by A. L. Bruno
Avindair stared down at Boothe, his expression unreadable. She swallowed, then continued.
“I am therefore happy to present myself as your liaison,” Boothe said, “in the hopes of forging a lasting friendship between our two peoples.”
Boothe stopped, her head high. Then, in Standard, she whispered, “Did you get all that?”
“Every word,” Roberts replied.
Avindair stared down at Roberts, then at Boothe. He took a deep breath, and just for a moment closed his eyes.
Oh, thank god, Roberts thought. He sees reason.
When Avindair opened his eyes again his expression hardened to stone. He jammed his finger in Roberts’ direction, this time more forcefully, his voice a roll of thunder.
“Him or no one.” The words echoed over the garden.
“He said—” Roberts began.
“Thank you, Mr. Roberts,” Boothe interrupted. “I’ve got it.”
“We will contact you with instructions,” Avindair continued. “Until then, please return to your ship.”
Avindair didn’t wait for a response. He turned on his heel and headed towards the reporters. They swarmed him; microphones outstretched as the rest of the Kionel’s Elite Guard surrounded them for their safety.
“What just happened?” Boothe asked.
“I believe, ma’am,” Roberts replied, stunned, “that they just kicked us off the planet.”
8
T.S.S. Hyperion
Survey Module
SIGINT Center
Phelspharia
17 December 2356
“Damn, sir,” Chief Petty Officer Okoro said, looking up from the multiple holoscreens on his signals intelligence (SIGINT) work area. His umber face split into a wide grin, and his eyes sparkled with the intellect that Roberts had come to rely on over the past two years. “I thought the XO was going to shoot you!”
“Careful, Okoro,” Roberts warned, stifling a yawn, his ears still ringing from the journey back to Hyperion barely ninety minutes before, “he’s still the exec.”
Okoro reigned in his smile, but mirth still twinkled in his eyes. “Yessir,” he replied, turning back to his cramped workstation nestled deep within Hyperion’s sensors module. He closed the ship’s boat’s camera recording of Roberts stepping in front of the captain and cleared his workspace. “So, whaddya need?”
“You and I have to brief the command staff in…” Roberts glanced up at the ship’s chronometer on the far wall of the dimly lit Intel Center’s bulkheads. While he could see the time clearly from his standing position, Roberts had always been annoyed that the heavy bracing beams of the internal ship structure blocked its view for most of his staff. “...forty-two minutes.”
Okoro’s eyebrows shot up to meet his close-cropped hairline. “Excuse me?”
Roberts locked eyes with Okoro. “You heard me. We have to cover anything and everything related to the Kionel, the Phelspharians, and their culture.”
“In forty-two minutes?!” Okoro blurted, his voice pitched almost an octave higher.
It’s complete bullshit, I know, Roberts thought, but instead he crouched down to Okoro’s eye level. “It’s nothing we don’t have already,” he said. “Just gather the fifty-kilometer view, and anything we miss we’ll hit on the fly.” He stood and offered a reassuring nod. “I trust you.”
Okoro took a deep breath, but finally he nodded. “Aye, aye, sir.”
Roberts nodded. “Good man.” He moved towards the bay’s knee-knocker exit. “Meet me in Briefing Bay One in thirty-five.”
Roberts didn’t wait for Okoro’s response. He dipped his head through the bulkhead door and moved easily down the narrow passageway towards the command module. This is what you get for stepping up, he thought, nodding at the junior enlisted personnel flattening themselves against the bulkhead to give him right of way. Why did you think this time would be any different?
The atmosphere aboard Hyperion had been tense ever since they recovered aboard. Captain Boothe had been summoned on the 7MC—the ship’s reserved command communication circuit—the moment they had locked down. Both she and Conrad had made a beeline to the bridge, the captain only stopping to issue one order: “I want your after-action report to me within the hour, Mr. Roberts,” she’d said, her voice cold. With that she’d left, but not before Conrad shot him a satisfied smirk.
Roberts made his way through the familiar labyrinth of Hyperion’s gangways and bulkheads to his rack in Officer’s Country. Once there he changed back into his bag—the traditional name for the dark, one-piece, multi-pocketed duty uniform worn by spacers for centuries—but not before noticing that the stubble on his cheeks had gotten thicker than he liked. He took the two steps to the berth’s head, grabbed his razor, then focused on the water-stained mirror to shave.
His reflection shocked him.
It wasn’t the splash of red across his cheeks and forehead, courtesy of Phelspharia’s G2 star, nor the length of the brown hair above his ears (though he did need a haircut), but the dull gray half-circles below his bloodshot, blue eyes. They were so pronounced they almost made him forget the jagged scar that ran from his left temple to his chin.
Almost.
Conrad’s jibe about his scars during the drop had bothered Roberts more than he cared to admit. It had taken him years after the disaster at Golden’s Hold to even consider space duty again, and even longer to gather the courage to reinstate his flight certification. The process had been grueling. Every one of his wounds had been analyzed, catalogued, and scanned again for good measure, just in case some heretofore undiagnosed flaw had yet to be discovered. The cogscans had been equally miserable, with multiple inward trips to every fear in his subconscious thrown at him just to see how he’d react. He eventually passed all the tests, of course, with a notation praising “…the subject’s determination.” The medical staff’s only concern: “The subject suffers from emotional distress due to prolonged intimate isolation.” Embarrassing as that was, the added caveat only served to salt that particular wound: “The reasons for the subject’s lack of an intimacy circle is, of course, self-evident.” Humiliating as the process had been, it had still placed him on a new world that no others had discovered. That, Roberts reasoned, was worth more than a few barbs about his appearance.
Roberts had shaved, then crafted an accurate, but suitably TSF-sanitized account of the surface events. He emphasized that he intended no disrespect for the chain of command but was acting only in the best interest of Hyperion, the Terran Star Force, and the Union of Star Systems. He barely had time for a quick edit pass before he sent it to Boothe, collapsing backwards as his wristcom timer finished its hour countdown.
Roberts climbed into the bottom rack of the two-person berth, relieved at the rare moment of solitude aboard the ship. He closed his eyes, sleep dragging him into the mattress.
Conrad, however, had other ideas.
His wristcom buzzed and spat out a holo of the exec’s face. Conrad looked angrier than usual, his mouth tight.
“Get your team ready to brief the command staff in sixty,” Conrad has snapped. “Topics attached. Don’t be late.” The holo snapped off, leaving Roberts exhausted in his rack with a day’s worth of work due in an hour.
The transit bulkhead between the survey module and the command-and-control module brought Roberts back to the moment. Like all Terran Star Force starships, Hyperion was an assemblage of both bespoke and standard modules. This design philosophy allowed for quick replacement of damaged sections during the Motinai War, and enabled vessels to return to combat at an astonishing pace. It also meant that each module could act as its own massive lifeboat in case of catastrophic damage. Because of this, each bulkhead transition point from module to module offered up an angry red sign as a reminder of its secondary function.
Except they don’t always work, Roberts thought bitterly. He pushed the thought down and ducked through the knee-buster bulkhead to enter the command-and-control module.
The immediate difference in environments was astonishing. Whereas the survey module was a maze of gangways nearly overrun by pipes, cables, and valves, the command hull was relatively uncluttered. Yes, the gangway bulkheads were slightly narrower, but that handful of centimeters allowed the unsightly maintenance pieces to be hidden behind labeled access plates. Even though the walls were all the same battered blue and gray found on all Union ships, and despite the same lighting plates in both the ceiling and gangway decks, the space felt somehow more advanced than the module he had just occupied. Just another reminder of the hierarchy, Roberts thought sardonically.
It didn’t take Roberts long to reach Briefing Bay One. Situated along the port side of Hyperion’s hull, its far bulkhead angled inward, echoing the module’s lines. A rectangular metal table dominated the space, surrounded by utilitarian gray chairs. Though the ceiling and lower bulkhead joins were all lined with lighting plates, the space was remarkably dark, drawing focus to the holo display floating above the center of the table.
Conrad was already there, leaning over the table and tapping furiously at a projected keyboard. Lieutenant Fitzpatrick—a pale man with wide-set blue eyes, narrow chin, and high-and-tight cropped blonde hair—stood across from the exec, his sharply-creased, royal blue Marine uniform a stark contrast to Conrad’s worn bag. Fitzpatrick acknowledged Roberts with a single nod, then turned back to Conrad.
“I wouldn’t underestimate them,” Fitzpatrick said. He reached down and flicked up a still frame of Avindair towering over Roberts. Jesus, Roberts thought, I look like a child next to him.
Fitzpatrick pinched the image and zoomed to the holster at Avindair’s side. “If that’s anything like its old Terran analogue,” Fitzpatrick said, “it’ll kill you just as dead as one of our sidearms.”
“We’re very aware, Mr. Fitzpatrick,” Boothe called out, entering behind Roberts.
Conrad, Fitzpatrick, and Roberts immediately snapped to attention. Boothe made her way to the head of the table, sat, then offered up a curt, “As you were.”
“You’re early,” Conrad said, echoing Roberts’ thought as they took their places at the table.
“Where’s your team?” Boothe asked Roberts, ignoring the exec.
Roberts glanced up at the chronometer floating above the holo emitter and shrugged. “He should be here within ten, ma’am.”
Boothe nodded, her lips tight. She took a deep breath, nodded to herself again, then looked at Fitzpatrick.
“Secure the hatch, Mr. Fitzpatrick.” Her voice was carefully neutral.
Fitzpatrick rose without question.
Secure the hatch? Roberts thought. We’re a survey ship. We’re not dealing with state secrets here.
Roberts shot a glance at Conrad. The exec didn’t meet his eye. Instead, Conrad moistened his lips nervously, and kept his eyes firmly on the captain.
The hatch secured with a solid thud, and moments later Fitzpatrick took his seat next to Roberts.
“Mr. Roberts,” Boothe started. “Best case, how soon do you think we can have a real dialog with the Phelspharians?”
Roberts leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table and interweaving his fingers. “It depends on what we expect to get from that dialog, ma’am.”
“Just answer the question, Roberts,” Conrad snapped.
“I am,” Roberts replied, as firmly as courtesy would allow. “This is a new culture. Even after eighteen months there’s still a lot we just don’t know.”
“So, you can’t say?” Boothe’s tone was haunted.
Roberts turned to her, a chill passing through him. “Ma’am?”
Boothe didn’t return his gaze. Instead, she looked at the table, her eyes focused on a point thousands of kilometers distant. Finally, she straightened, squared her shoulders, and nodded at Conrad.
“Let’s do this, Exec.”
Conrad took a deep breath, then tapped at his keyboard.
The holo emitter generated a three-dimensional, blue-hued representation of Union of Star Systems space above the conference table. The core planets—Terra, Xaboch, Lucia, and Etlau—glowed brightest, while the borders of their own sovereign space were defined in muted shades of green, red, purple, and yellow. It was a sight so familiar to any graduate of Annapolis as to be an old friend.
It didn’t take long for Roberts to see why the hatch had been secured. A series of red arrows jutted angrily into a handful of coreward worlds near the edges of Union space, with smaller arrows curving to different nearby stars.
The chill Roberts felt morphed into dread. No, he thought. Please. It can’t be. He turned to Boothe, panicked.
Captain Boothe’s expression offered no comfort.
“We received flash traffic while we were planetside,” she started. “Due to the distance, the information we have is already two weeks old.” Booth swallowed. ”We have to assume things are already much, much worse.”
The officers around the table tensed as one. Conrad looked down, his expression one of utter defeat.
Boothe took a deep breath, then continued. “I hope you’ve enjoyed the last twelve years, gentlemen,” she said. “Because, as of right now, it looks like we're back in a shooting war.”
9
Central Authority Shipyards
Prayad, Kalintel
Haturina, 12th of Sardua
Hurin Gishkim wasn’t good with words. A large man, he’d always relied on his strength to get him through life. Shipping crates required no more encouragement than bulky furniture, hay bales, or heavy rifles; all they needed was someone strong enough to bear their burden. He understood that work. But now a woman he genuinely liked needed comfort, and Gishkim had no idea what to say.
“Is this really happening?” Dasa Adana whispered. She stared up at the water-stained vid screen above the canteen’s bar, her black-shaded lips trembling. Normally a raucous place, the crowded pine-paneled cafeteria was instead as silent as a temple in the week leading up to Nadala Somfar.
“The vehicle is lifting off now,” Siva Dayati shouted from the vid screen, a hand cupped over one ear. Behind her, shrouded by a maelstrom of grass and dust, a silver and blue spaceship lifted off the Kionel’s palace lawn. It rotated in place until its darkened windows pointed skyward, a deep thrum filling the air and rattling the vid screen’s plastic housing. “Why it’s leaving we’re not sure,” Siva continued, her normally perfect honey-colored hair whipping around in the sudden breeze, “but we have to assume—”
The spaceship suddenly shot away like a bullet from a rifle barrel, its passage cracking the sky with two teeth-rattling sonic booms. Siva flinched, whirling to look upward, and the overall-clad dock workers jammed along the canteen’s benches gasped in unison.
Dasa grabbed Gishkim’s arm, her black-painted fingernails digging into his flesh. He knew she was scared, but he was just happy for her touch.
“They’re gone.” Siva whispered from the vid screen. She turned back to the camera, eyes wide. “Clearly, um…” Siva straightened her hair with one hand, tendrils floating upward like reeds in a river. “Clearly their technology is far beyond ours.”
“It’s happening,” Dasa whispered. Gishkim tore his gaze from the vid screen and faced Dasa. She stared up at the screen, her gray eyes wide and rimmed with tears. Her free hand ran nervously down the back of her tightly braided, blue-tinted hair. “This is the end.”
“I d-don’t know about t-that,” Gishkim finally stammered. His voice was paradoxically high and quiet for a man of his size, so Gishkim rarely spoke. Life was just easier that way.
Dasa shot Gishkim an incredulous look. “Really?” she exclaimed. She pulled down the collar of her black blouse to reveal the stylized lion of the Kionel Aetna tattooed above the swell of her right breast. “Remember?”
Gishkim looked away nervously. He’d liked Dasa from the moment he’d first laid eyes on her. It was hard not to. Pretty but not intimidatingly so, she caught Gishkim’s eye the moment he arrived in Administrator Kawin’s off
ice to fix some issues with his transfer paperwork. Dasa had stood to shake his hand, her trim figure pleasingly defined in black stretch fabrics and a tight leather skirt, and Gishkim had done everything in his power not to gawk. She was a secretary for an administrator, after all, and in a completely different social class than he had found himself after defecting from H’Tanzia three years earlier. When he spotted her Kionel Aetna tattoo, however, he grinned and opened his shirt to share his own lion tattooed above his right pectoral muscle. Once she recovered from the shock of a grown man exposing his chest, she immediately identified the fourth series version of the character, even naming the artist who revamped the design. After that they had been as friendly as decorum would allow. They drank together at the canteen after work—only occasionally, lest people talk—and even chatted together during break time. He would have liked more, but he knew better. Women like Dasa were not meant for Gishkim. If that was what it took keep a roof over his head and his belly full, then so be it.
“Well?” Dasa pressed.
“T-those are t-tattoos,” Gishkim finally managed.
Dasa sagged, disappointed. “They’re more than that, and you know it.”
Gishkim sank. He wasn’t like Dasa. He didn’t know the truth behind the stories. He suspected, sure, and he’d read all the books about the missing scrolls and tablets, but even he wasn’t entirely convinced. Besides, the stories those old writings told were just too different from the program that defined his childhood. Why follow the lesser story when the one he loved was still available, provided you knew the right people?
