by A. L. Bruno
Jagrav stepped towards Roberts, then moved past him, taking up a position at his rear. He gestured broadly towards the palace entrance.
“Shall we?” he asked, smiling.
Roberts didn’t get a chance to reply. In an instant, Nashita grabbed his arm again and they were moving towards his quarters, Jagrav following close behind.
“Agrath the Triumphant was one of the most successful Kionels in our history,” Adelisa said, standing in the center of the quarters. Her chest filled with practiced pride as she recounted the location’s storied history. “He restored the Urhmanian Kionelaite line from the Malgarth usurpers and reestablished the Kionel’s place on the world stage.”
Cameras flashed as the handful of reporters allowed into the room captured Adelisa’s performance. She offered a beatific smile, instinctively cocking her head towards each cameraman in order to give them her best angle. Despite the artifice of the entire situation, Roberts couldn’t help but be impressed by her skill at giving the press what they wanted.
By contrast, Roberts found Agrath’s room singularly unimpressive. Located in one of the older brick buildings of the original Kionel’s palace, it was nothing more than a red-painted room lined by dark wood wainscotting, brass lamps, and heavy wood furniture. Rather than invoking the feeling of being in a world leader’s retreat, Roberts was instead reminded more of the twodees he’d seen of old nineteenth century western Colonial homes in North America. The room was also surprisingly small. While palatial compared to his cramped berth on Hyperion, it nevertheless felt far more diminutive than its documentary images suggested. Regardless, he smiled pleasantly, nodding as Adelisa spoke to both Roberts and the reporters, eager to get beyond the ceremony and down to the work at hand.
“And what do you think of this honor, Lieutenant Commander Roberts?” Siva Dayati asked. She wore a dark gray dress that Roberts was certain required dehydration to zip up; her shoulder, hips, and leg arranged in an aggressive contrapasso. She arched one eyebrow, a half-smile on her lips.
“” Commander”, please,” Roberts replied. “And I’m—”
“Commander Roberts is deeply moved by this gesture,” Nashita interrupted, taking a half step towards Siva. “He’ll be happy to answer your questions during our scheduled time today.”
Roberts blanched. Did she just speak for me? He thought, annoyed. Siva spotted this and her eyes hooded. “I believe Commander Roberts has something to say?”
Nashita turned towards him, incredulous. Roberts just smiled back at her. I speak for me, he thought. No one else.
“He’ll have plenty of time to speak with you after his meeting with the Kionel,” Adelisa said. Roberts was instantly impressed at how she could simultaneously sound both calm and threatening.
Siva’s head shifted in deference. “Of course, Adishta,” she replied.
Nashita mouthed a silent “Don’t do that again!” at Roberts, then turned back to face the press.
“We only have a couple more minutes here,” Nashita added. “So, if there are no further questions—”
“Yes,” an olive-skinned man in a bright, yellow-checked shirt interrupted. Chatura’s cameraman, Roberts realized. “How can a stranger to our world find any of this an honor?”
Roberts readied his reply, but Nashita once again spoke up before he could answer.
“Given his skill with Tenastan, it goes without saying that he understands its context.” The barest hint of irritation colored Nashita’s voice.
“Is that true?” The cameraman pressed, ignoring Nashita and regarding Roberts distrustfully.
They think they’re being played, Roberts realized. And they’re not wrong.
“Why don’t we—” Adelisa started.
“Yes, it is,” Roberts interrupted, stepping carefully around Nashita. A barrage of camera flashes followed each step, and Adelisa shot him a withering look. He pressed on. “I’m honored to stay in this room, and I’m humbled by Adishta Adelisa’s kind words.”
The cameras stopped flashing, leaving the whir of the video recorders to fill the silence. The smile Adelisa offered Roberts reminded him of a gleaming white riot shield. “Indeed,” she finally said. She gestured towards the door. “Shall we go?”
Nashita’s hand fell on his arm and he was pushed forward once again.
“Don’t do that!” Nashita hissed at him through a gritted smile.
They were out the door and back into the labyrinthine corridors of the old palace grounds before Roberts could even think of a reply.
After the assault of dozens of reporters held behind cordons in the Kionel’s palace foyer, the elevator ride to the Kionel’s chambers was almost a relief. Roberts had maintained his military bearing as best he could as the reporters peppered him with questions, but the sheer wonder of experiencing the Phelspharian civilization up close teased a smile from him. Regardless, he let Nashita handle the press, his mind focused on what lay ahead.
“You will bow when you enter.” Adelisa said the moment the elevator doors closed. Her tone left no room for argument.
“From the hips, face down,” Nashita offered.
“You will not question him,” Adelisa continued, her voice taut. “Speak only when spoken to and leave only when dismissed.”
“One step backwards before you turn away,” Nashita added helpfully. She reached up and turned his head, her eyes scanning his face like a drill instructor inspecting a new recruit. She blew out an exaggerated sigh. “It’ll have to do.”
A moment later, the elevator doors opened, and Roberts found himself in the Kionel’s chambers.
Months of studying the vid feeds on orbit had made the space familiar to Roberts, but—just as with Agrath’s room—it felt somehow smaller than expected. While standing in arguably the most important room on the planet was astonishing, Roberts couldn’t tear his eyes from the view out the windows that circled the peak of the Kionel’s palace. The skyscrapers of Leonathier gleamed in the early morning sunlight, while the snowcapped Kisetra mountains beckoned in the distance.
“You’re late.” The deep baritone of the Kionel’s voice was unmistakable. The elder man stood by his desk, his frame draped with the customary gray and white robes of his office. Despite his age, the Kionel still towered over Roberts, and he regarded him with a strength that made the younger man feel instantly inadequate.
“Bow!” Adelisa whispered behind him.
Roberts took a deep breath and, very slightly, bowed his head.
For a moment nothing was said. Finally, after a silence that felt like it stretched into minutes, the Kionel spoke.
“That will do for now,” he said. “Enter.”
Roberts raised his head just in time to see Adelisa shoot him a fierce look as she passed him. She took her place by the Kionel’s side while Nashita once again prodded him forward.
“Commander Roberts, may I present the Kionel, Great Mediator, Father to the Peoples of Tenasta, H’Tanzia, and Kalintel, He Who Keeps the Line, Defender of the Flame, and Guardian of the Word.” Adelisa spoke each title with a reverence that surprised Roberts, then turned to the Kionel. “Kionel, may I present Lieutenant Commander Jason Roberts of the space vehicle Hyperion.”
Roberts snapped a salute, holding it against his temple. The Kionel regarded him for a moment, then nodded. “Commander,” he said.
Roberts dropped the salute. He opened his mouth to speak, but Adelisa abruptly cut him off.
“Hikasa, we have to get him down to the broadcast room in…” Adelisa trailed off as she shot a look to Nashita.
Nashita glanced at a stylish watch on her left wrist. “Twelve minutes,” Nashita finished.
“Indeed,” the Kionel said. He stepped towards Roberts, hands behind his back, his brow furrowed shrewdly. “Tell me, Commander Roberts, was it your intention to terrify us?”
“Ex... excuse me?” Roberts replied, surprised.
If the Kionel heard Roberts’ response he didn’t acknowledge it. He took a half step towards t
he Terran, his jaw set. “You only landed after we found you, and you arrived here without so much as a warning. How were we to know that your vessel wasn’t a weapon?”
“Kion—” Roberts began. The Kionel regarded Roberts—motionless and silent. Adelisa took a step forward.
“Hikasa,” Adelisa interrupted, correcting him with a stormy look.
Roberts coughed into his hand self-consciously. Adelisa looked away, mortified.
“Hikasa,” Roberts corrected, “our experience with other first contacts taught us that a direct landing is the most effective way of opening a dialog.”
“Were any of those “first contacts” our world?” the Kionel replied, continuing his stoic interrogation.
“No, sir,” Roberts answered, chagrined.
The Kionel regarded him for a long moment, betraying nothing. After an uncomfortable silence, his features hardened.
“You said you came here to honor our traditions,” the Kionel said, his voice turning to granite. “Perhaps it’s time you respect them.” He turned to Adelisa. “You may take him away.” The Kionel turned and walked away like a headmaster renouncing an expelled student.
What the hell is happening? Roberts was stunned. Before he could voice an objection, Nashita and Adelisa had conducted him back towards the elevator. A moment later the elevator doors closed, as they rushed downward to the foyer.
“Why don’t you just get comfortable,” Siva Dayati said as one of her technicians clamped a tiny black microphone to Roberts’ lapel. She sat across from him in the opulently appointed palace broadcast room, her toned legs artfully crossed. Next to them both, the Kionel’s desk—a beautifully carved rosewood piece, punctuated liberally with carvings of lions and stars—dominated one wall, while a printed vinyl backdrop of a palace window sat behind it, pulled taught by clamps and pulleys.
“I’m not sure if that’s possible,” Roberts replied. A young, gray-eyed makeup artist sporting magenta-streaked blonde hair worked her magic on his features, wielding her brushes, creams, and pencils with dizzying speed.
“It’ll be over before you know it,” Siva laughed.
The makeup artist stopped, then tilted his chin up with her hand, moving his face side to side. Her eyes narrowed every time she looked at his scar.
“Sorry,” Roberts said. He forced a smile. “It doesn’t come off.”
The makeup artist blanched, embarrassed, then stepped away. Siva tilted her head, her interest piqued, then leaned towards him.
“If you don’t mind my asking,” Siva said, “how did—”
“That’s private.” Roberts’ tone left no room for discussion.
Siva withdrew, her smile never faltering. “Of course.”
“Ten seconds,” her assistant—a fit man in his early thirties, adorned in a too-tight collared shirt and sharply pressed slacks—called out, one hand pressed to his left ear. Her camera people, both dressed in near military crispness, positioned themselves behind the two tripod-mounted cameras, one trained on Siva, the other on Roberts. Her assistant made a series of hand gestures, and the lights on Siva’s camera switched from green to red.
“And we’re back at the Kionel’s palace,” Siva said invitingly into the camera. “Our guest this morning is the Terran Lieutenant Commander Jason Roberts. You might recognize him as the man who stopped Harika Chatura from blundering into their ship, and who helped set all our minds at ease on that historic day.”
Siva turned from the camera lens to Roberts with a warm smile. “Welcome to the planet, Commander Roberts.” She leaned forward and took his hand. “May I call you Jason?”
She has skin like silk, Roberts thought, just as the light on Roberts’ camera switched from green to red.
An awkward silence followed before the assistant whispered, “You’re on!”
Roberts blinked, then laughed. “Sorry about that,” he said. Siva just chuckled, then squeezed his hand comfortingly.
“No, of course, not, you’ve got so many things going on today. It must be just overwhelming.”
Roberts nodded carefully. You have no idea! he thought. “It’s exciting,” he finally managed. “I’m deeply honored to be here, and to be able to speak with all of you.”
Siva’s smile widened, and she settled back, releasing his hand to retrieve a red leather-backed clipboard by her side.
“So, tell my viewers again why you landed here, at the Kionel’s palace, and not, say Lorazalaka in Kalintel, or even Aiten in H’Tanzia?” Her smile tensed. “What made your people choose Tenasta for the place you decided to reveal yourselves to our world?”
Roberts shifted nervously. “Well, our studies showed that the Kionel is your “Great Mediator”. That made it the ideal place to gather all your leaders from around your world so we could open a truly global dialog.”
Siva nodded, her eyes hooded, then tilted her head ever-so-slightly. “A dialog about what, exactly?”
She’s good, Roberts thought. After a moment he just smiled. “About our peoples,” he replied. “We’re two civilizations separated by vast gulfs of time and space. As much as we want to learn more about you, we’re certain you’ll want to know just as much about us.”
Siva nodded. “So, yours is a mission of, what? Exploration?”
It was, Roberts thought, but instead he nodded. “Yes,” he replied. “We’re finally able to explore the stars in ways our ancestors could only dream about. To find you, to meet you, makes the effort to get here worth it.”
“Then why stay here, at the palace?” Siva asked. “Or is favoring Tenasta going to be the position of the Terran government going forward?”
“No, not at all,” Roberts replied, the edges of panic pulling at him. “We were invited,” he continued, “so we happily accepted.”
Siva sat back, a satisfied look on her face. “So, it just came down to who asked first,” she finished. She turned her face back to her camera as Roberts’ camera light switched from red to green.
“We’ll have more from Commander Roberts in the coming days as our coverage of this interplanetary summit continues.”
“And we’re clear!” Siva’s assistant called. The moment the words were out of his mouth Siva’s staff started packing.
Siva sidled up to Roberts and put her hand on his shoulder.
“You did great,” she said, that half-smile pulling at her lips again.
With that she was gone, lost behind the shuffle of the next crew pressing in the door.
Why, Roberts thought, do I feel like I just fed a monster a treat?
“When can we expect you to share technology?” The question came from Tarkena Akand only minutes later. He struck with the question the moment the cameras came back to life like a mugger with a set of brass knuckles. Resplendent in a tailored striped collarless suit, the Tenastan regarded him with a canny, accusatory look.
What the hell is his problem? Roberts thought. Tarkena hadn’t uttered a single word to him upon entering the room, choosing instead to review items on his battered gray clipboard. He only looked up when the warning came for their shoot to begin.
“Or is that not part of your plan?” Tarkena pressed.
“That is something we’ll have to decide going forward,” Roberts replied carefully. While the USS had no issues with raising the technology levels of newfound civilizations—the TSF wouldn’t have existed without Gant and SYSTRA’s help, after all—experience had taught them to take the issue very carefully. Too many disruptive technologies delivered too quickly could destroy a culture just as easily as any bomb.
“And I suppose only Terrans get to make that decision?” Tarkena didn’t bother to hide his disdain.
“It’s something we have to be very careful about doing,” Roberts replied, annoyed.
“And why is that?” Tarkena pushed.
“Because we were once you,” Roberts replied forcefully. Tarkena’s eyebrows rose, but otherwise he remained stone-faced. “We know what those changes can do to you, and we don’t want y
our people to make the same mistakes we did.”
“Because we’re one people, separated by time and space?” Tarkena’s question dripped with contempt.
“That’s right,” Roberts replied. How the hell did that idea get turned against me? he thought.
Tarkena just turned back to the camera. “That, of course, remains to be seen.”
Tarkena closed out his broadcast and left the room, never once speaking with Roberts directly.
“Why does your ship have weapons?” Ten minutes had passed, and Chatura the Troublemaker sat in front of him, her eyes squinted in what Roberts recognized as false concentration. She wore the torn dress from the first contact incident like a badge of honor.
“Spaceflight is dangerous,” Roberts replied.
“That’s why you have them? To be prepared?” Chatura asked, her eyes still squinted as she probed.
“As much as you can be,” Roberts conceded. “You never know when those weapons will mean the difference between life and death.”
“Like when a tiny woman approaches your ship, right?” A flash of anger in Chatura’s gray eyes caught Roberts off guard far more than her dig. She’s terrified, Roberts realized.
Roberts shook his head, and he shifted in his chair to lean closer to the H’Tanzian. “What happened to you was a mistake,” he began. “We never intended—”
“A mistake?” Chatura interrupted, laughing. “I’d hate to see what you call an “accident”.”
Do I have a “Punch me!” sign on my forehead? Roberts thought, frustrated.
“So, besides “mistakes” like this,” she continued, “who else do you use those weapons against?”
The memory hit Roberts like a freighter with a full head of steam. One moment he was in the broadcast center with Chatura, the next he was stumbling over a muddy field at night, his hands steadying blanket-covered patients staggering towards a waiting shuttle. There was the high-pitched whir of powered armor, the sickening crack of a skull being ruptured, and the smell of copper as blood exploded into the darkened sky.
