to hold off the Voloth. You did it with a crashed ship and two Protectorate fighters. That scares some people.”

  Andira gave a single nod. “The Defenders of the Protectorate. Ambassador Solvassen has been keeping me informed. I didn’t realize they had that much political clout.”

  “They didn’t, before. But they grew a lot in the last cycle, and some of them would do anything to turn general concerns about Alsea into a tsunami of paranoia.” Her rage rose, thick and fast, and Andira looked over with a startled expression. Ekatya shook her head. “Later. The point is, there’s plenty of political support for preventing nanoscrubbers from getting into Voloth hands, but not for aiding Alsean warriors in any sort of fight on the planet.”

  “In other words, if any Voloth get past you, it’s our problem and not yours.”

  “No, it would still be my problem. At that point, my job would be to prevent any Voloth from leaving the system.” And she would be the public scapegoat if anything went wrong.

  They had reached the bow; ahead was nothing but deep space and stars. She pulled the fighter up and around, savoring the view in spite of their conversation. The Phoenix stretched out before them in all her glory, from the graceful curves of the skirt to the garden at the top of the dome and on to the magnificent engine cradle. Just below them, in letters and numbers twice the length of her fighter, the ship proudly declared her name and identity code.

  “SPF-PC12,” Andira read. “Ship of the Protectorate Fleet, Pulsar class, twelfth off the line.”

  “You remember.” It seemed a long time ago that Ekatya had sat in Andira’s State House office, watching the raising of the Caphenon and explaining what the identity code meant.

  “I would hardly forget. We were preparing for battle at the time, and I was sharing my office with the one person who gave me a hope of winning it.” Andira turned in her seat. “I’m not surprised at your lack of Alsea-capable fighters. We didn’t ask for that in the treaty, and we wouldn’t.”

  Ekatya rolled her eyes. “I forgot about Alsean pride.”

  “Shantu may be dead, but his power base is still there, and they have a legitimate concern. We cannot depend on the aliens who abandoned us.”

  Squelching the guilt, Ekatya said, “Hence the Serrado and Candini fighters.”

  “Exactly. And stop feeling guilty; you didn’t abandon us. If you had, you wouldn’t have spent a cycle under Sholokhov’s boot.”

  “Good point.” Ekatya took a deep breath. “I’m ready for some target practice. How about you?”

  She didn’t need to be an empath to feel Andira’s excitement.

  “What do I do?”

  Two taps brought up the virtual targeting screens in front of both their seats, and a third transferred weapons to Andira’s side. Ekatya demonstrated how the flight controls had now been remapped to weapons on the copilot’s control stick, leaving that side to focus on firing solutions while Ekatya would focus on flight.

  “I’m ready.” Andira’s smile brightened the cockpit.

  Ekatya turned the fighter away from the Phoenix, took it out of shield space, and called Lokomorra on the quantum com. “Fire a drone, Commander. Threat level one.”

  “One? Wait one moment, Captain, I already had them programmed for level three.”

  “I’m working with a new weapons specialist.”

  “Understood.” He looked down at his panel, then back up again. “All set. Shield active and…firing now.”

  Ekatya could not see the tiny drone as it streaked through the Phoenix’s shield, but the fighter’s sensors picked it up immediately. A green dot appeared on both of their targeting screens, tracking rapidly from right to left.

  “Oh, that asshead, he shot it right across us.” Ekatya threw the fighter into pursuit, narrowly avoiding the low-energy laser that bounced harmlessly off the massive ship shield behind them.

  “I assume the drone has inactive weapons? That’s just a light show, yes?” Andira was watching her screen closely, her hand around the control stick and her thumb poised over the firing button.

  “It is. But our weapons are hot.” Ekatya saw the drone lining up for another shot and dodged it, then pulled in directly behind the fleeing bit of hardware. “Get it!”

  A brilliant white beam lanced across space, impacting the drone dead center and blowing it to shreds.

  “Yes!” Andira threw her hands in the air and did a shimmy in her seat.

  Ekatya laughed. “I’ve never seen your version of a victory dance.”

  “Let me kill another one and you can see it again. How many threat levels are there?”

  “Twelve. I can handle them at level three, but I’ve never gotten past that. It’s not something I prioritize, obviously. But pilots like Candini can shoot down multiple drones at level twelve. It’s like watching a ballet.”

  “Multiple?”

/>   Ekatya could almost see the gears turning in her head. With a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, she called Lokomorra again. “Give me two drones this time, Commander. Level three.”

  CHAPTER 17:

  Unexpected guest

  Warnic put his hands on his lower back and bent backward, trying to ease the ache in his spine. He had finished three bonding ceremonies and was about to begin his fourth, and standing for all of these hanticks was taking its toll. Still, this was what he had most looked forward to when Lead Templar Satran had left him in charge of Blacksun Temple. She enjoyed officiating and did it as often as she could, making a day like this a rarity. The last time he had officiated for a whole day was… He frowned in thought. Probably when she had taken time off in the summer to visit her sister.

  The final couple of the day were new to him; he had not been the one providing their pre-bonding services. But the templar recording their story had done a fine job, and Warnic was well prepared for that part of the ceremony.

  They had met when the crafter entered the merchant’s shop, looking for a place to sell his wares. He had been bonded before, but lost his bondmate during the Battle of Alsea and subsequently moved to Blacksun to make a new start in life. The merchant, who was a little older, told the templar during their interview that she had long ago given up on love. But when the crafter came into her shop, they turned an inspection of wares into a long conversation, then an evenmeal…and within half a moon realized they were tyrees.

  They were a living reminder that Fahla offered second chances. She could bring hope from the ashes.

  The guests filed in, rustling and speaking in low tones while they found places to stand. There were only fifty or so when Warnic’s aide gave him the signal. This would be a small, intimate ceremony, then—a nice contrast to the prior one, which had apparently involved half of Blacksun. No one in this group would have a bad view.