The Fifth Civilization: A Novel

by Peter Bingham-Pankratz

  “Imagine yourselves in the year 1492. The Atlantic Ocean exists, people see it everyday, but no one knows what’s on the other side. Everyone is afraid to venture out there. But someone took a leap into the unknown. Someone took a chance. And you’re watching this presentation today because I need to know if someone has the guts to make that leap. To head it. To fund it. Because this is quite possibly the most important scientific find of any millennia. And that is damned exciting. Presentation T-I70. Thank you.”

  The hologram clicked off, its blue glow gone and replaced with the silence of the mess hall. It was just another bombshell to dump on the already traumatized crew.

  David spoke first. “Aaron Vertulfo was killed earlier today. He told me last week he might not make it to present these findings to the Science Committee, and he was right. Instead, he entrusted the data to me. He entrusted it to all of us. This was his life’s work—perhaps, if one believes in such things, it was his destiny to reveal this information. I only hope you will consider it as best you can, and decide whether or not you feel you can make the journey to this uncharted planet.”

  David stepped back beside Kel, giving her the floor. Roan could sense that she was still processing Aaron’s information, as he was to himself. Humans related to Kotarans, Bauxens, and Nydens? A mythical planet somewhere in deep space? There wasn’t much one could say to that.

  The Sikh guy spoke up. “If this evidence is true, it is the biggest discovery in history. We could have the answers to the origins of humanity and all life as we know it. I, for one, want to see where this information leads.”

  “How do you know how accurate it is?” the American crewman asked. “Maybe this scientist was full of shit.”

  “Hey,” Roan growled. “Don’t you say that about Aaron.” The man shut up, but a crewman in raggedy overalls stood up next to him.

  “You’re asking us to risk our lives for conjecture. What do you take us for, anyway? The Company isn’t paying us that much to get ourselves killed by Kotarans…or worse, to starve to death in deep space.”

  “Now listen,” Kel said. “No one is being forced to do anything. I think it would be wise to do a show of hands now and see who wants to stay on the ship and see this thing through to the end, and who wants to depart at the earliest opportunity.”

  “Which will be when, exactly?” someone asked.

  Masao spoke now: “I’d say you have a good month—I don’t think anyone can depart until we lose this Kotaran ship, which will probably not be until we reach Bauxa. If we try to get off anywhere in this solar system, the police or the Kotarans can get us.”

  “Some clusterfuck you got us into,” said another voice. Once again, Roan sympathized with the man’s anger. “So, we have one month to decide, is that it?”

  “You already signed up for a two-month voyage,” Kel said.

  “That was before I saw my friend hacked to death in front of me,” the African said.

  “What about our jobs?” asked the American. “If the Company finds out we’re not headed to Orion, we’re all canned.”

  That was something Roan had thought about. Technically he was supposed to be back on the job in seven days, reporting to the Entrepot and back to the Dunnock. The marks added up after a while, and a job was a job. And yet Roan did not want to be on Earth right now, not with the kangas searching for him. A part of him needed closure for Aaron, if only in spirit.

  David responded. “I presume that the Company has realized what has happened on our vessel. They are not going to penalize you for being hijacked. If, however, they don’t know, they won’t find out for a month when Orion asks where this vessel has gone. At that time you can send a message from Bauxa explaining everything.”

  “Let me be clear,” Kel said. “We can’t turn around, and going to Orion would put us out of the way of this historic discovery.”

  “A vote,” Masao said. “Let’s do this vote now, so our positions will be known.” The murmuring died down and Masao waited for Kel to make the beginnings of a vote speech, but when nothing came Masao probably realized that he was the one who brought it up and thus he was going to have to do it. He cleared his throat. “All right. All those who wish to stay on until we reach this planet, raise your hand now.” David was the first to raise his talon, quickly and high. Kel followed. Next, the Sikh guy, and then three more hands from the crew. Masao eventually raised his hand, and all eyes then turned to Roan, whose hands stayed crossed. “All right,” Masao said. “Hands down.” Down they went. “All those who want to leave at the earliest opportunity—which will probably be Bauxa—raise their hand.” Two crew members did—Roan saw their uniforms and believed them to be an engineer and navigator, not people easily replaced on a skeleton crew.

  Still, Roan did not raise his hand.

  “OK, hands down,” Masao said. “This was not a vote to determine action, but to see where people stood. Now, did everybody vote?” Masao allowed himself a smile, and looked at Roan. Roan realized he’d have to explain himself.

  “The truth is, I don’t know,” Roan said. “I trusted Aaron. I still trust his knowledge enough to believe the information he presented to us beyond the grave is accurate. And believe me, I’d be overjoyed if I could prove he died for something real. At the same time, I always think about my crew and their wishes, and even though this is not my ship, I have a duty to the men and women who would serve under me. Many of them want to leave. Many of them have no faith in this origin of life stuff. I understand that, and understand that going through all this mayhem today has not exactly warmed everyone to a convoy across space with the Kotarans.

  “That said, I am going to think on it. Let’s all think on it. We have a month, don’t we? When we eventually reach a good point to offload some people, let’s all take a real long hard look at the evidence and ask ourselves then whether it’s all worth it.”

  One or two of the crew laughed. The American got up and stormed out of the mess hall, fumbling with a pack of cigarettes and no doubt heading to the smoking chamber. Roan couldn’t blame the man. He struggled to process Aaron’s presentation, too. He didn’t want it to be true, being related to bloodthirsty kangas. But he was among the majority of the survivors who still sat in the mess room, contemplating the journey ahead with great anxiety.

  Roan looked at Kel. She, like him, could sense that this meeting was over, but it wasn’t going to be finished without some proper explanations of the procedures for the journey ahead.

  “We have enough fuel and food to make it to Bauxa,” she said, not saying that they had even a little extra now that half the crew was dead. “The Colobus is getting there, no question about it. We need to all do our part to focus on speed and keep the FTL from shorting out. The Kotaran ship may be faster than we are, and they aren’t going anywhere, but we have a head start, and we can maintain that head start for a month. Periodic jumps out of FTL into dead-sensor areas, frequent maintenance of the engineering section—all those things we can do. We can beat them.”

  The crew seemed to take this in stride. Nods all around.

  “That is all,” Kel said. And after standing for a bit, she walked to the door. Roan was going to follow her, but he’d done enough of that today. Trailing Kel to her room was only going to make him a pebble in her boot. Frankly, he didn’t expect to see her for a while.

  Masao and David, standing awkwardly in front of the crew, announced that everyone should return to their posts and keep the ship running at least until the end of their normal shifts. They were all going to be working double time now. Slowly, the group broke up, the squeal of chairs and boots as they all shuffled out of the mess hall. Not one of the crew shot a glance in Roan’s direction. Roan couldn’t blame them for that. He was the catalyst of their misfortune, and not acknowledging him might change their situation.

  Masao merely nodded as he passed, giving Roan a flicker of a smile.

  David was the only one that said anything to him.

  “You were Mr. Ve
rtulfo’s friend. I trusted his judgment.”

  Roan thought back to the engine room. To David protecting the unconscious Kotaran, to the hate that must’ve been in Roan’s eyes. What did the Nyden think of him after that?

  “Like you, Mr. Roan, I have a judgment to make, too. About your character. About what you’re capable of. I have seen you are a narrow-minded human. Something of a brute, in fact. Maybe this can never be changed, but Aaron believed that his discovery would bring the Four Civilizations into closer harmony. Maybe it could change you, too.”

  The Nyden’s brain began shining black. Roan wondered whether it was some kind of anger indicator.

  “Just as you have a duty to your crew,” David continued, “I have a duty to those I care about. To those I love. And Aaron was someone I loved. I can think of no better way to honor him than to validate his life’s work. That is why I will be proceeding on to Aaron’s planet, despite the danger. And I hope you do, too. You might need the answers to Aaron’s questions more than any human alive today.”

  The Nyden’s brain returned to its usual blue color. David closed his eyes and bowed, then left the room. Roan, alone in the mess room, wondered if the speech he’d been given represented respect or a threat.

  This was going to be a long journey.

  Part II

  Haven

  Chapter 14

  A Kotaran in a headlock is not unheard of aboard a tactical cruiser, as crewmen are encouraged—off duty—to settle their differences with at least a modicum of fighting. But seeing a Commander take part in such an action is extraordinary. The witnesses to the event, a few dozen crewmen aligned in rows of eleven, stood rigid at attention but were nevertheless riveted by Grinek’s grip on a shipmate’s neck.

  “Most Earthmen are shorter than you,” Grinek explained, winding up his hour-long demonstration in battle tactics. The shipmate grunted under the vice of Grinek’s right bicep. “This usually makes it easier to break his neck, which can be done with a simple twist of your other hand.” Grinek gripped his claws around the man’s head, but did not twist. This was not that serious of a demonstration. “Though this technique is often impractical because you have to get so close to the Earthman, it can be a satisfying way to get rid of your opponent, and instill fear in any witnesses.” He let go of the volunteer, who fell to the mat on the floor.

  Clearly transfixed, the assembled crew offered no clacking of their teeth in approval. They did not know if the lesson was through. Only when Grinek helped the volunteer off the mat and clacked his own teeth did they respond with the correct sound. Grinek genuinely thought highly of the volunteer because it took courage to go up against a Commander and be his “experiment” for the day. Grinek’s anger was a well-known, if little mentioned, fact on board the Hanyek, as was his propensity for dispatching “inferiors.” In this case the Commander made a mental note to consider this volunteer for future assignments, if only Grinek could remember his name.

  The clacking died down and Grinek composed himself. “Those were today’s instructions on combat tactics: laser handling, melee training, and close defense. They will serve you well against the Earthmen. Remember, while Earthmen are short, they are also fast, and adept at problem solving. You will face them eventually, and when you do, you will learn that they are over-reliant on energy weapons—because they know they cannot face a true opponent without them.” There was a scattering of approving clacks.

  “Your task for the next quarter-hour is sparring. You will make sure to attempt to tire your opponent—and everyone will leave here tired.” That was an order, not a joke. Everyone present could potentially join a battle unit.

  After a gesture of dismissal, the men spread out across the mats of the Training Center to begin. Located in the bowels of the Hanyek, the Training Center was the only facility on board that was guaranteed to relax Grinek. His duty there, which he had taken upon himself, was to train all of the combat personnel for tactics they would need to board the Earth ship Colobus. Without Captain Sisal to constantly second-guess his orders, Grinek could finally feel in control.

  These troops would soon be experienced enough to capture the vessel they’d been following for a month. Apparently, Roh and his insertion team had not been able to seize control of the vessel. This was disturbing but also something that would be rectified. Obviously, there were some well-trained people aboard that ship. Though the Hanyek was a faster vessel, the Earth ship was smaller and easier to hide in nebulae or other cosmic phenomena, as it had been doing for weeks. Each time the Hanyek caught up with the Colobus, the freighter screamed out of their sights with its faster-than-light drive. Once they bore down on what they thought was the ship, only to find it was a probe radiating a false energy reading.

  Listening to the thwacks of punching and kicking, Grinek walked to his uniform, hanging on a chair. He picked it up and wiped his brow. Barely a sweat. Two men in front of him were sparring—without protective pads, as only cowards wore those—and Grinek approved of their jabs and taps, not meant to cause serious harm. He wished he could spar now, were it not below his station.

  “Commander!” It was that voice.

  Wrapped in a hideous red exercise robe was Vorjos, now entering the Training Center. Against the grey garb of the others assembled, the political officer stood out like a moon in the night sky with his garb, perhaps more suited for lounging in the hot springs of Tiwathi Bay with his political friends. Such a man as Vorjos could be counted on to dress for the wrong occasion.

  “Observer. I was just about to leave.”

  “Please don’t! I was hoping to talk with you here.”

  “About what?” For a week, Grinek had managed to avoid the man, not an easy feat on the Hanyek. The Commander sneaked around hallways, spent short moments on the bridge or sat in his room ordering no disruptions. Of course, the defense course kept him confined to the single location of the Training Center—and therefore it was easy for Vorjos to find him, as long as the insipid bureaucrat had access to his whereabouts. Spies! The man had spies.

  “Shall we?” The Observer gestured to the sparring combatants. He gripped the belt of his robe.

  “Please, Observer, I need to attend to the bridge.”

  “You are not needed there.” In other words, I insist. “Commander, indulge me. I need the exercise, don’t you think?”

  Indeed he did. Vorjos’ scaly belly had bulged over the past month, indulging as he did with liver-destroying liquor and the sweetest, most fatty cakes. Grinek cringed.

  “Very well, Observer.” Grinek threw his uniform back on the chair. “I trust you realize I am not responsible for any injuries you suffer.”

  “I am well aware of this. Don’t worry, the Council has insured me.” Vorjos undid his belt and tore off his robe, revealing the flabbiness of his politically-honed body. Grinek focused on his body only for a brief moment, but was glad its leathery sag perfectly contrasted his own. Perhaps it would be good to let the men compare these bodies and have them see how a true leader appeared.

  Grinek raised his fists in front of his face and put his feet shoulder-length apart in the Mo’Skev stance. For a second he thought of saying some words to provoke Vorjos, perhaps making him lash out—but he would rather see what his opponent had planned for him. That was always more fun.

  The two circled each other on the tips of their long feet. Usually, the most impatient man threw the first punch. And of course, Vorjos swung first. His punch was ineffectual and impotent. Grinek easily blocked it with his fist and responded with one centered on his opponent’s furry sternum. Vorjos coughed and stumbled backward, but his tail provided balance and prevented a fall. He put up his small claws in defense.

  “Whew!” Vorjos panted. “I think I might need some more lessons, Commander.” Grinek said nothing. Again, he brought his fists to his face. He noticed that some sparring soldiers had stopped to watch their pugnacious commander in action.

  Vorjos aimed a second punch, which Grinek blocked. Vorj
os tried a slice with his leg at the same time—a classic OnCon move—but failed as Grinek interrupted that with his own leg.

  “It’s been a while since I’ve done this, Commander. Forgive me.”

  Grinek curled his mouth into sneer. “I thought as much, Observer. You don’t use your hands much over at the Consular Palaces.”

  “No, we do not. I should hope your men are better trained than me.” Grinek chose the moment of babbling to attack, jamming his toes into Vorjos’ knee and landing two jabs on the man’s fleshy ribs. Perhaps he punched a little harder than he should’ve, was a little more forceful than he would’ve been with the crew—but Vorjos didn’t seem to mind. He didn’t even stumble over. All that body fat must keep him upright.

  “I can assure you they are quite well trained, Observer. If they are under my tutelage then they are the best Kotara has to offer.”

  Vorjos caught his breath, then swallowed. “Hopefully, they are better than the operatives you sent to capture the Earthman ship.”

  A verbal rejoinder. How fitting. By now, most of the practice sparring had stopped and the soldiers-in-training were watching Grinek and Vorjos battle. The lack of discipline among them was unfortunate, but it could not be dealt with now.