by A. L. Bruno
“Good, you have it on,” Nashita said, glancing at the projector screen. Her nose wrinkled with disgust. “What are you wearing?”
“It’s been a day, Nashita,” Adelisa replied tiredly, lifting her drink to her mouth.
“No, you don’t!” Nashita admonished. She grabbed the drink out of Adelisa’s hand and dropped it onto the desk with a practiced grace. “You’ve got to be on camera in…” she glanced at the gold watch on her delicate wrist, “…Pava! Fifteen!”
Adelisa shook her head, florid with the effects of the mewtla. “What? Why?”
Nashita turned to her, confused, then looked back at the screen. “Hati, wrong channel.” She moved behind the desk and twisted the knob on the control panel. “You have to see this.”
The speakers hissed, the image wavered, and the screen filled with the familiar stenciled art and yellow desk of Chatura the Troublemaker’s daily program. Avindair felt his brows furrow and his back tense the moment he saw her set. What has she done now?
“...takes years for the most well-connected people to even get a meeting with the Kionel,” Chatura declared, her eyes wide with exaggerated disbelief, “but a man from space is asked to live there after shooting off fireworks and ruining his lawn?”
“Damn it!” Adelisa yelled. She rubbed her forehead with the back of a closed fist, her eyes clenched shut with barely concealed fury. “What is wrong with her? Wasn’t nearly getting shot enough for one day?”
“It’ll never be enough for her,” Avindair grumbled, cringing at the sound of the studio audience’s laughter at some absurd image on the screen. Her assault on his troop had left the latter on bedrest, his ankle iced to reduce swelling. Avindair didn’t plan on forgetting that stunt any time soon. “She’s—”
“If you’re going to say H’Tanzian,” Nashita interrupted without looking—she scribbled furiously on her notepad, her features impassive, “think twice.”
“I was going to say reckless,” Avindair retorted, fixing Nashita with a hard look. “But since you mentioned it—”
“Behave, both of you!” Adelisa snapped. “We have enough going on without you two fighting.”
Avindair looked away respectfully. Nashita just kept writing on her notepad, stopping occasionally to put the back of her pen in her mouth as she considered her next move.
The image on the screen shifted again to a handheld shot from earlier in the morning. The Terran called Roberts rushed towards the news teams, his hands up as he called a warning. The Terran was a stocky man, powerfully built, and carried himself with the bearing of a trained soldier. His brown hair was trimmed close to his head in much the manner as Avindair’s own men, and his black uniform was bedecked with three rows of multicolored fabric that Avindair had taken to be some measure of recognition. Were it not for his blue eyes and unsettlingly pale skin, he could have passed for a soldier in the Tenastan military.
Then there was the scar.
Avindair was no stranger to combat injuries. He’d pulled legless men out of harm’s way while under fire and had seen civilians melted by Kalinteli flamethrowers take their last labored breaths. While not as gruesome as either, the scar was a jagged, angry thing, running in a sickening zig-zag pattern from his left temple, down his cheek, and finally coming to a stop near the apex of his chin. That was a wound meant to kill, Avindair thought. If they can travel the stars, he wondered, why couldn’t they repair that?
The video froze at a point where Roberts looked panicked, his hands spread apart as if in surrender. Then the image was reduced to a square above Chatura’s right shoulder.
“And this is the guy,” Chatura’s said, her eyes wide with projected befuddlement. “He calls himself Lieutenant Commander Jason Roberts. But, come on! He’s Scar Guy.” Her audience cackled, but she pressed on over the sound of their laughter. “You know that’s what they call him on that space thing, right?” She pointed straight up, and her audience howled even louder.
Avindair’s hands tightened into fists. There’s nothing she won’t insult, he thought, disgusted. Even this.
Chatura waved her hands to calm her audience down. “Thing is, even Scar Guy looks like he came from central casting. I mean...” she turned and looked up at the spot where the image was placed on screen, then pursed her lips. “Yeah,” she purred wickedly, turning back to her audience. “I would.”
Her audience roared, and Chatura turned her banter back to her upcoming guests as the program faded to a commercial.
“She’s not wrong,” Nashita commented, her eyes fixed on her notepad. Feeling Avindair’s gaze on her, she looked up, her dark gray eyes peering over her clipboard. “They’re a very vid-friendly crew.”
“I don’t trust that,” Avindair rumbled.
Nashita looked back down at her paper. “Neither do I,” she said. Then she ripped the paper from her notepad and jammed it towards Adelisa. “You need to get ahead of this right now. We’ve got the broadcast desk ready, and this,” she shook the papers in her hand like a dog with an angry toy until Adelisa grabbed them, “should get us where we need to be.”
Adelisa sighed, then looked over at Nashita with weary eyes. “Blue suit and skirt?”
Nashita’s nose wrinkled but she nodded. “Don’t have time for anything else.”
“Damn it,” Adelisa grumbled, then headed back into her restroom.
Avindair looked down. Just like that, it’s back to the world, he thought.
“Aw,” Nashita called out, her voice lilting with exaggerated sympathy. “If you’re nice you can hold my notes and walk me to the shoot.”
Avindair’s face hardened and he shot Nashita a dangerous look. “Do I have to remind you—” he started.
“Lion, Leopard,” Jagrav’s voice hissed from his communicator’s speaker, interrupting him.
Avindair kept his eyes locked on Nashita’s and brought the communicator to his mouth. “Lion, go.”
“It’s time,” Jagrav said.
Avindair looked down, his stomach falling to his feet. When he recovered his bearing, he looked up to find Nashita staring at him, a look of genuine concern on her face.
“Thank you,” Avindair said, keying the mic on his communicator. “Lion out.”
Nashita frowned. “Avindair,” she said, her tone softer than he was used to. “What’s wrong?”
You don’t want to know the answer to that question, he thought. He slipped his practiced bearing back on like a comfortable suit. “I’d be happy to escort you both,” he said.
Nashita’s head tilted quizzically, her brows narrowing further. “Avindair—” she started.
“I’ll wait outside,” Avindair said, cutting her off. He didn’t wait for her to reply. Instead, he stepped out into the hallway, closing the door behind him, and tried to ignore the twist of fear in his stomach.
You really don’t want to know that answer, Nashita, he thought. If you did, you wouldn’t get a decent night’s sleep again.
12
T.S.S. Hyperion
Command and Control Module
Briefing Bay One
Phelspharia
17 December 2356
“There’s no way Roberts can go,” Conrad declared. He leaned his left arm on the metal briefing room table, leaning in towards Captain Boothe. “He’s not ready for this.”
Okoro shot a tense look at Roberts. The chief stood next to Conrad, his well-worn data pad in hand, a finger still poised to continue the briefing he’d been asked to give. Despite his years in the fleet, he still looked like a rabbit trapped between two rival wolves. Roberts met his eyes and offered up a small nod of reassurance.
Conrad spotted the movement and turned to Roberts, his eyes boring into the younger man.
“I take it you disagree, Mr. Roberts?” Conrad baited.
Roberts shook his head. “No, sir,” he replied. “It shouldn’t be me.” Not in a million years, he thought with an emphasis he dared not show.
Conrad threw his hands up, leaned back in h
is chair, and faced the Captain. “See?” Conrad said, relief lifting his voice. “The kid can learn.”
“Thank you, Exec,” Captain Booth said. Her tone was still haunted by the news of the attacks on their facilities. Twelve years of peace, Roberts thought with a weariness that reached his soul. Is that all we get after two hundred years of war? “Who would you recommend, Mr. Roberts?” she asked.
Roberts pursed his lips, considering. His staff were all capable. Okoro was easily his best troop, but he was neither commissioned nor trained to act as a mediator. Malley, his second, was a hard-working Lieutenant J.G., but her inexperience had already scored her a reprimand for fraternization. The rest of his staff, competence aside, rated too low, and were needed on orbit far more than they would do any good planetside. And none of them will be acceptable for the Kionel, he thought, a grimace making its way to his face.
“Mr. Roberts?” Conrad pressed.
“I don’t know,” Roberts finally admitted.
Conrad shook his head, but Roberts ignored him. Instead, Roberts turned back to Boothe, leaning forward in his seat and resting both elbows on the cold metal table.
“If we had more time,” Roberts said carefully, composing his thoughts, “I’d recommend you, Captain. That would align with the Kionel’s pattern of speaking only to those who can really change policy.”
Boothe looked away, her eyes darting while she considered her response. Then she fixed Roberts with a hard stare. “How long will it take to get me up to speed?”
Roberts looked down, considering his response. Then he faced his commanding officer calmly.
“Do you understand what I’m saying, ma’am?” Roberts said in Tenastan, the words flowing effortlessly from his lips. “Are you able to tell the difference between a Kalinteli and H’Tanzian accent? Do you know why they fought their last Great War with Tenasta?”
Boothe rocked slowly back, her gaze moving to a point in space a few centimeters above Roberts’ head. Conrad, however, tapped his wristcom and allowed its translator to interpret the words. When it finished, Conrad glared intently. “That was uncalled for, Mr. Roberts.”
“But necessary,” Boothe replied, her voice flat. Then she straightened in her seat and regarded the staff around the table with a hard look. “I’m open to options.”
“Ma’am,” Conrad began. “I’d be happy to—”
“I need you here, Exec.” Boothe’s tone made it clear that this was not a point of discussion.
Conrad turned away, his jaw moving side-to-side, but he said nothing.
“I don’t think we have an option, ma’am,” Fitzpatrick said, breaking the silence. “Mr. Roberts is the only person who can speak to these people.”
Roberts’ heart pounded. I don’t want this, he thought. I’m here to assist, to help those better equipped than I am. That I can do. But to live among them?
“This is ridiculous,” Conrad blurted, interrupting his thoughts.
Roberts turned to see the exec shaking his head, exasperated.
“What’s on your mind, Zaid?” Boothe asked.
Conrad turned to face Boothe, his jaw set. “Ma’am, are we really going to ask him to do this after what happened on Golden’s Hold?”
Roberts’ hands clenched—white-knuckled—and his cheeks heated like furnaces. “Excuse me?” Roberts replied, his voice a low whisper.
“Golden’s Hold,” Conrad reiterated, his expression a mixture of anger and befuddlement. “You really don’t get it, do you?”
“Enlighten me,” Roberts replied. His head swam, and a burst of adrenaline made it difficult to stay in his seat.
“You thought you knew better than your superiors then,” Conrad said, the words spilling out as if unleashed from a dam, “and you’re doing it again now.”
Roberts moved to stand, anger pulsing through him.
Fitzpatrick placed his right hand on Roberts’ left sleeve. Roberts turned sharply.
The marine greeted him with his normal impassive stare. He shook his head, the movement barely perceptible.
Roberts took a deep breath, counted to three, and settled back into his seat.
Conrad smiled. He smelled blood in the water now and would not be deterred. “If you think I’m going to let that happen again—”
The shriek of chair legs across the metal deck followed by a sharp clang of impact into a bulkhead reverberated like a gunshot. Roberts turned, shocked to see Captain Boothe pitched towards Conrad, her left fist planted hard on the table, her right pointing inches from Conrad’s face.
“Mr. Conrad, that is enough!” Boothe roared. “Mr. Roberts earned the Distinguished Cross and the Orbital Combat Medal in that action. I will not have his conduct nor his competence questioned in my presence!”
And I didn’t deserve either, Roberts thought, looking away.
“Is that clear, Mr. Conrad?!” Boothe continued, her voice booming in the in close quarters of the briefing room.
Conrad stared slack-jawed and wide-eyed at the intensity of Boothe’s fury. Then, within an instant, he composed himself and eased into his seat like a reprimanded cadet.
“Yes, ma’am,” Conrad said, his voice thin.
Boothe dragged her seat back to the table with another screech of metal-on-metal. She ran a hand over her tightly pulled hair, her cheeks still burning red, then sat and faced Okoro. “Chief, I apologize that you had to see that,” she said, her voice still firm. Okoro nodded, but Roberts saw him swallow nervously. “Now, indulge your captain,” she continued. “Who would you recommend I send down?”
Okoro’s eyebrows raised, and his lips pursed, but there was no hesitation in his answer. “Mr. Roberts has to go, ma’am.”
“Why?” Boothe challenged.
Okoro looked down, gathering his thoughts, then met his commanding officer’s face impassively.
“Nobody knows their languages like he does, ma’am,” Okoro replied. “He’s always a step ahead of us on their intel briefs, their political traffic… even their popular programming. Don’t get me wrong,” he added, “I’m proud of my staff. But Mr. Roberts operates at a whole different level.”
“Which is why he should remain here,” Conrad interrupted, his voice subdued. “You’ll need his expertise.”
“They asked for him, Mr. Conrad,” Boothe replied resolutely. “Not you, not me, him.” The exec shrunk in his seat. Boothe looked back to Okoro. “So, you agree with the Tenastan request?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Okoro responded.
Roberts closed his eyes. I don’t like where this is headed.
Boothe nodded. “Thank you, Chief,” she said, her voice betraying nothing. Then she shifted in her seat, leaning her left arm into the scant cushion of the armrest. “Since the request came from him, tell me more about the Kionel.”
Okoro’s relief at finally speaking to his prepared points was palpable. He grabbed his pad and flung a series of images from his device to the holoprojector. Within moments an array of photographs appeared. The most prominent showed the Kionel in his younger years, a lupine-featured trim man adorned in blue gray tightly woven combat armor as he looked out over a smoking battlefield. Other, more recent images revealed an older, yet no less intimidating man in his chambers, with various heads of state cowing to him like truant children. Lastly, a series of videos, all silent, showed him behind an ornate wooden podium, offering up words of anger, comfort, or calm to his viewers.
“He came to power thirty-eight P-years ago,” Okoro began, “after the death of Adramelech, his maternal grandfather. Before that, he was Peredur Urmah, a well-known and much-loved member of the Urmahnian Kionelaite line.” More images of the younger Kionel appeared. One showed him alongside several other combat-armored troops, their faces painted with broad lines of black and gray, uniforms filthy from the surrounding mud. Another image, shot from a low angle, captured the Kionel under a burning desert sun atop an armored vehicle; his gloved hands reaching towards a filthy refugee girl standing by battle-worn tank tre
ads. “He served with distinction in the last Great War between Tenasta and Kalintel,” Okoro continued, “and was respected by both his own men and his opponents.”
“So, he’s not averse to combat,” Conrad offered, his voice hardening.
“Not at all,” Okoro replied. “But he was also careful about using force. He even pulled his troops back when he was worried about causing civilian casualties. Made a real stir in the media, but he turned out to be right. If they’d pressed on, an entire village would have been wiped out.”
“So, he’s ethical,” Boothe said coolly. “What about his time as Kionel?”
Okoro’s slim fingers performed an artful dance over his interface, clearing the previous images and replacing them with a new series. While many showed the Kionel in public appearances, interacting with various diplomats, the most prominent stills were from his assumption of the title of “Kionel” thirty-eight years before. Attendants draped intricately woven white and gray robes over his shoulders, while members of his Elite Guard placed a swept-bladed sword onto his scarlet belt. Lastly, a fine gold crown comprised of two lions rampant facing a jagged-edged star was placed on his head, as the attendants and the vast audience knelt before him.
“Looks like a coronation,” Conrad grumbled.
“It’s closer to a papal inauguration,” Roberts corrected. “He’s a mediator, not a king.”
“That’s right, sir,” Okoro agreed, “but Mr. Conrad isn’t too far off, either. The Kionel’s role has become what they call the Ial Efhal, or “Great Mediator”, but it started as a military warlord.”
“A thousand years ago,” Roberts added.
