“We’re ready to begin,” he stated simply before leaning back into the room, and he returned to his seat at the table just as everyone else was doing the same.
It took only a few minutes for the crew to set up the lighting to their satisfaction once they decided where they were going to film.
“Right at the table,” the Speaker informed them when they asked him, turning his chair around so the table was behind him. He sat comfortably, loose and at ease in front of the small crew. He kept his hands linked together on top of his cane’s handle, the end of the cane planted on the floor between his feet.
The rest of the Senate—or at least those that had managed to gather that afternoon—stayed at the table, though none of them had any plans to say anything. It was only going to be a brief program, after all, and no one wanted to start getting redundant during it.
It was the sort of situation that needed to be handled delicately, after all.
Once they began, it was just the Speaker on camera. He closed his eyes briefly, took a slow breath, and opened his eyes once again as he began to speak.
“We are here today to say good-bye to a group of heroes. A group of heroes who gave their lives to keep us from plunging into galactic war,” he stated, his voice clear and even.
His hands flexed on top of his cane. “Many of us did not know them, and even more of us didn’t even know of them, but that does not lessen what they have done for us. If anything, that makes it all the more important; they gave their lives knowing that the people they were dying for would not thank them for it.”
He paused for a second and took another breath.
“We are here,” he carried on, his voice firming slightly, “because it would be a discredit—a dishonor to them and what they gave to let them be forgotten. So to the crew of The Empress, even if they aren’t here to hear this, we offer our thanks, and we offer our apology. Had we been quicker to take action, then perhaps this wouldn’t have come to pass. Again, from the bottom of my heart, thank you.”
With a slow, final sigh, he fell silent.
The silence lingered for a few moments once the Speaker finished, before the woman in charge of the crew announced, “Alright, that’s a wrap.” She turned on her heel to face the crew as they began dismantling the lighting just as efficiently as they had first set it up. It made all the initial fuss and setup seem a bit pointless, for a segment that was really just a few sentences long.
It should have been longer, probably. Molly’s crew deserved more respect. They deserved more of a send-off. But no one quite knew how to react yet.
The crew left all at once, chattering amongst themselves as they left, their voices dwindling as they got farther down the hallway until they were completely inaudible. Once again, it was just the Senate in the room.
The quiet lasted for several minutes as they tried to decide if they should have been doing anything, before all individually coming to the conclusion that the answer was “not really.” What had happened had happened, and no one had a time machine to undo it.
The Speaker left first, dusting himself off as he got to his feet before he turned and made his way to the door. The others lingered for a few moments, though none of them could come up with anything to say to each other. Too much had happened, and it had left all of them feeling as if the rug had been ripped out from beneath them. Some felt emotionally raw.
Vero was the last to leave, still sitting in his seat even when he was the only one left in the boardroom. He contemplated the wood grain of the table in an absentminded fashion, tapping one heel against the ground.
So much had happened, and all because no one had made a loud enough fuss about any of it.
Finally, he got to his feet and headed out the door before the “what if” scenarios could begin to plague him.
Outer Sark System
The news reports continued on multiple channels on the holostreams.
The Zhyn were not the most frequent race showcased in Estarian news, but there were always exceptions to be made. In that moment, the news showcased a naval ceremony. Footage of open space was always grainier than footage from on board a ship or within an atmosphere, but it was still apparent that the seven highest-ranking ships of the Zhyn fleet were firing their cannons into the distance.
Once, twice, and then a third time before they finished.
The calculations had been handled so very carefully, to make sure there was nothing of any importance in any of their firing paths. Some asteroids would be rendered into space dust, but nothing detrimental would happen.
The salute was eerie. Almost spectral in its silence.
The footage cut away to the bridge of a ship. It was calm, with not a single person out of place. Each member of the bridge crew visible on the screen was dutifully working at their stations, so it almost seemed as if the bridge was being staffed by a crew of mannequins. Save for one man standing at the center of the bridge, facing a camera with a calm resolve that spoke of training on how to effectively handle the media.
The banner at the bottom of the screen read in white letters “Admiral Clor.” Though he stood stiff and steady in front of the camera, the tightness of his shoulders and the way he clenched his hands together in front of himself implied he would rather have been on the move.
His voice was artificially even as he spoke. “Though it is indeed a tragedy, their sacrifice averted what would have certainly turned into civil war. Had the Estarian-Ogg Fleet successfully fired upon the Zhyn fleet, then half of both fleets would have been wreckage before anyone realized it was a misunderstanding. Unfortunately, both sides were dealing with tensions that would warrant such a response.”
He paused, glancing aside for just a moment before his gaze returned to the camera. He took a breath. “Let this represent a new era of peace between our races. Though all of us shall mourn deeply Justicar Ben’or and our allies who passed, we know he would not have wanted this to lead to bad blood between our people. From this point on, the Zhyn look forward to the day when Estaria, Ogg, and the other civilizations of the Sark systems join with the Federation, to prevent such tragedies and such unnecessary loss of life in the future.”
His expression steeled slightly, an edge of commanding entering his tone. “May each and every one of us do all we can to see that their sacrifice was not in vain.”
The image froze there, shrinking and shifting aside to fit neatly in the upper corner of the screen, to instead let a talk show host begin to examine the words.
Aboard Glock’stor Ship # 597
Clor stood in the center of the bridge for just a second longer once the camera shut off. It bobbed in the air for a few more seconds before drifting away, returning to its docking station. Clor dragged a hand down his face and started pacing. The entire bridge seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, and almost as one, every crew member slumped into a more comfortable position.
Finally, one of the doors opened to admit Trev’or, who had been lurking in the corridor until his entrance wouldn’t be an interruption after he had made a trip to the restroom.
“Politicking,” Clor grumbled, mostly to himself. “Never quite caught the knack of it.”
“It seemed well said to me, sir,” Ruther replied, practically sitting backwards in his seat to face Clor.
Trev’or dropped himself back down into his seat, ducking over his terminal for a moment as he agreed, “Yeah,” in a low voice. “Was watching on my holo.”
All three of them were quiet for a moment, taking in the day-to-day noise of the bridge. It was Ruther who sighed, shaking his head in dismayed acceptance. “He’s actually gone. All of them are gone.”
“For such a stupid reason,” Trev’or snapped, kicking a panel on the bottom of his station. There was a beat of silence, and then a low, reluctant, “Ow.”
“I’m fairly sure he wouldn’t have thought it was stupid,” Clor replied. Though he sounded matter-of-fact, there was an undercurrent of chastisement under his words. He returned to the command chair
and sat down heavily.
“Of course, sir,” Trev’or agreed.
Ruther reached over to clap Trev’or on the back with one hand. His other hand was clenched around the edge of his terminal, belying his calm exterior.
The bridge lapsed into its usual buzz of background noise for a few minutes, as everyone dutifully stuck their noses back into their work. Clor sorted through his messages, handling the confusion that had echoed through the fleet like a gunshot in the last few weeks.
“It isn’t fair, you know?” Ruther broke the silence.
“No one is saying it is.” Clor sighed.
“I know, it’s just—” Ruther made an inarticulate noise of aggravation.
“And now we’re left to make nice in the aftermath,” Clor finished. “I am aware.”
Ruther heaved a sigh and thumped his forehead down against the edge of his terminal, considerably more gently than Trev’or had previously kicked his own.
“So what happens now?” He sighed, partially muffled in his current position.
Clor clicked his tongue. “Have a bit of faith,” he scolded mildly. “Our people have always been good at picking up the wreckage and making it into something new.”
“Optimism seems strange on you, sir,” Ruther grumbled, though he did sit back up to get back to work.
“Part of being an Admiral means that I do what my crew needs me to do,” Clor replied dryly.
And it was comforting, in a strange way. Enough that Ruther and Trev’or could get back to work as if everything was normal without it seeming quite so soul-sucking.
Memorial Park, Spire, Estaria
Gareth Atkins meandered his way down from the ceremonial stage as the crowd had already begun to disperse. His eyes were locked on the Bateses. He waved, hoping to catch their eye, but they didn’t seem to see him.
He scurried through the rows as fast as he could, finally managing to flag them down as fellow mourners passed on their regards. It appeared that at least some of the intelligence community knew who the memorial was for.
He came to a halt a respectful distance from the where they stood at their seats. It took him a moment to look directly at Director Bates. Her eyes were red-rimmed and she was covering the lower half of her face with a handkerchief. Philip stood beside her, his hands on her shoulders and his expression tight and drawn. He ducked towards his wife’s shoulder for a moment, saying something in her ear in a voice too low for Gareth to pick up any of the words.
Director Bates nodded in his direction, and Philip straightened back up to look at Gareth.
“Gareth Atkins, thank you for your kind words up there,” he said simply. Gareth couldn’t blame him for not being especially verbose at that point.
“I’m here on behalf of the university,” Gareth explained. “We wanted to let you know in person that the university will continue to run as it has been in your daughter’s honor, even though it will never be the same without her.”
“Thank you,” Director Bates offered at last, her voice raw as she lowered her handkerchief down to her side.
“A few others are here with me,” Gareth replied, looking back over his shoulder to locate the rest of his party. “They wanted to speak with you.”
Looking rather out of place with the lot of them, General Lance Reynolds and his wife, Patricia, were bringing up the rear of the procession.
Gareth and the Reynolds family stood off to the side as the students formed a circle around the distraught parents, offering their condolences and telling stories of the Bateses’ daughter in equal amounts. It was rather apparent that some of the stories were being told second, third, and fourth hand, the details distorted beyond any sort of believability. If nothing else, they got a damp chuckle out of Carol and Philip.
It wasn’t long, though, before Gareth began to corral the students along, ushering them on their way. Lance and Patricia stayed behind, loitering until most of the somewhat public attention had passed.
Lance looked at Carol expectantly, and with some reluctance she shuffled out from between the chairs where she and Philip had been standing. Lance wasted no time before he pulled her into a hug, so tight it was nearly crushing. She clenched her hands in the back of his jacket.
Philip came out into the aisle too, allowing Patricia to shuffle around next to him. They leaned their shoulders together, letting Philip take silent comfort.
Without leaning away from Carol, Lance reminded her and Philip fiercely, “Your daughter saved lives and prevented the system from plunging into a war that no one was ready for. I already know you’re proud of her, and you should be.”
Carol nodded, her face hidden against his jacket. It was hollow comfort, but it was comfort nonetheless.
Outside the Bailey Residence
It was quiet as Giles took Arlene home after they left the memorial service. He thought about trying to comfort her, but the few words that came to him didn’t sound particularly comforting once he thought them over, so he kept them to himself. He didn’t want to make things worse, after all.
Instead, he parked in front of her home in silence and walked her to the door. They lingered on the step for a moment, both searching for something to say to the other. In the end, Giles just squeezed her shoulder before he turned and headed back to his car. He looked over his shoulder just before he climbed into the driver’s seat, in time to watch her back as she disappeared into the house.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Chenz’ Bar, Downtown Uptarlung. Irk’n Quarter
The bar was lively when Maya stepped in through the big double doors. The sound of a bell jingling cheerfully played from a speaker just above the door as it opened and then closed behind her. One of the bartenders glanced up. She turned her attention back to her work when Maya continued walking with a purpose, evidently not in need of any immediate attention.
Maya made her way to the counter where Paige was already sitting. She pulled out a stool and hopped onto it. Paige had two drinks in front of her. She slid one over to Maya without saying a word.
Maya picked it up and swirled it in a circle for a few seconds before she lifted it to drain most of it in a couple of gulps. Paige followed suit after a moment of contemplation. They stayed quiet after that, until finally Paige heaved a sigh and slumped forward. Her forehead met the bar top and her arms splayed across the bar.
“The bartenders are giving you a look,” Maya informed her eventually. “Pretty sure they think you’re drooling on their nice sticky bar.”
Reluctantly, Paige sat back up. She leaned her elbows on the bar and propped her chin up in her palms.
“It’s been…” She trailed off as she searched for words to try to describe the recent string of events. Nothing came to her, and she settled instead for just sighing, “Yeah.”
“Yeah,” Maya agreed glumly.
They lapsed into silence again, until Paige elbowed Maya’s shoulder. “Hey. Any idea where we are?”
“The sign said—”
“Not like that,” Paige interrupted quickly, shaking her head. With her chin in her hands still, the motion distorted her voice slightly. “This place,” she pulled a hand away from her face to gesture around to the rest of the bar with it, “is a lot more important than just its name. Haven’t you heard about when Joel and Molly met each other?”
“Nooo,” Maya answered slowly, her eyebrows rising. “No one really felt like pulling out the photo albums when I showed up.”
Paige looked thoughtful for a moment before she lifted a hand to flag down one of the bartenders. She gestured to their two empty glasses and held up two fingers, and she waited for an acknowledging nod before she turned her attention back to Maya. “So, this wasn’t their first meeting. They knew each other from before Molly got kicked out of the military. But Joel was already out. And it was here that they first met after Molly left.”
She paused for just a second as two more glasses were placed in front of them. She curled a hand around hers as Maya pulled her ow
n closer, and finally Paige launched into the epic that was Molly and Joel.
It was always a good time for a story, after all, and it felt better than only talking about the tragedy of everything that had happened.
Granted, the telling of the tale took far more time than either of them would have expected, and by the time Paige was finished, the bar was packed almost to bursting and the sun was beginning to go down outside. Maya had no doubt that at least a few of the more unbelievable parts had been exaggerated, but considering everything she had known Molly to be capable of, she wasn’t actually going to stake any money on that.
“Turn it up!” someone called. Both Paige and Maya turned their attention to the holoscreen on the wall behind them. People eyed it with suspicion still, as if the whole network was now all of a sudden fallible since the dramas earlier that month. The holostream remained functional all the same. The logo for IQ News filled a bottom corner, and on screen it showed Grouthe being escorted into a courthouse by a pair of military police officers.
A young man standing on the courthouse steps watched over his shoulder as Grouthe disappeared through the massive double doors, before he turned his attention back to the camera.
Bright and chipper, he gave his commentary. “That was Captain Grouthe of the Estarian-Ogg Space Fleet, captain of The Hierophant, which was the ship that initiated the escalation of events in the Misfire Incident.”
Maya could practically hear the capital letters that the event had acquired over the last few weeks. “He’s now facing court-martial, and while the trial is still underway and we’re left with speculation in the meantime, life in prison seems likely.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” Maya murmured, turning back to face the bar again. Another glass had appeared in front of her at some point during Paige’s story and been summarily emptied, though she didn’t feel more than a little bit buzzed at that point.
Paige hummed a low note in agreement, still watching the screen. “Would’ve been better if it hadn’t happened,” she grumbled, finally turning her stool back around, “but I guess it’s better than if he got away with it.”
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